Harry Potter 1. The Dragonfly Queen

_**Disclaimer:** Not mine, not now, not ever._

_**A/N:** Ah, you see - I promised you a new story. This was one of those ideas that just wouldn't let go, and demanded to be written. Who am I to argue with such demands? Merely the writer. Here we have an alternate universe, where Harry was sorted into Ravenclaw and a few other key elements that will all be revealed below. I see this being novel-length, and exploring an expanded wizarding world. But you'll see-tell me how it flies, ladies and gentlemen._

_As always, my thanks for reading and reviewing,_

_Motherfuckin' Joe._

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_Chapter One – The Dragonfly Queen_

Harry raced across the rooftops of Hogwarts as if the devil himself were at his heels. His cloak whipped at the air in his wake as the wind whistled past his ears.

It was near sunset. _Too near_.

Still, he was _burning _with raw energy. He uncorked a thin vial of crystal-blue liquid and drank it quick, on the run. The potion hit him hard in one raw flash, clearing his mind and bringing the world into a stark clarity. His breath and heart hammered in his ears. He felt alive.

A burnt orange light bled over the snow-capped mountains to the west, and a blanket of bruised purple sky shone with the early stars to the east. The Giant Squid caught his eye, gliding across the lake down below, and the distraction was nearly his undoing.

A long, black claw of pure shadow leered up from the slate shingles. It was thin, skeletal—a shadow made real. Harry knew from personal experience that the three thin talons on the claw were razor sharp.

It snagged at his boot, severing the shoelaces along the tongue. It would have cut his shin open to the bone, but he had taken precautions against that. The claw of crude shadow struck a guard of hard mythril. It had taken Harry six months and nearly two thousand galleons to fashion that particular piece of armour. He had William the Conqueror to thank for the thousand-year old design.

"Concentrate, Potter," he breathed. He'd spent too long in the Arbiter's Vault. Sunset was a dangerous hour on the rooftops of Hogwarts, ever since Voldemort's resurrection.

More of the Shadow Folk (as he knew them) were taking shape, rising up from the slate like wisps of smoke. Not just ragged claws but whole skeletal forms. Harry stepped up his pace, his strides becoming longer and broader, his feet barely touching the parapets. Even at the best of times, with the wind and the slick tiles, the roofs were no place for speed.

Yet Harry had been coming up here for years, scaling the castle's towers and jaunting along the countless arched roofs. His favourite was above the Great Hall. It was how he'd found that damn Vault to begin with. The castle had so many secrets, if one just took the time to look. None of his schoolmates seemed so inclined, which suited Harry just fine.

"Come on," he urged himself. The potion he'd taken was surging through his veins like a dizzying high. He sensed the danger, but he felt immortal.

The Shadows were silent and, as far as Harry could tell, mindless in their hate. He skidded along a narrow buttress, leapt over weatherworn crenulations, and spat out a quick curse as the living shadows rose up in his path. As thin and wraithlike as cloud, yet one touch could cleave flesh from bone.

Harry tried to come to a skidding stop. It was impossible to see the Shadows for anything but simple tricks of light from a distance. They didn't exist from a distance. He had tried to point them out to others from inside the castle—more than once—but unless you were up close...

They were blocking his path back into the Astronomy Tower.

_Damn it all_. The Shadows slid across the rooftop, along the edges of light cast by the last of the day's sun. _If I'd just waited..._

No, it was even more dangerous in the Vault at this time of day. Harry laughed. Things were definitely messed up when the safer option was razor sharp nightmares that only he could see.

A shadow took a swipe at his throat, silent as the grave. Harry leapt down the arched roof above the sixth floor, near the Gryffindor common room, and slid down the slate tiles, slick with rain, on his rear. The shadow sliced a clean cut through his cloak, slicing it in two.

Harry slipped down the roof, gaining speed. Shadows chased after him, disappearing in the sun yet converging on his position as he passed into the shade of the Astronomy Tower. Expecting the move, Harry braced his feet against the slate and _jumped up_, hurling himself forward into the open air and—_Oh shit_—over the edge of the roof.

Two hundred feet in the air above the bailey courtyards below, Harry covered his face with his arms as he hurtled across the space. He _smashed_ into the window opposite the roof he had just flung himself off—two floors down and twenty feet across.

The glass shattered against his weight and speed.

By sheer luck alone Harry tucked and rolled onto the red rug that lined the stone corridors inside the castle. He came to an abrupt stop against an old wooden bench outside of one of the Charms rooms.

With a groan, Harry forced himself to his feet and remembered to breathe.

The mythril plate armour on his forearms had protected his face, yet his upper arms were slashed, as was his chest and his left thigh. Blood flowed thick and free down his body. He winced and pulled a piece of glass from his hip.

"Could almost think I planned that," he muttered with a grin.

Harry drew his wand and vanished the glass all over the floor. He cleaned up and pulled his cloak of invisibility from the magically enhanced bigger-on-the-inside satchel at his side. It was a bit of a walk back up to the dormitory, and he was thankful there was no one in the corridor that had seen his rather spectacular, death-defying entrance.

Tossing the cloak over his head, Harry limped back up through the castle to his dorm, vanishing the drops of blood left in his wake.

* * *

><p>"What about Harry Potter?" Hermione asked.<p>

"What about him?" Ron said.

"The Boy Who Lived. He's a name everyone in the school knows, and people outside Hogwarts admire him, despite what the _Prophet _says. If anyone can help us deal with that-that _toad_ of a woman, he could."

Ron stroked the scraggily stubble on his chin and leaned back in his chair. Hermione dearly wished he would shave more often. It just looked messy.

"He keeps to himself a bit, don't you think? What if he wants nothing to do with this?"

Hermione had to agree with that. Four and a half years at Hogwarts and she didn't know anyone who had spent more than five minutes in class, or shared a few words, with Harry Potter. He most likely had close friends amongst the Ravenclaws. Probably. Hermione honestly didn't even know that much about the Boy Who Lived. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws usually had opposite class schedules. She rarely saw him even in the Great Hall for meals, come to think about it.

"Well, we have Defence with the Ravenclaws this year. You've seen him at the back of the room. How Umbridge tries to goad him." Hermione was coming to despise the woman. She had never had such negative feelings about another human being, let alone a teacher. "We're four lessons into our term, and we haven't even cast a single defensive spell. I was watching Harry last week. It bothers him."

"I was his partner in Herbology during our third year," Neville Longbottom said from across the table. The flickering flames from the mighty Gryffindor fireplace cast playful shadows across his face. He was having trouble with his own Potions essay. "Bit of a quiet chap—and smart. Scary smart. Like you, Hermione."

Hermione suppressed a small smile. She had always been proud of her intelligence, and never more so than when others noticed. "Everyone knows he killed a basilisk a few years ago. And there was that rumour he repelled hundreds of Dementors when Sirius Black escaped Azkaban."

"Not to mention the Triwizard Tournament last year. Facing off against that dragon," Neville said, with a low whistle. "And… well, what he and Dumbledore say happened after it. You know, about what killed Cedric Diggory."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, but half the school and most of the Ministry think he's bonkers. Dumbledore, too. I heard his father was assigned to monitoring imports of illegal broomsticks for backing them up. Can you believe that? James Potter, best Auror to ever go through the Academy, counting brooms in Dover."

"I've been thinking about that," Hermione said, tapping her quill against an ink bottle. "Why would the Ministry be so concerned with Hogwarts if there wasn't some truth to what Harry Potter and Headmaster Dumbledore are saying? That You Know Who is back… back from the dead?"

Ron and Neville looked at each other and shrugged.

"My mum and dad think it's true," Ron said. "They wouldn't say anything, but one of them was always away during the summer break. Said they were doing stuff for Dumbledore." He shrugged again. "And Bill came home especially to put up some new wards around the Burrow."

"My gran says if Dumbledore believes it, then we should too."

Hermione felt there was more truth to the situation than was perhaps being reported by the _Daily Prophet_. Still, the problem at hand wasn't quite so daunting as whether or not the Dark Lord had returned. "Yes, well, we'll leave the fighting of evil wizards to the Aurors. Our problem is how we deal with..." Hermione lowered her voice, even though the three of them were the last people still up in the common room, "...Professor Umbridge. And I use the word 'professor' loosely. The woman has taught us nothing. Absolutely _nothing_ so far this term. It is simply ridiculous. Our educations are suffering."

"And you think a defence club with Harry Potter as one of the members is the best way to fix it?" Ron shook his head. "I dunno, Hermione."

"We can teach ourselves, Ronald, if we must." Practicality was another thing Hermione prided herself on. "And Harry Potter is just the wizard who can help us make it work."

* * *

><p>The next day in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione sat between Ron and Neville near the back of the room, at the desk across from Harry Potter.<p>

He was something of an enigma, all things considered. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was writing slowly but surely along a roll of parchment, completely ignoring the woman at the head of the class—quoting some theoretically true yet ultimately useless fact from the Ministry approved text. He kept scratching at his upper arms, under his robes.

"Now, class," the toad-shaped woman said. Hermione truly despised what Dolores Umbridge represented. "As you know, the Ministry of Magic considers your continued education of vital importance..."

Hermione kept an ear on the lecture, but she was more interested in what Harry was writing. None of the Ravenclaws had taken a seat next to the Boy Who Lived, and that seemed to suit him just fine. He had his Ministry textbook on the desk, still in its crisp packaging.

_That's a good sign_, Hermione thought.

"...and despite what you may have heard, there is no need to be afraid. The Ministry has your best interests at heart, particularly when it comes to your education. We are entering a new era of openness, accountability, and perfected learning outcomes. All while ensuring you are not exposed to harmful influences."

For the first time, Hermione saw Harry Potter actually look up at their professor. An anxious, even vicious, expression on his face—he popped the cork out of a vial of sparkling blue potion and took a quick sip. After that, his face was calm, even. He placed his quill down on the desk and crossed his arms—no longer scratching at his shoulders.

Umbridge met his gaze, and for a split second Hermione saw through the gentle smile on her face—saw through the kind and caring facade she presented so well. A look of disgust and raw hate, as clear as day. Gone in a moment—so swift that Hermione could have imagined it—but she hadn't.

Dolores Umbridge hated Harry Potter with a passion.

"Continuing our lessons on risk identification, assessment, and treatment. You will turn to chapter five on defensive wand movements and transcribe the—"

"Excuse me, professor," Hermione said, raising her hand.

Umbridge paused. "Yes, my dear?"

"Is this not an exercise that would be best practiced using our wands?"

Umbridge offered her a condescending smile. "As I said in our first week, dear, a theoretical knowledge will be more than enough to ensure success in your examinations."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry Potter watching her. Somehow, his gaze was more unnerving than Umbridge's. Ron kicked her under the table, shaking his head, but Hermione had decided to commit.

"Yes, but how will that protect us from what's out there?"

"Out there?" Umbridge lost her smile. "Miss Granger, there is nothing out there. Who would want to attack children such as yourself?"

Hermione turned her head to look directly at Harry Potter. His face was still unreadable, calm and even. And yet—a small, curious smile played about the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, I see," Umbridge said, in a tone that suggested long suffering. She opened her arms to address the entire class, all thirty students. "My dears, you have been told that a certain Dark Wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."

Silence followed her words, save for the shuffling of chairs as every person in the class cast quick, uncertain glances at Harry Potter. He took it all in his stride, and kept his gaze on Hermione.

"But at the end of the Tournament last year, Cedric Diggory was kill—"

"Such a tragic accident," Umbridge said. "And not something you children should dwell—"

Harry Potter stood up.

His previously calm and curious face had darkened. He wasn't frowning, nor did he look tense. Yet something had changed. Something... terrible. Hermione would bet her last sickle that the Boy Who Lived was furious. His eyes were so wide and so _green_. They almost shone.

"It was not an accident," he said. "It was murder."

"Sit down, Mr. Potter."

"No, I do not think I will. I can sit here and ignore your ridiculous lessons and blatant propaganda, Dolores Umbridge, because that doesn't matter. It's not important. The truth will out all too soon. But I will not sit here and listen to you lie about Cedric Diggory. We owe him that much."

Umbridge's face looked ghastly in the pale autumn light streaming in through the high windows. Sickly, vapid, like a corpse. She was enjoying this confrontation. Hermione suddenly wasn't so sure she should have provoked it.

"Take your seat!"

"It was murder," Harry repeated, addressing the class. "I was there. I saw it happen. Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort."

He sat back down.

Umbridge sighed—with relish. "Detention, Mr. Potter."

* * *

><p>After the useless class ended, Harry Potter swept out of the room with his dark green satchel dangling from his shoulder.<p>

Hermione spared Ron and Neville a quick look and took off after him as the throngs of students spilled into the corridor, heading in the opposite direction towards the Great Hall and lunch. The crowd seemed to part for Harry as he strolled with purpose through the mess of dark robes, disappearing quickly around the corner. She followed in the space left in his wake, wondering how best to approach the Boy Who Lived about her idea for a—

She rounded the corner and there he was, standing in front of her with a curious smile on his face, as if he had been expecting her.

"Following me now, are you?" he asked.

His eyes were so… so _green_. Hermione shook her head and found her voice. "I just… I just wanted to apologise for what happened in class. It was kind of my fault you got into trouble with Professor Umbridge."

Harry shrugged. He started walking away down the corridor and Hermione fell in step beside him. "You didn't get me in trouble, Miss Granger. You presented me with an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what? Detention?" Hermione couldn't seem to fathom the logic.

Harry read the look on her face. "Think about it—you're a smart one. I'm sure you see some of what's going on around here. The Ministry is interfering with Hogwarts. Umbridge is here to takeover, to oust Dumbledore and to see me fall."

"But detention—"

"So as long as I'm carving goddamn lines into the back of my hand for half an hour a week then it keeps her happy, keeps her off the right path." Harry stopped and looked out of one of the windows into the sun. "Hermione, the bitch has to think she's winning."

Taken aback by his honesty, Hermione fumbled for something to say. _Carving lines? What?_ She felt a rush of uncertain emotion tingle down her spine. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but it did lend her a glimpse into the mind of Harry Potter—and the events that spun around him.

She knew he had not had an easy life at Hogwarts. There were so many rumours and tales of impossible feats during his early years, not to mention the Triwizard Tournament, that even the truth had to be pretty amazing. In her mind, he was an adventurer—a slayer of dark creatures and a frighteningly influential teenage boy.

Now she was seeing something different. Something that was, perhaps, _better_ than a reluctant hero. Harry Potter was smart—clever, even—and Hermione saw in that brief glimpse his words afforded her that there were a myriad of people pulling at the Boy Who Lived. He lived in a fast-paced world and had _actual_ enemies.

It was something Hermione had never truly encountered before. She disliked some of her classmates, particularly Draco Malfoy and his bigoted beliefs, but there was no one she wished real harm. But Harry…

The Ministry considered him dangerous.

Harry took that in his stride and planned against it. Even goaded Umbridge into giving him detention. That wasn't the worst of it.

If what he and Headmaster Dumbledore said were true, then You-Know-Who had risen from the grave. The most terrifying Dark Lord in the last thousand years of recorded history had a personal vendetta against the quiet, thoughtful Ravenclaw boy gazing out of the window next to her with a bemused grin on his face.

_Fifteen,_ Hermione thought. _He's younger than I am and the entire magical world spins around his head!_

Her glimpse ended and Hermione lost the thread of her thoughts. There were so many avenues and possibilities surrounding him that she couldn't keep it all in order. Suddenly the idea of a defence club with Harry at its head seemed not only silly but childish.

"You're frowning, Miss Granger," Harry said, turning from the window overlooking the arched roof of the Great Hall. "Something the matter?"

"I just..." Hermione paused, biting her lip. "It's just I don't think we've said more than five words to each other in the last four years. I had this idea of you in my head, and you're nothing like that idea."

Harry chuckled quietly. "People rarely meet our expectations. And when they do, it's usually because they've let you down. The Ministry gave you a time-turner in our third year, yes?"

Hermione gasped. "How could you possibly know that?"

"It was the only reasonable explanation to your course load. Also, I saw you once, from this window." He pointed towards the fifth floor Charms rooms. "It was after Defence, actually. I saw you over there then turned around just as you and Neville Longbottom walked by."

"Oh. I didn't think anyone ever noticed."

"I'm not anyone."

"No."

Harry was silent for a long moment. He traced the line of cement running between the bricks of the wall with his finger in a slow pattern back and forth. "You've got a keen mind, don't you. Can I show you something?"

"Yes. What?"

Harry sat down in the window alcove with his back to the sun and patted the space next to him. Hermione sat. Their shadows bent toward the right in the chequered silhouette of the glass panes against the red carpet lining the lonely corridor. Sitting this close together, Hermione could smell spice and cedar wood on Harry.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a scroll of elegant parchment. There was a broken wax seal, splitting some purple creature she couldn't discern in half.

Without a word, Harry unfurled the scroll and handed it over.

The words on the page were a mess. Written not with a quill but with—

"I think a fingertip," Harry said, answering her question before it was asked, and writing in the air with his index finger. "And yes, it's written in blood. Human blood, unless my diagnostic charm is way off. What do you make of it?"

Hermione didn't know what to make of it. She read the words again, slowly:

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Your presence is requested at the behest of our mother._

'_Naked and alone we came into exile.'_

_A stone. A leaf. An unfound door. I'll be waiting where the river bends._

_My warmest regards,_

_The Dragonfly Queen_

Something jumped out at Hermione straight away. "I thought… forgive me, but your mother is gone, isn't she? She was—"

"Murdered, yes. Fourteen odd years ago now." Harry's smile turned a touch sad. He looked a lot older than fifteen. "And I've no siblings. I have no idea what '_our mother'_ could mean. The rest, I think it a riddle."

"The Dragonfly Queen…" Hermione frowned. The name tickled some thought in the back of her mind. Something... no, she lost it. "A woman, then? I take it you don't know who sent it?"

"I do not. Best guess is someone at Hogwarts, but even that's not certain. I found it on my pillow in my dorm room."

"A Ravenclaw then?" Hermione shook her head. "No, not necessarily. Some of the words seem familiar. I've read that line of verse before, somewhere. You should take this to Professor Flitwick, or even Headmaster Dumbledore."

Harry gently plucked the parchment from her hands and rolled it back up into his satchel. "No, I don't think so. Someone is sending me a message, Miss Granger. Someone who knows things they should not. I had an urge to trust you." He laughed. "Was that trust misplaced? Can you keep this a secret?"

Hermione crossed her legs at the ankle. The words were said lightly, but she was suddenly very aware of how alone and deserted this part of the castle was at lunchtime. Harry's words carried an inflection of—of a threat. "You can," she said, her tone a pitch higher. "Of course, yes."

"Splendid," Harry said, and stood up. "A pleasure speaking to you, Miss Granger. If you have any thoughts about that riddle do seek me out."

Hermione watched Harry depart and made no move to follow him. She was unnerved by the whole encounter. His piercing eyes, his play against Umbridge, the bloody note… Was this how he lived his life everyday? She felt a sting of pity for the Boy Who Lived. It must be lonely.

He had not struck her as someone with a lot of friends… if any. The small sting became sincere unhappiness.

Then she wondered how much of their conversation he had tailored to influence her. How much his 'urge to trust' her had been genuine, and how much a clever ploy designed for a scheme beyond her current understanding. That melancholy grin on his face…

Hermione clicked her tongue and tapped her heels against the low wall in the alcove. "Don't be silly," she whispered. Five minutes with Harry Potter and already she felt ensnared by his, admittedly, rather charismatic charm.

_I didn't even bring up the defence club_, she thought glumly. Still, there was plenty of time for that. Hermione stood up and brushed her skirt down neat. At the very least, and despite her increased confusion, she had opened a dialogue with the Boy Who Lived.

It was something she could work with next time they met.

* * *

><p>Harry left Hermione to her thoughts and continued on to the Vault.<p>

A smile played about his lips as he wandered up through the castle alone, passing only empty portraits and rusty suits of armour. He had enjoyed conversing with the Gryffindor girl. She was clever, innocent—and clearly wanted something—but seemed honest.

Harry had glanced into her eyes and mind beyond. There had been no sense of deception from her, which was rare these days. She had been a breath of fresh air, really—like light emerging from a shadowed forest.

And she was Muggleborn, which meant his trust could be more easily given. All said and done, there were very few Muggleborns willing to fight for magical blood purity. Still, he had no more insight into the strange bloody note. Something that he intended to change within the next hour, in the Vault.

_Kind eyes_, Harry thought. _She had kind eyes._ Something else all too rare these days.

Yes, it had been time well spent—with Voldemort having marked him for death, it was time to step out of the shadows, as it were, and forge a few alliances—and he suspected that wasn't the last he would see of Hermione Granger.

Given that it was time to make a stand.

The idea troubled Harry, as it always did. He would have preferred solitude and time to pursue his education, both magical and otherwise. There were so many questions to be answered—so much to discover! Hogwarts alone had enough mysteries to occupy a lifetime.

But no… all of his life and every damn year at this school had leant itself to snares and traps that led, ultimately, back to Lord Voldemort. It seemed fate, if he could believe in such a thing, didn't remain impartial when it came to his fair share of foiling the plots of madmen.

And now this latest—a note where there shouldn't have been a note, containing words that should not have meant anything to anyone.

_A stone… a leaf… an unfound door._

Harry was intrigued more than anything else. Someone thought they could play with him. It was almost cute. Yet at the same time, that someone had access to knowledge he thought forgotten. Not so cute.

He took a winding staircase up to the seventh floor and, making sure no one was around, let himself out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyards and grounds a few hundred feet below. The sun was bright and the air warm. Harry licked his lips and rubbed his hands together.

"Good day for it," he said aloud.

Tightening his satchel around his chest, he turned and clambered up onto the parapets, reaching for the sturdy roof tiles up above the seventh floor corridor. He got a firm hold and pulled himself up onto the lower roof. It wasn't too windy, which was also useful.

Despite the significant drop, Harry had long since overcome his fear of heights—especially after his death-defying leap a day ago. His hip, although healed, still seemed to pain him—a reminder to not be so reckless next time.

Turning from the balcony, he took off across the roofs swift and sure. It was only a few minutes to the Arbiter's Vault, nestled between two towers about three floors above the Great Hall. Hidden in plain sight, really.

He covered the distance in short time—it was far too early for the shadows to bother him, and he knew the route well.

Harry fell into a gap in the roof that was all but invisible from every other vantage point in the castle. The towers—one that led to the Gryffindor common room and the other to the lower Charms rooms—were built in such a way that the architecture tricked the eye. It spun like a staircase that ended where it began. Harry had thought magic involved at first, when he'd stumbled upon this recess quite by accident, but it was simply clever stonework.

Hidden between the towers was an archway that led seemingly nowhere—into a solid brick wall. It looked like any other random part of the castle, save for a single detail. There was a pictogram on the heart of the wall that had drawn Harry's gaze three years ago, as it did now.

An old set of brass scales, perfectly balanced, crossed with two wands.

The Arbiter's Vault.

Harry walked up to the wall and into it. The stone that wasn't really stone absorbed him whole, granting him passage into a space that was larger than it should have been, given the dimensions of the castle.

In front of him was a well-lit chamber, hidden just beyond a curtain of shimmering waterlike magic. A thin sheet of falling liquid, transparent and wreathed in shiny mist.

Stepping through the curtain of falling 'water' cleansed his clothing and body of any magical tracking spells or other insidious hexes or curses. It was refreshing, too, and left him dry. Having been coming here for the better part of three and a half years, the waterfall had never actually discovered clandestine magic, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Harry entered the Arbiter's Vault proper, stepping into a wide circular room reminiscent of Dumbledore's office—minus the portraits and phoenix. Soft orbs of firelight hovered suspended in the air, casting the room in a bright warm glow. Besides that, the similarities to the Headmaster's suite were plenty. Dozens of uncertain magical devices littered the room, shelves of books and an entire living quarters at the top of a spiral staircase created a second floor.

Even after three years, Harry had no idea what some of the stuff in the Vault did. He was intelligent enough not to poke at the uncertain artefacts.

He let out a deep breath. "Let's get this show on the road."

On the left side of the room, between two perpendicular rows of bookcases, a dark form hovered three feet off the ground, suspended in a cocoon of otherworldly white light. Light so fine it was near radiant. Harry cast a quick glance over the man, who rested staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open, as if he were dead… and headed to the right.

The Vault held two main rooms. The initial circular room about fifty feet across and a secondary smaller room that Harry had converted into a laboratory, complete with workbenches and a row of bubbling cauldrons.

It was into his laboratory he stepped now, casting a quick critical eye over the twelve platinum cauldrons hissing on low heat. The crystal blue potion progressed nicely in the half-light and damp air—there was enough to fill a good barrel's worth of his special elixir. Harry shivered just thinking about it. This would be his best batch yet.

But it wasn't why he was here.

He cleared space on a fresh bench and summoned an old pewter cauldron, as well as a tome from the next room on blood magic. It was a simple potion and invocation he had in mind, and he probably could have fumbled his way through the process without instruction (which was much more enjoyable), but time was short.

"Always short," he mumbled. "Always everything…"

He filled the cauldron with water and all manner of exotic ingredients stashed throughout the lab. The stores in the Vault rivalled Snape's, and some of the rarer elements Harry doubted could be found anywhere else in the United Kingdom.

Once the potion was good and ready, he withdrew the Dragonfly Queen's missive from his satchel and tore off the blood-written name, tossing it into the cauldron along with a piece of magnetic iron.

The thick potion broiled, burning crimson and striking a harsh contrast against the soft crystal blue light emanating from his other cauldrons.

It was all said and done within five minutes.

Harry drained the cauldron and withdrew the piece of iron from the broth. It was stuck to a pivot of condensed liquid—and fused into a needle. He held it in his palm and watched as the needle spun of its own volition.

He had just created a blood compass. Simple magic, really, tracking something as unique as blood. The point slowed, and the shine on the metal dulled until it almost disappeared. According to his book that meant the owner of the blood was some distance away.

The needle pointed south beyond the walls of the castle, and the light was so faint that Harry estimated the blood didn't belong to anyone within a hundred miles or more of Hogwarts. He grunted in frustration and checked his watch.

Lunch was over.

He had Herbology that afternoon—in twenty minutes, actually. He had been known to skip class in the past, but did he have to worry about someone coming to look for him? He didn't think so. Dumbledore would offer him a lot more leeway this year, given what had happened in that graveyard in Little Hangleton. Still, he decided to make it quick.

It had crossed Harry's mind that the whole thing might be a trap to lure him out of the castle—and if so it was about to succeed—but the risk was remote. He had taken precautions against being ensnared since the resurrection. Never again would he be fooled by something as obvious as a portkey.

"Better to act than to wonder," he muttered._ If I'm back by dinner, then it'll just look like I skipped class._

Standing rank and file against the far wall of his laboratory was a neat row of polished broomsticks. A half dozen Nimbus models and three fast and sure Firebolts, augmented with additional enchantments to enhance stealth and defence.

This mission—it pleased him to think of it as such—would require speed more than anything else, so he could be back inside the castle before he was missed.

He selected the Firebolt on the far right of the rack and attached the blood compass to its point. The broom thrummed in his hands as he slung it under his arm. Eager and ready to fly.

Collecting his satchel, Harry headed back into the main circular room of the Vault. He travelled left across the room this time, walking around the suspended form of his soulless godfather and toward a solid brick wall hung with purple tapestries.

"Don't wait up, Sirius," he called over his shoulder, and stepped straight _through_ the wall as if it were an illusion.

Which it was.

He mounted the Firebolt in complete darkness and took off down the secret passage, heading through the bowels of Hogwarts alone with his wand a blazing beacon of ethereal light against the narrow lightless world.

After many twists and turns the passageway evened out. He was somewhere below the grounds now, having cleared the castle. Harry flew straight down the dark tunnel, wand aloft, for another few miles. The walls were slick with water, and groping roots had broken through the tiles overhead. He had been this way many times before, and could have done it in the dark. The tunnel was as straight as an arrow.

Still, it had been here for a thousand years or more, if records in the Vault were to be believed. It wouldn't do to fly straight into a fresh cave-in. Even magic failed, given enough time. Eventually the path twisted again—back up—and the rocks coated in slime and knotted tree roots became pure hard granite.

Harry was under the foundation of the mountains that bordered Hogwarts to the east, beyond the Forbidden Forest. Here he flew faster. The tunnel rose steeply and, at certain points, the ground dropped away suddenly into unfathomable pits below. To the centre of the earth, for all he knew. Not that he didn't like to explore, but heading _down_ into depths unknown beneath mountains tens of millions of years old… Nope.

This wasn't a path that could be walked—it had to be flown.

After five more minutes of swift flight, Harry hurtled headlong into a solid wall and slipped straight through it—another illusion—out into clear blue skies three thousand feet above sea level.

Hogwarts shone like a crown jewel five miles away, the great lake a band of burning golden brilliance under the midday sun. He had bypassed all the security and emerged unnoticed against the clear heavens.

Harry flew a few lazy circles, blinking away the glare, and letting his eyes get used to the sun after a half hour in relative darkness. He cast his gaze up to the peak of the mountain range.

Up above were dilapidated and rundown old buildings nestled within the arms of the craggy sentinels, about a thousand feet short of the peak. Rowena Ravenclaw's ancient observatory, built alongside Hogwarts all those centuries ago. The telescope—one of the first in the world—still worked, even after a thousand years (and some significant cleaning charms), but there was little else of interest up there, beyond the magnificent view.

Once his vision was restored, he turned from the peaks. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, leant down low on the Firebolt, and set off chasing the horizon and his Dragonfly Queen.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN:_**_ Now you know that deserves a review, yes? Tell me your thoughts. Thanks to the magnificent bastards and bastardettes at DLP for fixing my numerous and obvious mistakes. From here on out, I'll be writing swift and true. I've nothing but time now that university has ended. No more scraping for a half hour of scotch-fuelled writin' time. Expect alternate updates of this and Heartlands of Time!_

_Cheers,_

_Joe_


	2. The Madman's Lullaby

_**A/N:**__ Now there is some worry that this will turn into a Harry/Hermione story. Rest assured, that's not the plan. There isn't actually a plan for a significant romantic element in this story. There will be something, of course, possibly with more than one someone. I hesitate to use the word fling, but a famous teenage boy in a magical school? What would you do?_

_Thought so._

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_**Chapter Two – The Madman's **__**Lullaby**_

Harry flew down the country for the better part of an hour before he left Scotland behind and crossed into England.

_Twelve grams shattered diamond,_ he thought, licking his lips to keep them from drying out against the wind. _Thirty drops dried aniseed essence. Cedar wood shavings, twenty-eight grams. Bring to 'boil' over a cold flame of midnight… _

He flew over the city of Carlisle, quick and sure, the compass point never swinging too far from southwest. The needle shone brighter every ten miles or so, letting him know he was approaching his quarry. It had been dull most of the trip, so a sign that he was getting close was encouraging. With any luck, he'd be wherever he was going within an hour and heading back to Hogwarts before sunset.

_Distilled Fayth of Dragon's Blood, one fluid ounce. Quarter mix of liquored…_ Reciting the recipe to his crystal blue potion kept his mind sharp, clear. It was a complex brew, unique to the Arbiter's Grimoire in the Vault.

Rolling hills became stony mountains down below. He followed the general path of a winding road above Penrith—shooting through the low clouds—and what he recognised as the Lake District.

After another ninety minutes or so, the Irish Sea came into view off the western shoreline of the country—a fleeting thought that he would have to cross the sea was quickly dispelled as the compass shone ever brighter, the needle straining at the bit _down_ into a large town resting on the coast.

Harry cast a notice-me-not charm on the broom and a disillusionment charms on himself as he descended between the grey terraced houses of a Muggle street. The compass took him across the road and he landed unobserved behind the dumpsters out the back of what looked like a secondary school.

After removing the compass, he stashed the Firebolt under the large bin, pulled off his robes, stuffed them into his satchel, and followed the railed fence around the school down the street. He stuck to the sidewalk, and took the turn around the multi-storey red-bricked building every time he came to a corner. The needle swung back towards the building whenever he switched directions.

That settled it. The blood on the note—his Dragonfly Queen—was in a Muggle comprehensive school. _Interesting_, he thought, _or confusing_.

Harry rounded the front of the school and found a busy road. Dozens of Muggles were milling about the entrance—parents, carers, most likely—their cars parked up against the pavement. Across the road was a full car park, alongside a lake surrounded by tall oak trees.

It was coming up for three in the afternoon. _Home time_. Harry knew little about the Muggle education system, but state schools usually got out mid-afternoon, if memory served.

He took a seat on a low brick wall, compass in hand, and watched the entrance. The needle pointed straight up across the field before the school and into the old building.

Ten minutes later, a shrill siren cut through the air and all the Muggles standing around stood up a little straighter, some of them heading back to their cars to start the engines. Harry eyed the school, and watched as about a thousand kids spilled out of the building within the space of about five minutes.

Some of them darted off to the bike shed alongside a set of tennis courts. Most of them shot down the path between the grass and into the street—diving into cars or, in the most case, running off down the street in laughing, giggling packs.

Despite being the right age, Harry didn't fit in with any of the other kids in his jeans and polo shirt. They were all dressed in uniform—black trousers or skirts, knee high socks on the girls, and green cardigans with the school emblem on the left pocket. _Parkview Secondary_, it read. Harry filed that away.

The needle didn't veer off behind the school or grow any dimmer, so he kept his eye on the main entrance, as the crowds of kids grew thinner. After another five or so minutes he was rewarded with a twist in the compass when a group of girls emerged onto the street.

They walked right by him—three young girls, about thirteen or fourteen, he'd have guessed—two brunettes and a blonde. The point of the compass followed them sure and true.

"She's such a _bitch_," the blonde said. "Tom Garrity asked me to the pictures and she said I was too young to be fucking around with boys."

Harry frowned and let them move on a bit before he stood up and followed. He stayed a clear distance as they moved away from the school, heading across the road and down an alleyway between rows of identical townhouses.

Clear of the school, the blonde (who Harry identified as the leader of this little group) lit up a cigarette and took a long, confident puff on the stick before passing it to the other two.

"You want you can tell her you're staying at my house on Friday," one of the brunettes said, just on the edge of Harry's hearing. "Tom's so fit. You _should_ be fucking around with him."

The girls all descended into nervous laughter. Harry muttered under his breath as he followed, and found out a lot more about Tom than was comfortable. _Do the girls at Hogwarts talk like this?_ he wondered. Of course they did, just not around the boys.

His thoughts took him back to Hermione Granger. No, she wasn't as crass with language as these three seemed to be. It didn't matter. The blood from his mysterious note had come from one of the three girls—however improbable that seemed—and he had to find out the how and the why of it.

A few streets over and the two brunettes peeled away from the blonde, making plans to meet each other before school tomorrow and buy some more cigarettes off Carol Hay, who was also a bitch but at least her boyfriend worked at Asda so he could swipe fags off the delivery truck, but everyone knew it was only because Carol went down on him behind the Spray'n'Wipe that he even bothered with her—

Harry resolved to memory charm himself and purge most of their conversation from his mind as soon as he returned to Hogwarts.

The needle stayed with the blonde.

Alone, she took off at a swifter pace and Harry increased his step to keep up. He followed along the other side of the street, so as not to spook her. When they came to a road named Hawcourt Lane the girl kicked open a garden gate on rusty hinges, jogged up the side of a terraced house with a rock garden, and let herself in through a dark blue front door.

Harry grunted and tapped his chin thoughtfully. The needle pointed up as the girl climbed to the second floor inside the house and then pointed to the room on the left.

_Now what?_ This was all frustratingly normal. Had he wasted an afternoon?

After a moment's deliberation, Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak from his bag and slung it over his head. He crossed the road, leapt over the low fence and approached the front door.

He listened for a moment and then tried the handle. The door opened upon an empty hallway. He slipped in quickly, taking note of his surroundings and gripping his wand under the cloak.

He saw a kitchen at the end of the hallway. The living room off to his left was sparse and empty—a few old chairs and a television that wouldn't have been new ten years ago. There were a whole bunch of kid's toys scattered along the carpet. Stuffed animals, plastic blocks, and the like…

The girl had left her shoes and school bag at the bottom of the stairs, under a vacant coat rack. There was some shuffling coming from the kitchen, and the sound of a baby's laughter. The blood compass pointed him upstairs…

In the kitchen he found a young woman and a baby girl. Both with heads of curly blonde hair. The woman was young, and staring into a bare refrigerator. She held a striking resemblance to the girl Harry had followed home. Her mother? No, far too young—she couldn't have been more than twenty.

"I was sure we had a jar in here somewhere, Abby," the woman said. The baby—Abby—gurgled in reply. "Yes, I thought so, too."

Harry stood, invisible, on the other side of the kitchen table and watched the pair thoughtfully. The baby crawling along the faded linoleum, and the woman pushing a strand of her hair back behind her ear fussily. She bit her lip, gazing into the fridge. Everything in the house, from the old television to the sagging furniture, from the empty fridge to the meagre kitchen suggested a level of poverty.

"Nothing for it, I guess. We'll just have to go to the shop. Shop-shop, Abby?"

The baby bounced happily. "'op, 'op!"

"Let's go get Grace then." The woman scooped up the baby and bustled out of the kitchen.

The baby looked right at Harry as they moved into the hallway. He paused, checked to see if the cloak still covered him completely—it did—and then followed.

The woman stopped at the base of the stairs. "Grace, I'm heading to the Co-op. Come and help me carry."

_Grace_, Harry thought. The blood on his note had come from Grace.

"I'm busy, Maggie!" Grace called down from above.

_Maggie._

"Well, then you have to watch Abby while I'm—"

"Alright, I'm coming." Grace said, with a sigh that suggested long suffering. "Just let me get changed out of my uniform."

Under the cloak, Harry followed Maggie back into the kitchen. She strapped a papoose baby carrier to her chest and slipped Abby into the seat. Again, the baby's eyes seemed to follow him around the room, pointing and giggling. As impossible as it was, the kid could see through his cloak.

Harry placed that on his mental list of things to investigate—a list half a mile long and only getting longer.

Grace came thumping down the stairs in heavy black boots, torn stockings, a short skirt and a tight white shirt. An outfit that screamed 'Pay attention to me!' Harry thought. Maggie took one look and rolled her eyes. Probably an older sister, perhaps, given the resemblance—and they headed out the door, locking it behind them.

Left alone in the house, Harry felt a touch uncomfortable—like an intruder. _I suppose I am_, he decided, _but what to do about it now?_ He could follow the three, or he could have a look around.

After half a minute's thought, Harry cast a few diagnostic charms—searching for any signs of magic, anything at all, and came up short. As far as he could tell, there wasn't a single magical ward, charm or artefact nearby. There was no reason to stay here.

It was all so… _Muggle_. How did this interact with his world, with Hogwarts, at all?

He headed back out onto the street, caught sight of the three girls down the road, and took off after them. He removed his cloak and followed at a discreet distance.

They went into a corner shop.

Harry stood with his hands in his pockets out the front of the shop, debating with himself. It was probably time to go back to Hogwarts—but he had learnt nothing of use. He stared at the headlines of the newspapers lining the window, caught in thought.

"Oh why not…" he muttered, and removed the disillusionment charm from himself and headed into the shop.

A smell of produce and cold meats met him inside the stuffy shop. He found the girls at the counter. Baby Abby was reaching for the stand of bright chewing gum packets, while Grace looked on in relative boredom, flipping through a magazine. Maggie was fumbling through her purse, a few spots of colour high in her cheeks.

"You got the money or not, love?" the shopkeeper said. An obese, sweaty man sitting on a swivel chair, he carried the remnants of what looked like a rather large lunch on his shirt.

"I know I had more than this," Maggie said, digging around her handbag for change.

"Haven't got all day, sweetheart. You can have the baby food or the milk—not both."

Harry didn't linger in the doorway. He moved across the shop, picking up a bag of sweets from the display next to the Coke fridge.

Reaching into his satchel, Harry had to burrow around for what he was looking for. Always be prepared was a maxim he had taken to heart many years ago, but since then he had never had a real need for… Ah, found it. He stepped up to the counter and met Maggie's gaze.

"Excuse me," he said, holding out a crisp twenty-pound note. "I think you dropped this outside."

Maggie eyed him warily, and in the space of a few seconds conflicting emotions of pride, uncertain resentment and something that may have been grateful joy flowed across her face. She looked from Harry, to the money, to the baby food on the counter, then back to Harry.

Maggie reached out, brushed his fingertips with her own, and took the banknote. "Thank you," she said slowly, and then, with genuine relief, "Oh yes, _thank_ you. Please let me get those sweets for you."

Harry nodded. The baby strapped to Maggie's chest giggled when he ran a hand back through his messy, untenable hair. He poked his tongue out at the little bugger, eliciting a snort of laughter from Grace.

"Get a haircut," she told him. "Actually, that mop seems to suit you."

"Grace," Maggie snapped. "Shut _up_."

Harry left the shop, sucking on a strawberry bon bon, confused and a touch weary. It was a long flight back to Hogwarts, and he had discovered nothing useful—at least, nothing _apparently_ useful. Maggie's smile when he handed her the money had made him feel good.

This needed some thought—had the Dragonfly Queen, whoever or whatever she was, just sent him running around in circles? Acquired the blood of some random Muggle girl just to mess with his head?

There was no logic to that. None he could see.

No matter. Best to be back at Hogwarts for dinner, lest his absence raise unwanted scrutiny from Dumbledore or the Ministry's lackey, Dolores Umbridge.

It was a quick walk back across the estate to Parkview Secondary. Harry retrieved his Firebolt from under the dumpster behind the school and took to the skies.

This had probably been a complete waste of time—time he could not afford to lose.

* * *

><p>Hermione kept an eye on the Ravenclaw table at dinner, looking for Harry Potter. The food had appeared a half hour ago, but Harry was nowhere to be found.<p>

She knew he didn't always mingle with his fellow students, but most nights she could recall seeing him on the rare occasion she had looked. Actually, come to think of it, she couldn't remember seeing him at all most of last year. Except when the champions were chosen for the Tournament, and his name had been so unexpectedly called forth and _fourth_ from the Goblet of Fire.

She'd have sworn the look on his face that night hadn't been embarrassment, or uncertainty, but blind anger.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Harry Potter strolled into the Great Hall—his dark green satchel slung low over his left shoulder. His hair was even messier than usual, as if he'd just gotten off a broomstick.

He took a seat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, alone, and made no effort to converse with his housemates. He helped himself to a plate of chicken and potatoes, chewing thoughtfully and staring ahead at nothing in particular.

"So he didn't go for it?" Neville asked, on her right, nodding toward Harry.

Hermione realised she had been staring. She blinked, cleared her throat and resumed her meal. "I never got around to asking him, actually. He distracted me with… an interesting story. A riddle."

Ron snorted from across the table. "He knew your weakness was words, huh?"

"Hush, Ronald," Hermione said absently, thinking again on that strange note. It made no real sense, but something kept clicking in the back of her mind. _An unfound door…_

"Well, I still think we should practice on our own," Neville said. He poured a fair helping of gravy over his roast beef. "One of the old Charms rooms should do."

"Yes, but what about everyone else? The entire school's suffering because of that witch." Hermione glared up at Umbridge at the head table, then quickly looked away before she was noticed. "That's why we need…" She was mindful of all the ears around her. "Why we need what we need."

Ron had lost interest and was guffawing at something in the Quidditch magazine he and Seamus had split between them, splattered now with mashed potato and flecks of their dinner. Hermione turned to Neville.

"I think you should approach him, as well."

"Me?" Neville swallowed.

"You were his partner in Herbology a few years ago."

"We barely said two words to each other. He knew what he was doing, and when he didn't, he just watched me."

"Still." A plan was forming in Hermione's mind. "I'll speak to him about it first, and then you speak to him… I think he's a decent person—and if he's as clever as you say, he'll want to ensure his education is as complete as it can be, as well."

Neville looked like he was about to argue, then thought better of it and returned to his beef.

Satisfied, Hermione cast her gaze up to the enchanted ceiling, speckled with starlight and floating candles, and then surreptitiously across to Harry at the Ravenclaw table again.

He snatched a piece of food out of the air with his free hand—and was scrawling notes along a scroll of fine parchment with the other.

As Hermione watched, another piece of what looked like chocolate biscuit floated down the table towards him. He plucked it out of the air and ate this piece, too. Shortly after, a third piece arrived.

Hermione followed the biscuit back to its source, and found that odd Lovegood girl—her first name escaped her—sitting about halfway down the table. She was wearing an absurdly shaped pink hat, her dirty-blonde hair tied up in strings around the bonnet so it was impossible to tell where hat became hair and vice versa.

While not as alone a Harry, she still seemed to have been given a wide berth at the table. If it bothered her—Luna, her name was Luna—she didn't let it show. Luna levitated a handful of biscuit pieces in a slow circle, and every ten seconds or so would send one down the table to Harry Potter.

It had the look of an old routine. Luna levitated pieces of chocolate biscuit down the table and Harry plucked them out of the air, eating them as he scratched quickly across the page with his quill. They never looked at one another—it was oddly perplexing, and the closest Hermione had seen to any of the students interacting with Harry this year, save for her that afternoon.

_How odd_, Hermione thought, and returned to her dinner and her plans.

When she looked up again, Harry Potter was gone and Luna Lovegood was giggling at a stack of Yorkshire puddings.

As the school filed out of the Great Hall following Headmaster Dumbledore's brief announcements, Hermione found herself again casting a quick look at Neville and Ron—a hurried promise she'd be up to the common room soon—and then took off through the castle, straining her neck above the crowds of students for Luna's… interesting… pink hat.

She found the fourth-year Ravenclaw girl waiting at the bottom of an empty staircase. Hermione noticed that she wasn't wearing shoes— her feet were bare save for one sock on her right foot.

"Hi, its Luna, isn't it?"

Her features were so pale, so distracted, save for two large eyes, that Hermione thought Luna hadn't heard her. "My name's Hermione. I'm in Gryffin—"

"Have you seen all the dragonflies, Hermione?" Luna asked. "They're everywhere this time of year." She walked slowly up the stairs; making sure both her feet touched each step before progressing to the next one.

Hermione decided to follow her, despite how strange she found the girl. "I wanted to talk to you about Harry Potter."

"Such a lonely boy," Luna said. Her bare feet made no sound on the cool stones of the staircase. "Foolish and lonely—he thinks he's broken, you know, but he's not. He's the only one of us who isn't."

"Harry Potter, yes—"

"You want to know his secrets?" Luna asked. Her protuberant eyes gave her a permanently surprised look. "He has so many…" She trailed away, staring at a portrait of a single white rose on an otherwise barren plateau. "More than _seven_, if you can believe that."

"Are you his friend, Luna?"

Luna blinked, seemed to remember that Hermione was there, and smiled. "In the mad rush for something beautiful," she said. "Like a hot road after rain, or the smell of freshly cut grass."

Apparently satisfied with that, Luna gave Hermione a quick hug, before drifting away up the staircase toward Ravenclaw Tower on the west side of the castle.

Hermione would have called that her strangest encounter of the day, if not for her discussion with Harry that afternoon.

Both conversations had been strangely taxing. She was tired. Deciding to try again tomorrow, Hermione walked back to her dorm room and went to bed early. She was certain of only one thing, as she drifted off to sleep.

The day had shown her that there was far more going on at Hogwarts than she realised.

* * *

><p>As Hermione's day was coming to an end, Harry's night was just beginning.<p>

After a brief—yet always satisfying—dinner in the Great Hall, he made his way back up Hogwarts Castle. Heading into the north wing, he took a shortcut through the Transfiguration department and across the cloistered courtyard in the heart of the castle. The Vault wasn't far from the Great Hall, but the only real path to it required a roundabout trip to the seventh floor and out over the roofs.

At least the sun had set.

Crossing the grass square, Harry jumped along the massive, tangled roots of the great oak tree that had been growing there for centuries. He swept passed the brass and crystal armillary sphere in the centre of the courtyard, depicting and reflecting the celestial heavens overhead.

"In a hurry to be somewhere, Harry?"

Harry stopped and almost went for his wand before he recognised the voice. It wasn't often someone managed to slip by his notice. He turned and greeted the woman hidden in the safe shadows next to the armillary sphere.

"Healer Tenbrook—good evening."

"Call me Sarah, Harry, please." The mediwitch stepped into the flickering torchlight scattered across the courtyard from the castle walls. "You missed our appointment this afternoon."

"I did, yes. Please forgive me." He had completely forgotten about it. "Something pressing arose."

A small smile played about Healer Tenbrook's rose-red lips. She leaned against the sphere, her light blue robes almost purple in the half-light. "As it so often does when we have an appointment, hmm?"

Harry couldn't afford to linger. He had a different appointment to keep. One that, if missed, could land him in a world of trouble. "I know where your office is—I'll come by next week, seeing as how Dumbledore insists I speak with you."

"You've only managed to see me twice since the semester started. I'm here to help you, Harry—as a personal favour to the Headmaster, not the Ministry, if that puts you more at ease."

"It doesn't, but thanks." Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, readjusting his satchel with a shrug of his shoulders. "You've been reading the _Prophet_ then? What they're saying about me?"

Tenbrook nodded. "We can talk about that, as well. It's related to what happened with Cedric Diggory. I know you don't think I can help—"

"—or why Dumbledore thinks I need to speak to someone."

"You were there, Harry. You saw what happened—or what you believe happened. It was a traumatic experience, and talking about it will help."

Harry ran a hand back through his tangled hair and chuckled. "Oh, I agree. Yes, yes I do. But you don't quite believe me, do you? How can someone who doesn't even see the truth for, well, the truth, ever help me?"

"I don't know what to believe, honestly. I've made no secret of that. You and Headmaster Dumbledore claim a man—and not just any man, but the Dark Lord—has returned from the dead. The Ministry, our government, are calling you liars." She shook her head. "Despite that, I'm here so the students have someone to talk to about what happened at the end of last year. You need to talk to me, Harry."

Harry started to back away, slowly but surely. "He wasn't really dead, merely incorporeal—disembodied. A not-ghost, capable of possession and influence. And now he's back, Healer Tenbrook. Sorry—Sarah. Got to build that trust, don't we? But your kind words and counselling won't save any of us from what's to come. Goodnight."

With time to make up, Harry set a brisk pace up through the north wing of the castle, keeping an eye over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed. Sarah Tenbrook meant well, he supposed, but she was out of her depth at Hogwarts this year.

Harry made a note to speak to Dumbledore about her—the counselling sessions may have worked for the other kids at this school, dealing with death for the first time in their lives, but Harry knew better.

Had to _be_ better.

Reaching the seventh floor, he stepped out onto the balcony over the bailey courtyards, and shuffled up a stone drain gutter onto the roof. Back in his element, he made short work across the sturdy tiles to the hidden intersection between Gryffindor Tower and the Charms building that hid the Arbiter's Vault.

Proceeding through the curtain of charmed water, ridding him of any and all magical tracking spells—of which there were none—Harry stepped carefully through the main circular room of the Vault. It was dangerous enough during the day, with the various devices and artefacts that defied explanation, but at night…

It was like there was a pair of unseen eyes watching him.

Some of the artefacts that rested motionless in daylight rocked on their shelves, or tapped on the display glass within the cabinets… Even after three years, Harry had no idea why nightfall changed the atmosphere in the Vault.

He had been burnt once—never again—trying to stop a pyramid-shaped metal device from creeping across the floor to his comatose godfather. After that, he had levitated Sirius permanently above the floor, encased in his bubble of magic that kept his body alive.

Harry spared his godfather a brief glance. He had decided on this course of action in that regard some time ago, but he couldn't help the pang of illogical emotion that pulled at his heart when he thought of his father, down in Dover, still thinking his best friend a traitor and a murderer.

No, this was for the best. For now. It had to be.

Stepping into his laboratory that branched off from the main room, Harry sniffed the air and was rewarded with a strong scent of blueberry and, below it, harsh alcohol. His potion was ready.

All twelve cauldrons bubbled softly on low heat. He extinguished the flames and cast a few quick cooling charms on the liquid, to speed up the process. Levitating a six gallon barrel over to the table, he poured the cooled potion into the cask one cauldron at a time until it was near full to the brim.

Harry allowed himself a quick spoonful of the liquid—just a quick drop, to wake him up and keep him alert for the task ahead—and then sealed the barrel's lid in place and melted candle wax around the rim.

The potion had hit him all at once. A rush of clear, vibrant energy and shuddering strength. His mind clarified, and all the tasks of the day—jumbling around in his head—fell into neat order. He needed to investigate the bloody note some more, but not before he reset the lab for the next batch, but that required fresh ingredients. He had the weekend to complete his homework. The Umbridge problem needed a quicker resolution. As did the slander in the _Prophet _and the suspicion it cast upon him. There was only so many lines he was willing—

And so on. His thoughts running a mile a minute, Harry exited the Vault with the cask of blue potion floating just ahead of him. Back across the roof to the seventh floor, into the castle, and he threw his invisibility cloak over both himself and the barrel.

_An unfound door…_ he thought, the riddle in the note playing on his mind. He knew there was some clue there. The Vault had been an unfound door, until very recently. One thing about the whole mess was certain—someone wanted to play. The thought made Harry grin.

Dinner had to be over, and most of the castle was relatively empty—the students having headed back to their respective dorms. It was an hour or so shy of curfew, but Harry had long since gotten the best of Argus Filch. He not only had his invisibility cloak, but also knew the routes the old squib took through the castle each night.

Harry entered Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor. The ghost was nowhere to be found, which was always useful. He approached the snake-engraved sink tap and murmured _'Open_' in Parseltongue, granting himself access to the large, dark sliding pipe that led to the Chamber of Secrets.

As the way opened, memories whispered through Harry's mind. _It's taken her, Professor._ Memories of a time when he still trusted that adults knew what they were doing. His second year, and the girl who had written in a poisoned diary… _Voldemort is my past, present, and future…_

Memories of the life draining from Luna, beneath those terrible twisted pillars entwined with serpents. He shook his head, clearing the memories. There were worse since, and probably worse to come.

After several years of use by Harry, the pipe was still a slimy horrible mess. He put his cloak away into his satchel, and, after tucking the potion barrel tight against his chest, slid down the pipe, zipping by hundreds of other pipes on the way down.

"Need to find a better way of doing that," he muttered at the bottom, casting a few quick cleaning charms.

With a sigh of the long suffering, Harry again levitated his potion barrel and took off in near-darkness down the Corridor of Secrets. He wasn't entering the Chamber proper, however, and paused when he came upon the cave-in caused by that utter fool Gilderoy Lockhart. That memory was at least a pleasant one—the fraud hadn't thought a second year wizard capable of complex shield charms. Last Harry heard he was still in St. Mungo's.

Regaining his focus, Harry stepped up and over the rubble and into a deeper tunnel exposed in the aftermath of the rock fall.

The tunnel led down for about fifty feet, and Harry shone his wandlight ahead of him like a torch. He was sure of his footing, but there was always cause for concern—this place had collapsed once before. The sound of running water reached his ears. At the end of the tunnel he came to a protrusion of granite reaching out over a steadily flowing river, the water as dark as night.

Tied to the stone outcrop was a wooden boat. One of the very same that the First Years floated across the lake on during the Welcoming Feast. Harry had nicked it out of the boatshed after deciding this path didn't have to end at the water.

He levitated the barrel of potion into the boat, stepped in alongside it and sat down next to a bundled cloak. With a whispered incantation, the boat freed itself from the faux-dock and set off into the darkness, following a set path determined two years ago. The underground river flowed swift and true beneath the earth—flowing away from the castle and the lake and alongside the bordering mountains, to the very outskirts of the far side of the Forbidden Forest, as best he could tell.

Another secret of the castle—and one that would remain unfound if Harry had any say in the matter. Which he supposed he did. After all…

Only a Parseltongue could make it this far below the castle. The tunnel wasn't wide, just enough for a boy and his stolen boat, but it was useful.

After an hour of swift travel downstream, in pure darkness lost in his thoughts, Harry picked up the dark cloak off the seat next to him and shrugged it over his shoulders. He pulled the hood up over his head, concealing his face in an impenetrable magical darkness. Even in full daylight, it was impossible to see his features.

A few moments later, Harry emerged from a cave deep within the Forbidden Forest. He had to duck as the boat cleared the edge of the cave and out under the thick canopy of the forest, sailing along one of the many tributaries that bled off the lake back at Hogwarts.

This particular branch swept Harry towards the mountains and the outer border of the forest. The river widened, trickling through water just deep enough for his boat, and then ran under a massive fallen tree—creating a natural bridge shrouded in vines and gloomy moss over the water.

Just beyond the bridge, a thin shoreline covered in shiny river pebbles—and bathed in starlight—came into view. Waiting on the grassy forest floor next to the pebbled spit of earth was a man riding a magical carpet.

"You are late," the man said, also disguising his face, as Harry pulled his boat up against the shallows and hopped onto solid ground.

"It was unavoidable, Gus," Harry said, almost growled. He added a depth to his voice, a Scottish lilt, to avoid any possible identification. "Here we are."

Gus levitated the barrel of blue potion onto his carpet and retrieved a brown leather pouch from within his robes. Harry knew, as he had been doing this for a better part of a year now, that the pouch held more than a handful of coins. It was like his satchel—charmed to be bigger on the inside.

"Thirty-five hundred galleons, as agreed."

Harry tucked the pouch inside his robes, not bothering to count it. Given how quickly and how well his potion sold—more and more so every month—he knew Gus wouldn't dare short-change him. He was the only person in the world with the knowledge to brew it, after all.

It was a warm night, and pleasant by the river, but this was not a place either wizard wanted to linger. Their transaction complete in as fewer words as possible, Harry stepped back into his boat on the pebbled shore and drew his wand to propel himself back up river.

"I have a message from my employer," Gus said, before he could depart.

Harry had been expecting that. "Let me guess… another increase in production?"

"Two barrels a fortnight. Double it."

Making some quick calculations—and how quickly he could source a dozen new platinum cauldrons, not to mention the other rare ingredients—Harry nodded. It would mean a trip to the Floating Markets before month's end, but it could be done.

"Two barrels," he said. "Six gallons. Forty-eight pints. Or twenty-seven litres, in the modern value. You're selling it at ten galleons per quarter fluid ounce, are you not?"

Gus grunted, but said nothing. He was smart enough to know where this was heading.

"Yes, I know you are. Now let's see, two barrel's worth at ten galleons per quarter-ounce vial… Wow, that's just a little under forty thousand galleons per shipment. And here I am with barely enough to afford the peppercorn sauce on my steak."

Gus sat down on his carpet and rose a few feet off the forest floor, one arm resting on his new barrel of special liquid. "I am authorised to offer you a one-time payment of one hundred and fifty thousands galleons for your recipe."

"No, I think not."

Gus was silent for a long moment. Harry could almost feel him twirling his wand, wondering if a quick pain curse could change his mind. The moment passed. "Name your price."

"Ten thousand per shipment."

"Eight."

"Ten."

"We will agree to ten, but should delivery be more than six hours late a penalty of five thousand galleons will be enforced. Agreed?"

Harry could respect that. The proper business sense—mind over wand—and a mutual respect for the venture almost let him enjoy the whole affair. "We are agreed."

* * *

><p>Hermione poured some ketchup onto her bacon and scrambled eggs and mashed it all together with a healthy dose of salt and pepper. If there was one thing that could be said for the long, winding corridors of Hogwarts—and the endless stairs—it did allow one to indulge at mealtimes.<p>

She sat next to Neville as the rest of the students ambled slowly down (or up, for the Slytherins) to breakfast. It was just gone nine, but for a Saturday there was no rush. Neville was talking about one of the animated rose vines he was growing as part of a term-long project in Herbology.

"And Madam Sprout thinks there'd be a market for them in Hogsmeade over Christmas—"

Hermione was only giving him half her attention. The rest was focused on the copy of the _Weekend Prophet_ delivered five minutes ago. It was a few extra knuts for the weekend subscription, but with the Ministry interfering in the castle, she thought it prudent to stay apprised of all the happenings in the Wizarding World.

There were one or two interesting articles. Front-page news was concerned with the Ministry's reforms to several departments, and a side story about some unknown potion that had put three people in St. Mungo's during the week. A second page piece about the need for increased academic integrity here at Hogwarts, and an interesting story innocuously tucked away at the top of page three:

**DID THE TRIWIZARD CHAMPION CHEAT?**

It was about Harry Potter, of course.

An opinion piece that had been given a half-page spread, as if it were fact. A picture of Harry accompanied the article. He looked surly and tired after the second task near the lake last year. The article suggested that he had been given expert help in the tournament from the teaching staff, as well as a favourable standing from one of the judges. Unnamed sources in the castle confirmed it.

_Surely not_, Hermione thought. She had watched Harry face a _dragon_ in the first task, her heart in her throat the whole time. He had done _that_ on his own, no matter what anyone said.

This wasn't the first article in the _Prophet_ she had seen slighting Harry—and if he stuck to his story about You Know Who and what he said happened to Cedric Diggory—it most likely would not be the last.

Hermione glanced over at the Ravenclaw table. Harry was there now, looking as if he hadn't slept with big dark bags under his eyes, slowly sorting through a rather large stack of owl post.

He must have sensed her gaze, because he looked over. Hermione almost looked away, but offered him a quick wave and a warm smile instead. He tilted his head, grinned, and returned to his breakfast and post.

_Now that won't do,_ she thought.

"—rather simple, really. A mix of transfiguration and ancient runes to—"

"I'll be back in a moment, Nev."

Neville blinked and looked up from his breakfast. "Oh, okay."

Hermione stood up and, against all unspoken House conventions, made her way over to the Ravenclaw table and sat down opposite Harry. She slid the paper across to him, sliding it between a glass of orange juice and a grapefruit.

"There's a story in here about you."

"Only one? Sorry, bit of a slow week."

"Page three."

Harry flipped open the paper and glanced at his picture. "Hmph." He returned to his cornflakes.

Her initial topic of conversation exhausted with a grunt, Hermione searched for something else, anything else, to get him to ta—

"Did you find out anything about that strange note?"

"'fraid not."

"You're not very talkative this morning, are you?"

Harry sighed and dropped his spoon into the bowl. "Sorry. Bit of a late night."

"Up late studying?"

"Sure. That works." He swept all his unopened post into his green satchel.

Hermione wondered if he ever took that bag off. He always had it slung across his chest. It looked old and worn, battered down, but serviceable. She was going to ask him about it, but he spoke up first.

"Why the sudden interest, Miss Granger?"

"Pardon me?"

"In me, I mean. Yesterday you provoked that confrontation with Umbridge, this morning you're bringing me news stories full of lies. Is detention not enough for you? You have to remind me about all the bad press I'm getting, too?"

"I—" Hermione blushed. "I didn't—"

"I'm joking, of course." Harry frowned. "Never was much good at that. No matter." He checked his watch. "Want to see something cool?"

"I, well… yes?"

"Come on then." He stood up and left, sweeping out of the Great Hall before Hermione could stop him or even ask where he wanted to go.

_Should I follow?_ She had still not asked him about the defence club.

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip in indecision. Glancing around the Great Hall, she saw nothing holding her back. Her gaze was drawn up the head table, and she felt Headmaster Dumbledore lock eyes with her.

She couldn't be sure, because of his rather impressive silver beard, but she thought he may have smiled and inclined his head ever so slightly toward the doors and after Harry. Never one to disobey a teacher, Hermione swung her legs up and over the bench and took off after Harry Potter.

She found him waiting at the foot of the grand moving staircase, a curious look on his face. As if he hadn't really expected her to follow.

"We've got ten minutes to get to the other side of the castle. Let's be quick about it."

"Why ten minutes?" Hermione asked, as she fell into stride beside him, almost dashing to keep up with his long, sure gait.

"I don't know."

"Oh."

"You'll see what I mean."

Harry's step was quick through the castle, diving in and out of classrooms and cutting across courtyards and taking shortcuts that shaved off entire floors and staircases, but there was something more than that.

He strode the castle as if he owned it. As if he'd lived here a century and knew the shortest path between any two points, even if the rooms and stairs did move sporadically, and what was once a sure thing on a Monday may not be there on a Tuesday.

Skirting the staff quarters, Harry led Hermione into the heart of the castle, back on the ground floor. He pushed open an old shabby door that creaked on dusty hinges, and stepped into a disused classroom shaped like a triangle.

Three walls, only one door, and a window overlooking the lower grounds and the groundskeepers cabin in the distance, just beyond the greenhouses.

"Are we here for the view?" Hermione quipped.

Harry said nothing. He wiped off an overturned chair on top of a desk and placed it up the front of the room, next to another that looked recently used—no dust—and sat down.

Bemused more than anything else, Hermione joined him.

"I've got twenty eight minutes past nine. How about you?"

"About that, yes."

Harry was tapping his foot against the stone floor, staring straight ahead at the tip of the angled walls, where they seamlessly joined to complete the isosceles-shaped room. "We made good time. Eight minutes from the Great Hall to here. Not the record, but close, I'm sure."

"What are we doing here?"

"Are you wondering if it was a good idea to follow someone you barely know into an empty and disused part of the castle?"

Hermione blinked. "Well, no, I wasn't."

He scoffed. "That's because you think you're safe at Hogwarts. That despite three-headed dogs, possessed or incompetent professors, mammoth snakes, soul-sucking demons, dragons, ghouls and impossible shadows… you're still just at school."

Hermione tried to make sense of that. "No, I know it can be dangerous around magic," she said.

"So you must trust me then." Harry winked. "That's brave of you. I'm mad and deranged remember. Seeing Dark Lords in every shadow, Death Eaters in my cereal bowl…"

Searching again for something to say, some way to steer the conversation towards her defence club idea and the need for proper study, Hermione decided to just get it over with. "Harry, I wanted to ask you—"

The wall they were staring at—the tip of the triangle—sprouted a door covered in thick vines of ivy and blossoming purple flowers. The arched wooden panels below the foliage _grew_ into the wall. The heady scent of honeysuckle and vanilla wafted into the room from beyond the new door.

Hermione gasped. "Oh my, what's this?"

"What I wanted to show you," Harry said, standing up. "For whatever reason, this door only pops into existence at nine thirty in the morning. Come along, Miss Granger. It disappears again in exactly fifteen minutes."

Feeling a rush of excitement, Hermione joined Harry at the flowery door and watched as he grasped a large, rusted brass handle and pulled it open.

The aroma that had been gentle and sweet hit her in the face—almost overpowering—and together she and Harry stepped into one of the most amazing gardens she had ever seen.

"Hogwarts' secret garden," Harry said, sweeping an arm across the expanse before them.

Hermione fell into an almost dumbfounded respect as she and Harry strolled through the creeping hanging vines, the curtains of cherry blossom branches, and the carpet of knee high flowers.

The garden was about forty feet across its length and breadth. There were cast iron benches overgrown with plant life. A thick canopy formed a green tunnel through to the heart of the courtyard. The castle walls rose up on all sides, enclosing the space.

"Oh wow," Hermione said, as they emerged from the tunnel of leaves. She could taste lilac and cinnamon on the air.

There was a large square boulder in the very middle of the garden. Lichen and moss clung to its base, and thick dark green vines circled its border. A lattice network of climbers formed loose loops and curled contours against the stone.

Hundreds, probably _thousands_, of names marked the monolithic stone. Scrawled hastily, and with care, burnt into the rock with magic or just with ink that had nearly faded. Names jumped out as Hermione gazed across the garden's centrepiece—none of them familiar.

_Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1863… Burdock Muldoon, 1440… Havelock Sweeting, 1648…_

"You don't recognise any of the names?" Harry chuckled. "Even you struggle to pay attention in History of Magic, huh? Here, look. As far as I can tell—students have been scratching their name into this thing since Hogwarts was founded."

Harry ran his fingers along the curving, looped letters that spelt _Glanmore Peakes, 1680._ "He slew a giant sea serpent in Cromer. And here, Oswald Beamish—pioneer for goblin rights. Tilly Toke saved a beach full of Muggles from a dragon attack. Nathan Allgood, invented the floo network. The network, mind you, not the powder. Heh, and Bertie Bott—yeah, the flavoured beans."

"Fascinating," Hermione said, and meant it. "Who else?"

Harry moved down the stone, his smile fading into something… else. "Here. Yardley Pratt, the infamous serial murderer. He killed eighty-seven goblins before he was stopped. Single-handedly instigated the Third Goblin Rebellion in the fifteenth century. Or here, look… Thadius Thurkell, fathered seven sons, all of them squibs. He turned them into hedgehogs and fed them to a hippogriff. Marcus Grimes, the 'Mad Minister'. Responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Ah, and here's a good one…"

Hermione felt her blood run cold. "Does that say Mo—?"

"Morgan le Fay, yes." Harry didn't touch that one.

For every name Hermione knew, there were hundreds she didn't. Harry followed patiently in her wake as she explored around the stone, running her hand along words written long ago by wizards and witches long dead.

Around the far side of the immense stone, there was a patch of bare rock—devoid of any names. The scribbles and scrawls petered out. There was _Horace Slughorn, 1870_, and a finger's width beyond that, _Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1937_.

In the space above that name, there was one more: _Harry Potter, 1992._

An almost irresistible urge overcame Hermione in that moment. She stepped forward, and nevertheless hesitated.

"Go ahead—why not? But be quick, we've only four minutes left." Harry smiled. "Make a mark on the world, Hermione Granger. It could mean something one day."

"I don't know about that," she said, but drew her wand just the same.

"No one does. But what if you go on to invent something useful, or rediscover portal travel." Harry sighed. "Or cure something like the Dementor's Kiss. Something—_anything_—to make a mark."

And with the sun beating down overhead, the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla fresh and wild in her nose and on her tongue, Hermione carved her name into the stone with a quick charm. She chose a spot next to Harry, but away from whomever Tom Riddle was, and felt better for doing so.

"How can _no one_ know about this?" she said, glancing up at the towering castle walls. Beyond the rim of the secret garden's far wall, she could glimpse the swaying flags on the roof of Gryffindor tower. "Can't it be seen from the upper levels?"

"You'd think so, but no. Hogwarts isn't built like that, Hermione. It's… well, magic. Secrets wrap themselves in secrets and no one bothers to delve much deeper than the dungeons."

"But there's more?"

"Oh yes. A whole lot more. Come on, we have to leave now or we'll be stuck here for the next twenty three hours and forty five minutes. Believe me, there's not a whole lot to do."

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN:_**_ Good story? Plenty of plot elements to be getting on with, yes. Tell me your thoughts in a review! Heartlands of Time is to be updated next!_


	3. The Man Who Sold The World

_**Disclaimer:**__ I disclaim this land for Her Majesty the Queen!_

_**A/N:**__ Two updates inside a week? You spoilt, spoilt readers. Actually this chapter has been languishing for a while. I only just got around to finishing it yesterday. You patient, patient readers. Please review!_

_-Joe_

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_Chapter Three – The Man Who Sold the World_

A stone.

A leaf.

An unfound door.

The odd words in Harry's mysterious note had chimed in the back of Hermione's mind for two days, but like a thought caught on the tip of her tongue she had been unable to remember just where she had heard them before.

Until now.

Deep within her trunk at the foot of her bed, she had spent the better part of the early hours of Sunday morning digging around for a collection of her favourite books from her life in the Muggle world. Logic and arithmetic texts, mostly, but there was a pocket of literature buried…

Ah.

_That's the one, I'm sure of it._

She retrieved a leather-bound volume by an American author, Thomas Wolfe. The gold leaf on the cover was inscribed: _Look Homeward, Angel_. Scanning through the pages quickly, speed-reading more than just her forte, Hermione confirmed that the words in Harry's note matched the prose in the book and allowed a proud grin to spread across her face.

This would be useful, she was sure of it, and it may help cement her budding friendship with the Boy Who Liv—with Harry. Just Harry. He didn't seem too fond of his illustrious past.

It was just before nine when Hermione finished putting the contents of her mini-library back in the trunk. The sun disappeared behind some clouds, casting a pall of shadow on the room. She wondered if Harry were downstairs in the Great Hall for breakfast. Or where best to find him if he wasn't? Even after nearly five years in the castle, Hermione only had the vaguest idea of where to find the Ravenclaw common room.

Harry probably knew secret tunnels in and out of every room in the castle. She would have to ask him for a few tips getting from the Potions dungeons to the Transfiguration wing. It was always a mad dash on Monday mornings between those two classes.

Working her way down through the castle, Hermione tried to fit the words in _Look Homeward, Angel_, to the words in Harry's note. In the book, they seemed innocuous—however beautifully written—whereas in the note there had been a hint of something dire… something unhappy and cruel.

_A riddle_, Harry had said. He thought it a riddle. Was the answer to solving it in Hermione's book? She thought it might be.

It being the weekend, the Great Hall was only half-populated with students in no particular hurry to be getting on with the day. A quick glance up and down the Ravenclaw table showed Hermione that Harry wasn't there. She slumped, having been eager to share word of her discovery. Still, it was early.

She joined Ron and Seamus at the Gryffindor table.

"Mornin'," Ron managed, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Hermione!" Seamus seemed happy to see her. "Tell me, love, what's the deal with that Transfiguration theorem about transferring solid to liquid during motion, or something?"

Hermione sighed and helped herself to half a grapefruit. "You haven't started Professor McGonagall's essay then, have you?"

"Oh I never start that nonsense until I'm sure I understand it right, 'Mione. Can you help me with it?"

Hermione nodded. "Of course I can, Seamus. Read Frosp's Elements of Transfigured Acceleration. Chapter three, in particular. It's all there waiting for you."

Seamus lost his smile. "Or, you know, you could just tell me—"

Ron swallowed his food and laughed, slapping Seamus on the back. "I've been trying that for years, mate."

"It's not as if you don't have time to do the reading," Hermione remarked, buttering a piece of toast.

"Well, I beg to differ. What with…"

Hermione ignored the boys as they discussed the multitude of reasons why their timetables were too full to read one simple chapter. She tuned them out, and instead focused on her Thomas Wolfe book. The story was interesting, sure, and she could remember reading it years ago now.

She scanned the pages looking for any particular reference to dragonflies or queens, but to no avail.

When she finally looked up from the book, some twenty minutes later, she saw that Harry Potter had arrived and was seating in what she guessed was his customary spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table closest to the Entrance Hall. He was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a black collared shirt. He looked… normal, without robes on. Somewhat more real.

Hermione saw her moment and decided to seize it. She snapped shut her book and was halfway out of her seat before—

Someone else stepped lightly into the Great Hall.

Almost as if it had been choreographed, a sea of heads rippled inwards from the apex of the Hall, cutting across Hermione, and a scattered low hiss of misheard whispers echoed back and forth.

It was Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons Triwizard Champion from the tournament last year. Even Hermione, who had avoided all the nonsense following the French witch around the castle, had noticed the entirety of the male population at Hogwarts had been besotted with her.

She was, it could be admitted, attractive. Her hair was so light it was almost silver!

And here she was now, approaching the Ravenclaw table. Harry stood to greet her, as if he had been expecting her, and the smile that lit Fleur's face was kind and warm. Like Harry without his robes, it made her appear real—less imposing.

Fleur and Harry embraced, and she kissed him softly on the cheek. There were tears in her eyes.

Seemingly oblivious to the stares of the entire school, Harry and Fleur linked arms and stepped out of the Great Hall together. Hermione contemplated following, but a gentle tug in the pit of her stomach made her feel as if she would be intruding.

* * *

><p>Harry was not immune to the beauty and charm of Fleur Delacour.<p>

But she was not here to have another fool pant and sweat for her affections. Nor would he dare—he valued her friendship, her presence, more than any flawed notions of romance. She had come to see him, given the events of the tournament last year. They had been in weekly correspondence since Cedric's death.

Still, she was beautiful, and the eyes of the entire school—including the teaching staff—were upon them both. Harry embraced Fleur, took her arm, and led her from the Great Hall and out onto the castle grounds.

He made brief small talk, mostly about nothing, as they ambled down to the lake together. The talk was about everything but what was important. Thin grey clouds overhead threatened rain, but not just yet. It was a cool morning. Harry could taste the stirrings of winter on the air.

"And you managed to get a portkey in?" Harry asked.

"I did," Fleur said, in careful English. She had been practicing, mindful of her heavy accent. "To Hogsmeade. There is a ban on portkeys into Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore's expressed written order, apparently."

"Oh? I didn't know that." Harry guessed that the old man was more than a touch concerned for security, given the loss of a student under his watch. It had to weigh on him heavily. "And you graduated from Beauxbatons with flying colours, I hear."

"Top of my class," Fleur said proudly, and brandished her wand. "Even in Advanced Charms. Which I 'ave you to thank for. Watch this – _Expecto Patronum!_"

Two banded spheres of silver light flowed from Fleur's wand, reflected out over the waters of the lake lapping at the shoreline, and coalesced into a graceful, long-necked swan. It flapped its wings once, gliding along the surface of the water, and then disappeared in a shower of pristine argent sparks.

"Ha! I knew you could do it."

"I had a good teacher," she said, smiling and squeezing Harry's hand. "You and Cedric both helped me far too much last year. Thank you, 'Arry Potter."

"I learned just as much from you, Fleur. More, even. We helped each other. One of your spells kept me alive after… after what happened at the end of the tournament."

Fleur's smile faded away, just smoke on the wind. "There are so few details, and you told me even less in your letters. Is _ee_t true? Has _z_e Dark Lord returned?" Her accent came through thick and strong, coated with emotion.

Harry nodded. He tried to say something—anything—but words seemed too small. How to convey the truth of the matter? The graveyard, the blood, the bone… "Our government doesn't want to believe it, but yes. He's back, Fleur. Cedric and I fought him, and Voldemort killed him—took a curse that was meant for me." Harry let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Merlin, do you believe me?"

"I believe you. And my father believes me. Which is part of the reason for my visit. He would like to meet you."

"Your father is an undersecretary for your President of Magic, isn't he?"

"_Oui_, he is."

Harry contemplated the implications of having someone in that position of power on his side. Did it mean that one man believed the truth? Or was he representing the belief of the entire French magical government? The implications of that could be huge… but it would also cast a lot of light on him, which given certain activities could turn ugly...

"I would like to meet him, as well."

"Then _z_is is settled." Fleur's smile returned. "How wonderful. He is a kind man, 'Arry. When do you think you can travel…?"

"We'll discuss that in a moment. I have a feeling this was more than just a social visit, Fleur. There is something you are not telling me." Harry squeezed her hand. "You have that same look of trepidation on your face that I saw before the hedge maze last year."

Fleur bit her lip. "_Oui_, yes, 'Arry. I received a strange note… _ee_t made mention of you."

"Oh?"

She slipped a hand into her coat and removed a creased scroll of parchment. The broken wax seal looked all too familiar.

Harry sighed as he unfurled the letter and read the missive:

_Miss Delacour,_

_A mystic. A path. A river of glass._

_The wild dreams of a lightning-struck scar. Consider this an invite to his memory._

_Harry Potter killed our mother and I will kill him._

_Warmest regards, beautiful lady,_

_The Dragonfly Queen_

"Well…" Harry chuckled. "Suitably dramatic."

"You do not seem too surprised," Fleur said. "Those words are written in blood, 'Arry."

"Yes, I found a similar note not too long ago. Someone is playing a game with us, Fleur. I followed the blood on my note… it led me to a Muggle girl." He wrapped the scroll back up. "Which I don't know what to make of just yet. Can I keep this?"

"_Oui._"

Harry linked his arm through Fleur's again and they continued their trek along the lakeshore. "It is nice to see you. I may be visiting France soon, for the Floating Markets. We could have lunch?"

"I would like _z_at, yes. I will invite my father."

And then there was silence—a comfortable silence, as Harry and Fleur followed the curve of the lake along the borders of the Forbidden Forest. The castle looked dark and imposing in the distance, against the storm-strewn sky.

"Gabrielle sends her regards." Fleur shared a secret smile. "She is still quite taken with you."

"A shame for her that I'm madly in love with her older, beautiful sister."

Fleur laughed softly and kissed Harry on the cheek. "No, you are not. But _ee_t is kind of you to say such nice things."

* * *

><p><em>So…<em>

Two notes. _Deux_ notes.

And one sent to the last person Harry would have expected. Or, rather, the last person he had assumed anyone would have expected.

Fleur was his friend, as Cedric had been.

Together, the two Triwizard Champions had been the closest thing to friends Harry Potter had ever had. Which was how he liked it. People could be distractions, friends ever more so, but what had started out last year as a desire to learn from one another had…

_Blossomed_, Harry thought, and snorted laughter as he strolled up through the castle to the seventh floor. It seemed like a word Hermione Granger would use. He had caught her eye just before leaving the Hall that morning with Fleur. There was something she wanted to discuss. It could keep.

But Harry had thought his friendship with Fleur a secret thing. Well, not so much secret, as _minor_. Incidental. Did the Dragonfly Queen, whoever that pseudonym belonged to, think to attack him through his French companion? The idea was troubling. Harry realised with a start that perhaps he should be worried.

Not for himself, but for Fleur.

That was something that should have occurred to him before she walked back to Hogsmeade. He had already lost one friend due to not thinking fast enough. Perhaps he was more entranced by her charm and beauty than he realised.

Harry shook his head. Fleur was more than capable of looking after herself. Just the same, he would mention his concerns when he saw her next in France.

Headmaster Dumbledore was waiting in the corridor that led to Harry's balcony—the one he used to leap up onto the roofs and reach the Vault—as if he had been expecting him. But no, the old wizard couldn't know about what Harry got up to on the roofs. No one knew.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," Harry said.

The headmaster turned from admiring a simple portrait of white lilies, swaying in the breeze next to some picturesque, ambling countryside river. He looked genuinely surprised at the chance meeting, but Harry knew he had had a century or more to affect such surprise. Four years at the castle had taught him to expect anything and hide _everything_ when it came to Albus Dumbledore.

"Good afternoon, Harry. How are you today?"

"Well, sir. And you?"

"Fine, fine. Yes. I must admit I was pleased to see you in such happy company this morning, with Miss Delacour."

"Fleur and I are friends, yes."

"She was most polite in extending her visitors request to me. Please inform her, when you see her next, that no such formality need trouble her. She is welcome at Hogwarts, always."

"I'll do that."

Harry and Dumbledore stood in companionable silence for half a minute, the older surveying the younger from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Healer Tenbrook came to see me yesterday," the headmaster eventually said. "She tells me you have been shirking your time with her."

Harry grimaced. The counsellor was a kind woman, but she couldn't help with what had happened. Who could? "I was under the impression that those sessions were not mandatory."

"They are not, Harry, they are not. Yet I have always found that help is most forthcoming to those who ask for it, hmm. Perhaps go and see her, for my peace of mind if nothing else."

Harry held a profound respect for Albus Dumbledore. The old man deserved respect, more than any other man he had ever met. Still, this interference in his state of mind was grating. "I don't think I need to, sir. I'm handling what happened in my own way. If anything, I've already moved on. I'm over it."

A lot of blue potion, and a lot of avenues of study, had helped with that.

Dumbledore did not push the issue. "Well, if you do decide to go see her, I am sure her expertise may prove more useful than you may think." He paused. "There is another matter I would like to discuss, and if you are certain you are 'over it', perhaps it is time…"

"Oh?" For an awful moment, Harry was certain Dumbledore knew about the Vault. About his potions. About all the none-too-legal aspects of his magical education. That it was all about to come out, and he would have no recourse.

"I've delayed asking this of you, Harry, but I would like to request, and please feel free to decline, permission to view your memory of that night in Little Hangleton. Of Voldemort's resurrection."

Harry blinked. "Well, of course. I guess. If anyone should see it, sir, then you should."

"Thank you. Shall we proceed to my office?"

"You want to do this now?"

"Unless you have a prior engagement, my boy."

"No. No, of course not. Just detention with Professor Umbridge in two hours."

So Harry delayed his plans to begin work on the next batch of his blue potion. He had enough ingredients and cauldrons for three quarters of the next consignment, but given the timeframe and the afternoon he would have to sneak way from Hogwarts to France, work needed to begin now.

It looked like he had a late night ahead of him.

Once up the winding staircase and in his office, Headmaster Dumbledore retrieved his pensieve and set it down on his desk. Fawkes, the golden phoenix, sang softly from his perch. Harry spared the bird a quick glance and drew his wand.

"Everything you can remember, my boy. Every detail, no matter how small."

"Sure. No problem, sir."

Harry extracted the memory with the tip of his wand and let it float along the surface of the pensieve for a moment, before striking it from his wand.

A heavy moment waited to pass between the two of them. Harry cleared his throat. "Shall we?"

Dumbledore nodded, and together they slipped into the pensieve…

…and to the heart of the hedge maze, standing before the glittering Triwizard Cup. Harry and Dumbledore appeared behind a slighter younger Harry and a very much still alive Cedric Diggory.

"_You should take it, Harry," Cedric said. "You saved me twice in this blasted maze."_

Harry watched himself stare at the cup as if it mattered—as if the damn tournament meant anything. He had contemplated taking the cursed trophy for himself. If he had been just a touch more self-centred and arrogant, Cedric would still be alive. But also, it would be much more likely that Harry would have died in his place.

"Here comes the brightest idea I've ever had…" Harry whispered to Dumbledore.

"_We take it together, Cedric. Seeing as how Fleur hasn't made it this far. A Hogwarts victory."_

_Cedric wiped a spot of blood from the corner of his mouth and chuckled. "So be it."_

Harry just shook his head and Dumbledore sighed as the two memories grasped the portkey and were whisked away across the face of the country.

Only to appear in a dark, fog-strewn cemetery under a black sky.

Harry watched himself tumble forward out of the portkey vortex alongside Cedric. The mist was so thick and heavy that he didn't see what Cedric hit his head on, but it was most likely a worn tombstone. The Hufflepuff champion struck the rock hard, opening up a jagged and nasty looking cut across his forehead. His eyes fluttered up into the back of his head and he slumped, unconscious.

"I leave him there," Harry said to the headmaster. "Just like I told you, after it happened. Pettigrew has me bound to Riddle's father's grave, and if Cedric had just stayed down after the ceremony…"

"He saved you, Harry. Let us not forget that."

"No."

Together, headmaster and student watched the events unfold. Harry watched himself try and wake Cedric, only for his keen mind to kick in and realise that events had gone off script here. He left Cedric unconscious and concealed in the fog, wand out, and turned to face whatever had pulled them here.

It wasn't until the memory of Harry saw the name on one of the nearby gravestones that a flicker of true fear rippled across his face.

_Tom Riddle_

_1905 – 1943_

"I knew then. I honestly did." Harry spoke quietly within the memory. "Look, I even make to turn back to Cedric and the portkey, what I should have done in the first place, but…"

Cords of purple magic, of malice, came spinning out of the fug and wrapped themselves around the younger Harry, slamming him against the grave of Voldemort's father and binding him in place.

"…but it was almost like this was meant to happen, Headmaster."

What happened next Harry had explained to Dumbledore more than once. Wormtail slithering out of the darkness, an abomination in his arms. The bone, the blood, the flesh...

The Dark Lord reborn.

Harry and Dumbledore watched the whole ghastly affair unfold. Voldemort's yearlong plans come to fruition. They watched him revel in his new body, tenderly stroke his wand and finally turn his pale and snake-like head upon the small, quiet boy lashed to the headstone.

The pain.

"_Crucio!"_

The mocking, the humiliation.

"_The Boy… Who Lived. How lies have fed your legend, Harry!"_

And Harry watched himself steel his courage, his determination, and spit in the face of the Dark Lord. Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as Voldemort's servants apparated to his side, and Voldemort asked him if he were ready to die.

The memory of Harry seemed to ponder the question for a long moment, as the Death Eaters sneered and laughed.

"_I spoke at length with your shade in the Chamber of Secrets," Harry said. "His… your… arrogance was astounding."_

Dumbledore murmured something below hearing at the look of surprise on Voldemort's face. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but he filed away the connection for future reference.

"_My… what?" Voldemort whispered, casting a look at Lucius Malfoy behind his mask._

"_Oh yes, oh yes." Harry laughed. "Now release me and give me my wand, _Lord _Voldemort. You killed my mother, and I will send you back to whatever hell you just crawled out of!"_

Even Dumbledore seemed to be holding his breath as Voldemort stared down at the Harry tied to the gravestone. It was a tense, violent moment that could have gone either way. At long last, Voldemort waved his wand and the bindings around Harry disappeared.

He got to his feet and tore his wand from Wormtail's grip.

And the rest played out spectacularly. Harry used what little skill he had, compared to Voldemort, to dodge and weave around the 'playful' spells sent his way. The Death Eaters jeered from the sidelines. Despite his brave words, this was a fight that could only end one way.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_No!_"

And as Harry dived behind a tombstone to avoid the green light of death, Cedric emerged from the fog, blood running down his face, and cast his own Killing Curse.

Thick coils of sparkling emerald light erupted from Cedric's wand, coursing through the air toward the Dark Lord. Harry watched from behind the tombstone as Voldemort stepped aside and the curse struck one of the masked Death Eaters—he did not know whom—and cries of shock and surprise erupted from the crowd.

"He was fiercely loyal, wasn't he?" Harry said to Dumbledore from their perspective. "He not only died, but killed, for me."

"You would do well to think of Voldemort as a creature beyond redemption, Harry. What was once a man is now the broken thing you see before you. I would not have reprimanded young Mr Diggory if his curse had hit the proper target. It would have been a kindness."

"I'm not sure I could ever use that curse…"

Dumbledore knew this part of the story, as well, but said nothing as Harry emerged from behind the tombstone and together, he and Cedric, shot wild curses at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort laughed—cackled—high into the stagnant air. He seemed to pay Cedric no attention whatsoever.

Then, with stunning ease, he disarmed Harry, ripping his wand from his grasp with a swift spell. It stuck tip first into the muddy earth.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ The next curse would have ended Harry's life then and there, but the Dark Lord, duelling the both of them, had anticipated Cedric's move even before he made it.

Cedric stepped across and in front of Harry, who was bereft of his wand, to cover a retreat. It cost him his life. In the space between heartbeats, Harry saw what Voldemort had done. A victim of his fierce loyalty.

The curse struck Cedric just below his hairline. The Hufflepuff champion fell dead to his knees and then forward onto his face.

Harry dived for his wand.

The Dark Lord was no longer smiling.

"I think he was bored at this point," Harry said to Dumbledore. "He'd had enough of this."

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

The memory of Harry managed to cast the first frantic spell that came to mind, as he clenched his wand and a handful of mud. _"Expelliarmus!"_

The spells collided midair.

"And here we have that brother wand magic I don't quite understand."

"Priori Incantatem." Dumbledore stepped close to the memory of Voldemort as the rare magical effect took place, scrutinizing his face. Whatever conclusions he came to were not shared with Harry.

The memory had nearly run its course.

As he had explained many times, the shades of Voldemort's murders shimmered from his wand, distracting the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters long enough for Harry to summon the portkey and, dragging Cedric's body with him, return to Hogwarts.

The memory ended. Student and headmaster emerged from the pensieve and stood in companionable silence for a long moment. Burnt orange light streamed in through the window. They had spent the better part of the afternoon reliving a nightmare.

"Thank you for sharing that, Harry." Dumbledore clasped his shoulder. "Yes, thank you."

"Of course. Good evening, Headmaster," Harry said, and excused himself from the ornate study.

* * *

><p>Hermione idled outside of the Defence room, swinging her feet back and forth under a stone bench beneath a portrait of Falion the Prolific—a goblin who, in his time, sired a supposed thirteen hundred offspring—and wondered just how long detentions usually took.<p>

Having never received one, of course, she was a bit in the dark when it came to such things. No matter, she was sure Harry would be done with whatever foolish punishment Umbridge had come up with soon. She had tried to speak with him at dinner, but he had been in and out of the Great Hall within five minutes.

Next to her was _Look Homeward, Angel_ by Thomas Wolfe. Hermione had spent the last few hours bookmarking the various sections she thought pertinent to Harry's bizarre note. She had colour-coded them, naturally, in order of significance.

At quarter to nine Hermione was about to give up. What with curfew in fifteen minutes and a long hike back to Gryffindor—

The doors to the Defence room swung open with a bang and Harry Potter emerged, a look of grim death on his face. For a moment Hermione was taken aback. He looked _frightening_. All shadows and hard, emerald eyes.

Then he saw her and his expression changed in an instant—it was like magic. He smiled. "Hermione, what a pleasure."

"Hey, Harry. I knew you'd be here… Oh my, what happened to your hand?" There was a scrap of white cloth wrapped around his right hand. It was slowly turning red.

"Detention." He chuckled. "You want to talk, I guess? Let's step out into the cool air on the next level up. I'm sure it's a nice night out."

Hermione let herself be led up the nearby staircase and out onto one of the many castle balconies overlooking the grounds and the bailey courtyards far below on the seventh floor. It was a nice night. A million stars were strewn across the sky, amidst clustered interstellar darkness…

"That's a nice breeze," Harry said. He looked a touch flustered. "If you'll give me a moment."

Hermione was silent as Harry dug through his battered satchel. He removed a corked bottle of thick, yellow sludge and proceeded to rub it into his bloodied hand. Whatever it was, it stank. "Ah… that's better." He sighed with relief.

"What does that woman have you doing?" Hermione asked, her tone furious.

"Lines. Just lines. With a blood quill."

"A blood quill? That's wholly barbaric!"

"Indeed, but she has to think she's winning, remember. This," he waved his ruined hand, "is a victory for me, Hermione."

"But Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn't stand for it! He'd kick her out, if he knew. You should tell him."

Harry shook his head, placing a foot on the rampart and gazing into the night. "I believe his hands are more tied than we'd like to think. The Ministry will have his job before the year's out. That is, if they don't accept that the Dark Lord is back."

"Well, then we should do something," Hermione insisted. And then, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "Like train in secret, perhaps. All the spells we should be learning in her class. We could learn them ourselves!"

"That's a good idea. You should run with that."

"Yes." Hermione was more than a touch pleased. "Would you like to be involved?"

Harry shrugged and Hermione decided not to push the issue. He looked tired, tense…

"Was there something you wanted to see me about?" he asked.

"Hmm? Oh yes. Yes. Look at this." She offered him her copy of Thomas Wolfe's book and flicked to her most prominent blue bookmark. "That's what your strange note said, wasn't it? A stone, a leaf—"

"—an unfound door," Harry muttered, scanning the page. He cleared his throat, wincing. "Yes, yes it was. How did you find this?"

"I must have read it years ago, which is why it took me a day or two to recall exactly where I'd heard those words before. I'm usually much quicker. Do you think we could solve the riddle with this?"

Harry stumbled, swaying on the spot, but caught himself on the parapet. "Yes… I imagine the answer will be in there. Good work."

"Are you alright? You look a touch pale."

"Just the hand, most likely. I…" Harry frowned. "Thank you for this. Would you like to meet me tomorrow for lunch? We can discuss possible solutions?"

"Harry, you have a nosebleed!"

"Yes, I'm sure I do." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I believe I may have been poisoned, Miss Granger."

"What?"

He drew back the sleeve of his robes and uncovered his forearm. Hermione gasped at the network of _black_ _and bruised veins_ stretching up towards his elbow from his wrist. Something as slick as oil was moving under his skin!

"Harry!"

"If you'll excuse me…"

If Hermione was merely alarmed by the poisonous spikes working their way up Harry's arm, then she was flat-out astounded at what he did next. She watched as he stepped up onto the crenulated wall, grasped the stone drainpipe overhanging the courtyard _fifty feet_ _below,_ and clambered up onto the castle roof.

_Where was he going?_

* * *

><p>Harry could taste blood on his lips and fire in his throat. He coughed and stumbled along the roof, heading to the Vault as fast as his weak knees could carry him.<p>

His vision had blurred. The lights from the many windows around him swirled and spun like dancing stars.

_Had Umbridge done this?_ It did not seem likely. Even in his somewhat frantic and hurried state, Harry's logical mind thought it extremely doubtful that the Ministry woman would poison him during a scheduled detention. Suspicion would immediately fall upon her. No, while it was a possibility, this could have been anyone. But how? But _when?_

He made short work across the roofs. It was only because he had done it so many times before that he didn't fall to his death.

Stumbling into the Vault, Harry splashed through the curtain of magical water and slipped out of his robes and shirt as quick as he could. His satchel fell to the floor. The black veins had spread beyond his elbows, on both arms now, and across his shoulders. It was a short, sudden trip to his heart from there.

"Bother," he mumbled. It was getting harder and harder to draw a proper breath. He lurched across the circular room and into his laboratory annex. Torchlight sprang to life along the walls.

With a flick of his wand Harry unlocked his potions stores and scrambled amongst the shelves for his curative stock. He found a box of bezoars and swallowed two.

Just to be safe, he uncorked a few vials of broad-spectrum antidote he had prepared earlier for an occasion such as this. Well, not entirely such as this. He had been more concerned about accidentally poisoning himself during his experiments, but attempted murder was still a justifiable use of the expensive and rare ingredients.

_Someone will pay for this_…

The world was still spinning around his head. He was sure that his partially digested dinner was about to make a reappearance. Harry blinked and found himself back in the main room of the Vault. He was _hot_. Sirius floated indifferently to his violent shaking and bleeding across the way.

Harry took a few deep breaths.

Then he realised he _could_ take a few deep breaths, and took a few more. _Something _was working. But he felt lightheaded. Mixing remedies may have been an inspired but foolhardy venture.

"Harry…?"

Through the pain and the nausea he managed to focus on the entrance to the Vault. Hermione Granger stood there, arms wrapped about her chest, staring at him with all the apprehension of a fifteen-year-old girl happening upon a secret lair full of foreign and outlawed contraband.

Not to mention soulless, mass-murdering godfathers.

Harry began to laugh. He took a step forward, another, and then slumped to the floor.

The encroaching darkness claimed his vision and all thought faded to black.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Blimey, that's a problem and a half. Where to from here, huh? Memory charm for Miss Granger, perhaps? Is that Harry's style? And who (or what) poisoned him? Questions, questions – answers are on their merry way._

_Go check out my profile for links to my web site and original works available on Amazon!_

_Chicka-chow,_

_Joe_


	4. A Turquoise Sky

_**Disclaimer:**__ Kiss me. I am Irish._

_**A/N:**__ Damn right this is an update. Just read an enjoy—or critically review. S'up to you._

_-Joe_

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_Chapter Four – A Turquoise Sky_

Harry's eyes snapped open and he sat up with a whimper. He gazed wildly around at his surroundings until memory came crashing back down like a half bottle of firewhiskey the next morning.

Hermione Granger sat on the floor next to him in the Vault. She looked relieved. "Thank Merlin, you're awake."

"How…?" A merry band of axe-wielding goblins hacked away at his throat. "How long was I out for?"

"About ten minutes," she said. "I didn't know whether to leave you and go get help or try and levitate you down off the roof."

Visions of tumbling to an untimely death danced in his head. "You shouldn't be here." He felt terrible. Every nerve in his shoulders and arms seemed to be twitching. Sitting still was impossible. "You didn't touch anything did you?"

"No."

"Good. I'm still not sure what half of this stuff is meant to do."

"Harry, you need to go to the Hospital Wing—you nearly died!"

Harry contemplated that while rubbing some feeling back into his legs. He was still shirtless. The oily veins had disappeared from his arms. His hand was caked in blood, the jagged words _I must not tell lies_ scabbed over on his skin. "No. That's probably the worst thing I could do right now. No one can know about this. I'm fine, Hermione. Look…"

He stood up with a not inconsiderable effort and offered her his hand. Harry pulled Hermione to her feet with a grunt.

"Well, Miss Granger. I suppose I should welcome you to the Arbiter's Vault."

"What is this place?"

"Another of the castle's better kept secrets."

Harry moved to collect his shirt from near the entrance, but the few steps made his head spin. He leant against a lavish desk to catch his breath, his thoughts, and perhaps his resolve.

"Is that… Sirius Black?"

"It certainly is."

"But—"

"You've been made privy to some very important secrets all at once here, Hermione. What I need from you now is trust. Trust that there is nothing untoward happening, until I can collect myself."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, thought better of it, and bit her tongue. She nodded… and managed a tense silence for all of thirty seconds while Harry pressed his fingers to his forehead and tried not to cry.

"Harry, what _is_ this place?"

"A heartbreaking work of staggering genius."

"Do you live in here?"

"I work in here."

"Doing what?"

Harry shrugged. "Anything and everything. Magical theory, runic spellwork, incantation modification, spell creation, potion mastery, minor weather augmentation…" _Soul Entrapment_. "You know, tornadoes in a bottle. All the cool things we're not supposed to study until we leave this castle."

Hermione cast a quick eye along the shelves and the rows of old, dusty magical texts and tomes. Her eyes grew wider and wider, which told Harry she was at least passing familiar with some of the books. All of them were priceless and none of them belonged in a school for children. And yet, there they were.

"Can I borrow—?"

"No."

"But just—"

"No."

Hermione made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. "So… poisoned?"

"Yes."

She stared at him until the silence became uncomfortable. "Well? Who do you think would have done it? Why would they have done it?"

"Unfortunately, the list of suspects is long and rather powerful, if you think about it."

Hermione licked her lips. "Voldemort?"

"For one. Not his style, if I know anything about the monster, but okay. He makes the list."

"The… the person who wrote your note! The Dragonfly Queen?"

"Again, yes. Has to be considered. Professor Umbridge?"

Hermione seemed startled by the idea. "But she's from the Ministry and, however incompetent her methods, a teacher…" She frowned. "And has you carving lines into the back of your hand."

"A streak of cruelty, yes? That's three names. Let's just add 'Death Eaters' as one collective bunch. Four names. Can you think of anyone else I've been in contact with?"

"You met with…" Hermione had the good grace to blush. "Fleur Delacour this morning, didn't you?"

Harry chuckled. "Yes, but no. She wouldn't do this. I was thinking more along the lines of my fellow students. Perhaps one that I've spoken more with in the last week than in the last four years."

Hermione paused. "Me?" she asked quietly. "You think I—?"

"It has to be considered, doesn't it? And now you know one of my deep, dark secrets." Harry drew his wand and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. "I fear it's the memory charm for you, Miss Granger. No one can know about this place."

"You wouldn't!" Hermione took a step back and, as an afterthought, fumbled for her wand. "How did you even learn…?" She stopped herself, casting a jealous eye at the Vault's unique library.

"Tell me why I shouldn't?"

"Because." Hermione lowered her wand. "Because I don't think you want to, not really. You're better than memory charms." She smirked. "You're a good boy."

"Not according to the papers." Which were starting to become more than a touch annoying. Harry put his wand away. "But you're right, I suppose. Memory charms seem lazy anyway. A bit crass and unsophisticated. You seem rather certain of yourself after having known me a whole half a week."

"I'm a good judge of character. Is it true you killed a basilisk?"

"Yes."

"And repelled an army of dementors?"

"Once or twice." _But not thrice, _he thought with a dismal glance at his floating godfather.

"And duelled the Dark Lord?"

Harry took a small bow. "And lived to tell the tale. One of only a handful of wizards to ever do so. Another list of likely suspects right there, don't you think, but for entirely different crimes..."

"I won't tell anyone about this place, if you're keeping it a secret—"

"The fact that you know about it creates problems, but thank you."

"—and so long as I can have a look at some of these books."

"Oh don't be that person." Harry sighed. "Very well. But they never leave the Vault. That wall of knowledge presents a significant advantage. It would not do to have it fall into the wrong hands."

Hermione beamed and stopped herself from bouncing on the spot. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"A little beaten, but no worse for wear. I think we'll leave your marvellous discovery about my note until the morning, however. Sleep is what I need."

"Oh, okay." Hermione shuffled her feet. "I'll be going then."

Harry was grateful that she had picked up on the dismissive inflection in his words.

"But tomorrow I want to know more about all this, okay. Like why… why Sirius Black is here! The _Prophet_ said he was dead."

"Close enough."

Hermione waited for him to say more, to say anything, but he held his silence. She shrugged and walked towards him. Harry stepped aside to let her pass, but she surprised him with a quick, gentle embrace.

"I'm glad you're okay, Harry. It would have been awful if you'd died."

"I'd like to think so, yes."

Hermione smiled—it seemed a touch sad. "Your life is chaos, isn't it? Always like this, all the time. And to think I thought you'd want to join our defence club…"

"I know. It's a little fucked up, if I can use a teenager's vernacular. And why not? We're young and stupid and there's no one else here. It has always been chaos for me, Miss Granger. Dark, swirling chaos. There's very little time for friends or school clubs in there."

"Well, now you're just playing to the drama, aren't you?"

"What would you do if a seemingly immortal madman with infernal dark powers blamed you for his downfall?"

"I… well, I don't know."

"No you don't, and that's a good thing. Gives you time for friends or school clubs. Weekends in Hogsmeade." Harry shook his head. "You've long overstayed your welcome, Hermione. Time to go."

"Yes. Can you show me the way? It's rather dark out."

Harry nodded. "At least it's not sunset."

"What?"

"Just trust me. Don't ever come to this place without me."

Harry walked Hermione back across the roofs and lowered her down onto the seventh floor balcony, overlooking the bailey courtyards. No one saw them, no one ever did. They could have been the only two people in the whole school.

"Goodnight, Harry."

She disappeared into the castle and Harry returned to the Vault.

When he was home, he took a seat next to Sirius and held his head in his hands for a long minute. There was still the blue potion to set on the boil. As it was, this day's delay with Dumbledore and the poisoning would make meeting the next deadline difficult.

"But not impossible, Sirius. So, who do you think tried to kill me this time?" Harry cast a few diagnostic spells on the charms that were keeping his godfather's soulless body alive and healthy. "Poison's not Voldemort's style, is it? Think I should tell my father? Yeah, me neither."

Harry summoned his satchel from across the room and retrieved one of his personal vials of sapphire tonic. He tossed the elixir back fast and hard. It hit him instantly. Every tired nerve in his body flared to life. His eyes widened and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

"To the dark, swirling chaos, ladies and gentlemen." He tossed the vial against the stone floor. The tinkling sound of shattering glass was enjoyable.

* * *

><p>"She said my job wasn't exciting enough. That I should try and make Auror. I dunno. When you can't pick up a girl in Knockturn Alley on a Friday night I think that's a pretty golden sign it's time for a change."<p>

"You want into the next intake I can put in a word with Kingsley Shacklebolt. He handles recruitment."

Alvin shrugged. "No offense, Jimmy, but aren't you kind of an outcast these days?"

"Offense taken, you Welsh bastard."

"From your mouth to my chapped ass, Potter."

The _Irene Maersk _was anchored a quarter mile offshore in the Strait—in the deep dark frenzied waters. From their vantage point atop of the vast limestone cliffs of Dover, James Potter watched the Muggle vessel as the crew disembarked into fast, noisy watercraft. He had an old Cleansweep slung over his shoulder and a menthol cigarette dangling from his lip.

"That should be about it. She's ours for the next few hours. Word from Fletcher is the contraband is below deck. We'll have to do a check for any residual enchantments."

James and Alvin mounted their brooms and kicked off from the lush green grass. They dove down toward the sea, skimming along the choppy waters. Salty spray speckled the lenses of James's glasses.

The two men came in low on the cargo ship, swerving between her ten thick anchor chains. Alvin followed James's lead, veering up and around the hull and over the navigation bridge. They alighted on the weather deck amidst solid towers of shipping containers.

"You tired of these inspections yet?" Alvin asked. "Pretty dull work for the man who swept up ninety percent of the Death Eaters in Azkaban, isn't it?"

James shrugged. They left their brooms leaning against the upper deck. No need for them down below.

"The way old Mad Eye tells it is you were the best he ever taught. Even he learnt to get out of your way, boss, when it came to You-Know-Who's followers. S'why I want to be an Auror. Do some good like that. Especially if… if he's back from the dead."

"Voldemort," James said, opening up the galley doors and stepping into the virtual darkness. He cast a quick, wordless _lumos_ and moved down the metal corridor toward the stern. "Use the name, Al. It won't bite."

"Right. Yeah, sure."

The schematic on these merchant ships never varied much. James found the stairwell to the lower deck, through the crew quarters, and made quick work of reaching the cargo hold. He and Alvin stood in a large space dominated by steel containers. The uncertain weather had forced the crew to extend the hatch cover. Apart from dull electric globes and James's wand, there was next to no light.

"You take the left side, I've got the right." He rubbed the rough stubble coating his cheeks. "Hmm."

"What is it?"

"Probably nothing," James said. "Likely nothing. Something seems a bit off, is all. Constant vigilance, that's Alastor Moody's first lesson, Al. Wand out, okay."

James ambled away down the length of _Irene Maersk_ with his wand held aloft for illumination. The shipping crates and containers stacked thirty feet high all looked the same in the dull light. He could taste sea air and motor oil.

If truth be told, he was tired of all this. Of Dover and the apprehension of illegal contraband. It was dull. There was nothing satisfying about intercepting a crate of dodgy broomsticks or half-assed love potions. He was an Auror, damn it, and a good one at that.

Although never one to brag. A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. Lily, sweet Lily, had beaten all the bravado and bluster out of him a long time ago. Still, it wasn't a stretch to say he was one of the best spellslingers the Aurors had seen in the closing months of the Dark War—and the years that followed, rounding up the scum.

Those had been good days. _Productive_ days. After burying Lily he had thrown himself into the work. For the simple reasons that only the guilty could ever understand. Vengeance, justice, a desire to harm. Now though, now…

If Albus and Harry were to be believed, then the good gods of magic had granted him a second chance. Not for lofty vengeance but personal revenge.

_And I owe the dead that much_, he thought, navigating the grid-like maze of crates and containers.

He turned down one of the farthest rows and came to a stop. He licked his lips—there was a tang on the air, like copper. Or blood under the tongue.

Magic.

He ran his hand along the nearest container. A red, somewhat rusted, strongbox about twenty feet long. It was warm to the touch. _Bingo._ Lingering enchantments, most likely Muggle repelling charms. He walked around the crate, casting the usual set of detection charms, when he saw the symbol.

James took a moment to absorb just what he was seeing. The mark burnt into the side of the container was familiar, that was for damn sure. He couldn't fathom the meaning behind it, but—

"Boss?" came a voice from the next row over. "All clear this side, Jimmy!"

Alvin.

Shit.

Acting on pure instinct alone, James cast a quick burst of superhot flame and obliterated the markings. He dispelled the smoke and moved around to the front of the consignment.

"Over here, Al! I think I've found what we're looking for."

Alvin came jogging around the crates, wand aloft. "Good stuff. Well, let's have a look at the damage. I'm betting Firebolt knockoffs."

"A galleon says its not."

"You're on."

Alvin unlocked the massive bolts, snipping the padlocks with a cutting charm. The doors of the container slid open on squeaky, rusted hinges. Piles of brooms spilled out onto the floor, clattering loudly against the silence in the cargo hold.

"Ha!" Alvin punched the air. "You owe me a shiny gal—"

The broomsticks _growled_.

James grabbed Alvin and pulled him back out of the doorway as two crimson pinpricks of light blinked to life in the depths of the container.

"Wh—?"

Wood splintered underfoot as a _leopard_ the size of a minivan lumbered out of the darkness, screeching loud enough to wake the dead. It came out at speed, slamming into the crates opposite its cage. It looked disorientated and unsteady on its massive paws… like it had been drugged.

A cloud of hazy green fog fell from its jaws, seething between razor-sharp teeth.

"Sweet Merlin," Alvin gasped. "That's a fucking nundu!"

"Just a baby one," James said, thinking fast. _As if that makes a difference_. He cast two quick bubble-head charms, one for him and one for Al. "It looks mighty pissed to me."

The nundu had dented the bottom container on a stack of four. The crate buckled, crumpling as if it were cardboard. Thirty feet of steel freight began to topple.

James hadn't stopped to admire the unfolding pandemonium. He grabbed two of the dodgy Firebolts and threw one at Al, who stood there as pale as a ghost, wand hanging uselessly at his side.

"Up!" He made it a command, forcing the authority into his voice. Alvin blinked and complied with all the speed impending death could muster.

The two men took to the air as the nundu's tail whipped into the space below them. The creature roared, eyeing them, and stood up on its hind paws.

It _leapt_.

A claw scraped across James's boot and then a white-hot line of fire burned his foot.

He wondered idly if he'd just lost an appendage, but the majority of his concentration was focused on rising _up_. _Higher_. The nundu hit the floor below them and several tonnes of shipping container collapsed on top of it.

James and Alvin avoided the falling debris, flying sure and fast between the toppling crates. The shriek of metal on metal was near deafening.

The sound below all that was worse. The nundu was still roaring. The clash of claws on steel was like nails on a chalkboard. It was _fighting_ its way out of the fallen maze of containers.

James fled and Alvin followed. They flew swiftly but surely back up the stairwell and through the corridors into the crew quarters. It was slow going for two minutes in the galley, but the sight of daylight spurred them on.

They burst out above deck and took to the sky, dispelling the bubble-head charms. From above, the ship looked relatively peaceful bobbing on the surface of the sea. From above, there was no sign of the monster held within its belly. James glanced at his foot. His boot had been torn clean away and his sock was stained a cherry red. He glimpsed bone.

"Wait here."

James didn't hang around to see if he was obeyed. He flew low, fast—although not as fast as on a genuine Firebolt—and brandished his wand. His booted foot and his broken foot dangled in the freezing waters of the Channel.

_Can't have it getting out and swimming to shore. No, siree, that just won't do._

He summoned a beam of intense liquid fire—a laser of pure searing energy—and directed its ire at the ship's broad hull. Not stopping to really think about what he was doing, his spelled flame ate through the plating. Thick globules of melted steel ran in rivulets into the water, sizzling and burning.

James tore through the ship's hull like a knife through warm butter.

He flew alongside the ship at speed, wand ablaze, and dug a deep trough, exposing the innards not to daylight but to inky, wet blackness. It was thicker at the stern, but he managed. A rash of white heat blisters peppered his wand arm.

The ship began to groan and list starboard as the English Channel poured into it. He must have ignited something combustible, because muffled explosions resounded from the interior. She was _screaming_.

James flew out and up away from his handiwork as the force pressing against the broken hull became too much. The vessel tore herself apart.

"Who the fuck thought they could import that beast?" Alvin said. He clung to his broom tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

James grunted as the sea claimed the _Irene Maersk_ and the deadly cargo within. The waters churned and foamed as it absorbed the vast freight ship. Dozens of containers bobbed amidst the maelstrom, clanging against one another in the swash. _Who indeed?_

His hand and foot needed healing, but he waited first ten minutes, then twenty. Long enough to be sure that the beast had drowned. When the half hour was up, James nodded and he and Alvin flew back to shore. He kept his face calm, neutral, masking the concern he felt.

Not for his injuries. Or even for the illegal importation of one of the deadliest creatures on the planet.

No, it wasn't so much the nundu that worried him, but the crude, glowing lightning-bolt shaped scar that had been carved into the side of the creature's cage.

* * *

><p>For the first time in memory, Hermione found it difficult to concentrate on her Transfiguration lesson. Her foot tapped against the stone floor under the desk and she bit at her nails. Her parchment was a mess of scribbles and doodles.<p>

Professor McGonagall was discussing the preparatory theory of _Inanimatus Conjurus_, the conjuring of inanimate objects. It was essentially seventh year practical course work, but a good grasp of the theory was part of the O.W.L. assessments in June, which would roll around all too soon.

_I bet Harry's library has books on how to actually do the spells_, she thought. That would ensure an exemplary grade, if not with flying colours.

Hermione sighed with frustration. Harry Potter had been conspicuously absent from breakfast that morning. She had been slightly concerned, given the previous evenings poisoning, but he had been on the mend when she left his so-called Vault. Laughing and joking even.

_I hope he's okay._

To go running to the professors now, with stories of Harry lying unconscious or worse in a secret room on the roofs, full of restricted tomes and wanted felons, would quash any and all hope of ever reading those texts. Outside of becoming an Unspeakable, of course.

Hermione had promised her silence.

Hermione had kept her silence.

Still, she would be tapping her foot nervously against the floor until she saw Harry saunter into the Great Hall for lunch, with that scruffy old green satchel slung over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Harry awoke on the cool, damp floor of his lab in a pool of his own vomit.<p>

He rolled over, groaned, and wondered just how long he had been lying unconscious. His wristwatch told him it was _11:58_, but was that immediately before noon or midnight? The Vault was windowless; he had no way of knowing.

With a weighty sigh he made it onto his shaking knees. His legs didn't want to support him, but he was having none of that. A heavy scent of ammonia and alcohol clung to the air.

His cauldrons had been on the boil for far too long.

"Bother…" he muttered. It had been the mix of all the antidotes, not to mention the bezoars, that had knocked him out. Sure, they had saved his life, but the side effects… He was glad Hermione had left when she did. If he had passed out again, his secret lair most likely would not have remained so secret.

Eight of the twelve platinum cauldrons bubbling away on the smooth benches were salvageable. Not a complete loss then. Still, the ingredients that had been wasted in the four ruined potions weren't cheap.

Harry estimated a total loss of just under a thousand galleons.

And it made meeting the next deadline even more unlikely. He had been planning on visiting the Floating Markets this coming weekend, five days from now, but that wouldn't be possible—not if he had any hope of brewing enough of the blue potion before Gus came knocking.

_I'll have to go at night, after dinner…_

"Portkey. I'll need a portkey." He couldn't fly to France and back without being missed.

Harry yawned—his head spun. A gnawing hunger and fatigue clung to his weary body. He cleaned himself—and the floor—up and set about tracking down something to eat. _Sweet Merlin let it be daylight outside_.

After checking on Sirius, Harry decided to forego a shower in the living area up the spiral stairs, in favour of sustenance. He snatched up his satchel, headed through the curtain of magical mist, and out into a bright summer-nee-autumn day.

The fresh air was bracing. After a moment of hesitation, he reached into his bag and uncorked a vial of the blue potion. Perhaps it was foolish to take another tonic so soon after his almost-lethal cocktail last night, but most of that had ended up on the floor, so… He tossed it back and felt a rush of invigorating energy.

The hunger pangs faded and his teeth chattered together. Every sharp angle of the castle came into startling focus. A thousand glittering beams of sunlight refracted against the distant lake in a spectrum of vibrant colour. The snow-capped mountains seemed to be aglow with vast, might halos.

Despite all that, Harry's legs still shook as he set off across the roofs. As he traversed the peaks and crags, his thoughts turned to the attack on his life.

_The games is afoot_, he thought. But that didn't mean he had to play by the rules his unseen adversaries had set.

He had been reacting so far. Allowing these things to happen while doing very little to offset similar events in the future. That needed to change. He was better than this, smarter.

So far his shadowed enemy—or enemies—had successfully poisoned him and forced his hand last night in regard to Hermione. That was as much ground as Harry was willing to give.

It would have been the simplest move in the game to have obliviated Hermione Granger. To wipe her memory of the Vault, Sirius, and the poisoning clean away. Simple, and also smart—logical. Traits Harry prided himself on. And yet…

He had no right.

Not now and not ever. Better a cell in Azkaban than to get away with a spell that amounted to theft at the very least, and mind-rape at the very worst. Perhaps that was weak, _il_logical, and may ultimately prove disastrous, but Hermione had done nothing to deserve it. Trust had to be earned, Harry knew that. As he saw it now, with both the Vault and Sirius known to another person, she had the perfect opportunity to prove his faith well granted.

And that was a good feeling. It reminded Harry of the afternoons spent with Cedric and Fleur, practicing their spellwork. He missed those days.

If the Hufflepuff and Beauxbatons champions had been his first two friends, then perhaps Hermione could be his third.

"Steady now…" he whispered, lowering himself down off the roofs and onto the seventh floor balcony. Never had the Great Hall and the marvellous banquets of food seemed so far away.

* * *

><p><em>The game's afoot,<em> James thought. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, Auror robes neatly pressed, staring into a gently crackling blue-flamed fireplace in Rufus Scrimegeour's office.

He favoured his good foot, although the healers had done a fantastic job setting his compound fracture and soothing his burns. Only a slight limp gave away that he had been injured at all.

The Head of the Auror Department cleared his throat. "Any idea who thought they could import the beast?"

James's mind flashed over the glowing lightning bolt carved into the shipping container. "No, sir."

"Any idea _how_ they got it in the crate and managed to get it this far without raising any alarms?"

"No, sir."

"And you're sure it drowned?" Scrimegeour asked, sitting alongside the fire in a high-backed leather chair.

"Yes, sir."

Scrimgeour considered that, warming a small glass of firewhiskey between his hands. It was after hours, deep beneath the streets of London. Long shadows stretched out either side of the fireplace—an encroaching darkness clawed at the two men.

"I want you back in the Ministry, Potter. You're being assigned to lead a new task force. There's some nasty unregistered potion doing the rounds. We need you to expose the distribution network and bring in whoever's brewing it."

"Sir? Isn't that more MLE's thing?"

Scrimgeour shrugged and finished his drink. "Take this as your chance to get back in the Ministry's good graces, James. Whatever game Dumbledore and your boy are playing, be it true or not, shouldn't hamstring one of my best. Fudge can swallow a quaffle if he thinks he can micromanage _my _department."

James scratched at the rough stubble on his cheeks. He would not miss the monotony of Dover, that much was true. Apart from recent business, working there had been about as thrilling as listening to old Cuthbert Binns. "Alright. Can I have Shacklebolt?"

Scrimgeour chuckled. "I think he'll insist. This isn't a priority job. But it needs to stop. So far, in small doses, the Crystal Blue, as they're calling it, is harmless. Addictive, but relatively harmless. It increases stamina and higher functioning abilities. But it's something we've never seen before."

"In larger doses?"

"Vivid hallucinations, euphoria, elation, rapture. It's a narcotic, Potter. Half dozen cases of permanent brain damage in St. Mungo's in the last three months. And now three in the last week alone. Common link is this potion. Whoever's behind this is stepping up their game, wider and smarter distribution. The _Prophet's_ running with an exclusive on the dangers tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Scrimgeour nodded, settling the matter. "So tell me, how's Audrey?"

James stared at his boss for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "Keep a secret, sir?"

Scrimgeour seemed to hesitate just a moment before barking a gruff, 'Of course."

"Audrey's pregnant."

"Ah!" He stood and offered James his hand. "Congratulations."

"Three months. She's starting to show, so it won't be a secret much longer, but we haven't told Harry yet…"

"Mum's the word. My best to the both of you." Scrimgeour returned to his chair. "I think we're done for the evening. Go home, James. I'll want a preliminary report tomorrow afternoon—take Shacklebolt, two others—and put a stop to this potion nonsense."

"Sir." James saw himself out.

After he was gone, Scrimgeour poured himself another drop of whiskey. He watched the crackling flames for a moment, thinking about all the loose threads dangling on some unseen tapestry—the disappearances, the promotion of a few suspect faces close to Fudge—and his thoughts turned, with wearied apprehension, to Albus Dumbledore.

"Did you catch all that?"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts stepped out of the long shadows aside the fireplace, a silky invisibility cloak clasped in his frail old hands.

"Of course you did. James Potter is the perfect mix of brute force, intelligence, and keen detective skills. He'll have whoever the supplier is before Christmas, guaranteed."

"That is not as important, Rufus, as having our allies back in the Ministry." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "You see the pattern now, do you not? We cannot afford a repeat of Voldemort's first rise."

"I'd ask if you knew what you're doing, but I know better than that." Scrimgeour raised his glass. "It's the boy that worries me. Young Harry. From what little I understand of your machinations, Headmaster, you're going to ask far too much of the Potter family."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>__Man, just what in the hell is going on in this story? I wish I knew. Make it easier to write. Okay, thanks, as always, for reading. Check out my Amazon profile for links to my original fiction!_

_Tomorrow, January 30__th__, all my stories will be FREE for Kindle. I'd appreciate a review if you have five minutes, though._

_Y'all come back now,_

_J-Dawg_


	5. Bad Girls, Honey

**_Disclaimer: _**_Not mine, save in concept._

_**_**A/N:**_**_I know I've been away for a few months – with good reason! My original novel went live next month! Check out my profile for links, or Google: _**Distant Star by Joe Ducie**  
><em>

_Or, you know, make me sad and don't. Either way, enjoy this awesome chapter!_

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_**Chapter 5 – Bad Girls, Honey**_

On Wednesday morning, three days after his diabolical poisoning, Harry sat alone at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall, sifting through his stack of owl post. He had made next to no progress on uncovering not only who but _how_ he had been poisoned.

It was on his to-do list, close to the top, right after a piece of cinnamon toast and a cup of tea.

The correspondence was mostly junk, a few letters—those denouncing his claim that Voldemort had been reborn—even carried subtle, annoying hexes. Yet a gem or two hid amidst the drudge.

He put his copy of the _Prophet_ aside for now, anticipating the worst there, and broke the seal on a fancy envelope bearing the Beauxbatons Coat of Arms: two golden wands crossed over one another, each shooting three stars.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Thank you for you letter dated August 17__th__ regarding my theories  
>relating to the invocation and application of Eldren runic warding.<em>

_This is a branch of magic I teach exclusively to post-graduate students  
>at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. I understand you are in your<br>fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Should  
>you conclude your seventh year of education with an Outstanding<br>result in Ancient Runes (or an equivalent field) please contact me  
>for an interview of admission.<em>

_However, on a personal note regarding the heart of your enquiry, I find  
>it unlikely that Eldren Law would be applicable in the context of<br>dark magic and the unique, unstudied situation concerning your  
>remarkable survival of the Killing Curse. Fourteen years ago that<br>was the subject of much discussion in the academic world. I am  
>sorry to say that very little progress was made on the matter.<em>

_Kind regards,_

_James Farrington_

"Well that's about as useful as a broken condom in a whorehouse," Harry muttered, quoting his father. Was this one of the rare occasions where the scatterings of knowledge in the Vault, which had only hinted at the ancient brand of magic known as Eldren Law, was flawed?

Harry filed the correspondence away in his satchel with a small reminder on his to-do list concerning a brief, polite reply. The rest of his post that morning was nothing of consequence. Letters of support, of admiration. Letters of vilification, of outright hate. The latter seemed to always outnumber the former.

As he spread a healthy dollop of peanut butter on a toasted roll, he wondered if the Ministry were screening his incoming mail. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility. More than likely, in fact, given Dolores Umbridge's animosity and cunning hostility. There was never anything untoward delivered via owl post. Harry was smarter than that. No, the large amounts of hate mail—a lot of it badly written and poorly worded—were most likely sent out of fear.

No one wanted to believe Voldemort had returned. As it stood, the only evidence to the contrary was the word of a schoolboy and a doddering old man (as the papers were claiming) well past his prime—thrown against the weight of the government. Harry glanced up at the head table, gestured a good morning to Dumbledore, and returned to his breakfast.

With a wearied kind of resignation, he turned his attention to the _Prophet_.

A muffin floated into his nose.

Harry plucked it out of the air and took a bite. It had been spread with some mixed, mingled concoction of marmalade and what may have been hazelnut paste. It was delicious, and he ate the whole thing.

The next muffin that meandered down the table in slow loops and into his hand was spread with a fluffy whipped cream and topped with an egg and fried tomato. Harry took a bite. It wasn't to his liking. He'd never had a fondness for the tomato. That muffin he sent back.

A third muffin topped with a slice of bacon and chocolate sauce spun in lazy circles around his head until he snatched it. As unhealthy as it was, Harry had to admit bacon and chocolate went well together. He devoured the gooey, crispy concoction.

The _Prophet_ was a depressing read. Nothing directly slandering him today, or even Dumbledore, but there was a section on how strong and solidified the Ministry had become under Cornelius Fudge. _That_ was so much bullshit.

It was like watching a kid play with matches. Sure, you can tell him that fire burns, but he doesn't really understand until the flame licks his skin. Unfortunately that kid was a many-headed snake, powerful and self-serving.

The beginnings of a plan regarding the _Prophet_ had been stirring in Harry's mind for a week or so now. It would require stepping into the limelight, somewhat, but then that was happening with or without his approval. The initial outlay of the venture would be somewhere in the region of ten thousand galleons... perhaps more.

And he would need an ally or two.

Harry glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Hermione Granger wasn't about.

A copy of the _Quibbler_ landed in the bowl of peanut butter in front of Harry. He snorted, retrieved the magazine, and tore a corner off with his teeth, swallowing the papery-peanut mess whole.

Luna Lovegood exploded with laughter a quarter way down the table, startling the general quiet of the Great Hall into early morning alertness.

That made Harry smile.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, after classes but before dinner, Harry sat in his lab compiling a shopping list on a scrap of old parchment. He wrote with a simple ballpoint pen, as time was of the essence.<p>

Harry ran a quick estimated tally on his planned purchases.

So far, he'd spent all of the galleons earned during the last delivery—and a fair chunk of his saved funds. It was a costly business, potion brewing. But most of the insanely expensive items would be a one-off cost in order to step up production.

"Okay... what else?"

To the list he added:

_A dozen platinum cauldrons ~2,400 galleons_

_Diamond dust, in essence of dragon's blood ~ 45 galleons an ounce_

If he bought the ingredients in bulk now—those readily available—it would allow for about a year's worth of brewing. The steady fortnightly profit from this preliminary expenditure would soon eclipse the cost and could be funnelled into other avenues. Such as his research endeavours.

Such as dealing with the _Prophet_.

_The paper is just a symptom, Harry_, whispered the logical, intelligent voice in the back of his mind. _Your real enemy is the Ministry, and Voldemort above all._ True enough, but an attack on the _Prophet_ could undermine the Ministry's propaganda machine and increase the lax pressure on the Dark Lord.

Three birds—one stone.

Harry tapped his pen thoughtfully against the parchment and allowed himself five minutes to think it all through.

It all came down to power. To _understanding_ power.

Who had the power?

Who wanted it?

Where could it be directed?

The Ministry, Cornelius Fudge, wasn't the be all and end all of power in the wizarding world. Indeed, his government was only a fraction of the whole system. The real power, the majority of influence, rested in the hands of those that owned the society.

The goblins and their banking system.

Wizards such as Dumbledore, who commanded great supremacy over magic.

The Lucius Malfoys of the world—those with money and intelligence enough to use it for and against authority.

Unfortunately for Harry, a majority of those people were also Death Eaters. The deck was stacked well and truly in Voldemort's favour, and the Ministry didn't even know it was being played.

Not yet, and if someone didn't act, then Harry envisioned a not-too-distant future where the Ministry _was_ the Death Eaters.

Harry thought back over the various headlines and stories in the _Prophet_ over the last few weeks. With increasing interest, he was being discredited and attacked. But it was worse than that, really. He was being targeted to the exclusion of all else. Sure, there was debate back and forth over whether he was unhinged or not—there had to be.

But the ugly truth of the Ministry's propaganda system wasn't hidden in the disgusting and blatant opportunistic print. That framework was obvious, but only because the debate was presented within that carefully established and negatively geared agenda.

It was almost beautifully done, actually. A few subtle masterstrokes in the media, and the flawed 'discourse' over Harry and Dumbledore's wild claims only enhanced the strength of the assumptions being put forward by the _Prophet_. Basically, that he was an attention-seeking knob.

_Well to remember that the Ministry isn't full of idiots_, Harry thought. Not by a long shot.

So the solution was simple, really. If the state propaganda was as delicate and complete as it seemed, then one had to expand the framework. Short of forcing Voldemort to appear in the heart of the Ministry, there were ways that could be done. Ways to turn their own weapon against them.

A slow, careful chuckle escaped Harry as he thought of the look on Dolores Umbridge's face once his plans came into effect.

There was a greater game at play here than simple revenge against the woman but, by Merlin, that was still ample motivation.

Harry cut his thoughts off there. He had fallen from logical preparation into personal gain. There could be no further fruitful planning at this stage, and time was _still_ of the essence.

He returned to his list, marking off his purchases against his available funds, and turned his deliberation towards travel plans. The Floating Markets, where he would make the majority of his purchases, were located in the south of France.

Digging through his satchel, Harry consulted a list of portkeys he had readily available. Near the end of his third year he had begun to study and practice portkey magic, when it became clear that owl post and stealing from Snape's stores just wasn't going to cut it.

Of his available portkeys, none got him within fifty miles of _Lac de Saint-Cassien_ and the markets. He had one keyed to Beauxbatons, which was just two miles away, but that had expired a month ago. Portkeys were not shelf stable.

"Well, nothing for it..." he muttered.

Harry dropped his pen and pulled out his wand. If he skipped dinner, he could be in and out of the markets before midnight.

* * *

><p>It was fast becoming a disappointing practice looking for Harry Potter in the Great Hall at meal times.<p>

_The one time you would think he'd be here_, Hermione thought, tapping her foot against the cool stones under the Gryffindor table.

She had gotten here nice and early, as well, and watched the rest of the school file in and the sun set overhead in the enchanted ceiling.

She knew he was well and healthy after his poisoning scare—she had seen him in defence class, but Umbridge's strict no-nonsense teaching methods had prevented even the exchange of a quick note.

Hermione wanted back in the Vault.

She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.

It was one thing to think there was magic she hadn't even considered outside of the Hogwarts curriculum. It was quite another thing to _know_ that magic was within reach. The boost to her OWL results alone…

Hermione swirled some peas into her mashed potatoes and glared at the empty, far end of the Ravenclaw table.

Where in the world was Harry Potter?

* * *

><p>"You ready, Jim?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asked, alone save for his partner after hours in the Auror offices below London.<p>

James slid his wand into his wrist holster and shrugged on a non-Auror issue leather jacket. He and Kingsley were operating outside of established jurisdiction tonight.

"You _floo_ed Audrey to let her know you're working late?"

James nodded. "She's not happy I'm back in Enforcements, but what can you do?"

"Better than Dover, yes?"

"Yes, yes." James zipped up his jacket and ran a hand back through his scruffy hair. "There, do I look like an Auror?"

"No more than I do." Kingsley shrugged and doffed a tartan deerstalker. "Portkey in five."

* * *

><p>Harry spun out of the void on the shores of <em>Lac de Saint-Cassien<em> under a fading azure sky riding the edge of twilight, just a handful of miles from the Beauxbatons manor house. He was several hundred miles from the Great Hall and the magnificent house-elf feast back at Hogwarts.

He stuffed his impromptu bottle cap portkey, good for one return trip, into his pocket.

Rolling green hills meandered up and down over the French countryside, spotted with wildflowers and rows of neat lavender. The famed fields of Provence were only a proverbial stone's throw away. Clear water lapped at a sandy shoreline for a good few miles in either direction.

Not one to stop and admire the view, Harry trekked along the water's edge with his satchel slung over one shoulder. He wore a simple black cloak with an enchanted shadow-hood.

As he rounded a curve in the pebbled shore, an old rundown boathouse came into view and Harry lifted the hood to cover his head. His face disappeared into inky blackness, which would serve to protect his identity.

A steady stream of people, wizardly folk garbed in colourful robes, were shuffling in and out of the ramshackle boathouse. Harry fell into line with the inwards crowd and did his best to blend in with the masses. His face found its way into the _Prophet_ every damn day – and if he was recognised it could only spell trouble.

Crossing into the boathouse, he felt the subtle tingle associated with passing a ward line—or a series of ward lines. Muggle repelling charms, at the very least, and some minor restrictive wards.

Inside the boathouse a set of old stone stairs, worn and wet, descended between the gentle, lapping waters. Thrust up on either side of those stairs, holding the water at bay, curved a sheet of strange, crystal-clear glass. Unblemished and unmarked, that glass had been forged several thousand years ago and was, through all methods known to man, indestructible.

Harry trailed his hand along the elderglass as he made his way down the well-lit steps and under the surface of the lake. The glass structure followed him down, and dark lake water formed the walls of his descent. He felt like a fish in a bowl—one of many.

"Masterful…" Harry muttered. The glass was warm under his fingers, even in the cold dark water.

Elderglass was always warm.

Dozens of similar structures were scattered across the world (and probably a damn sight more nobody had discovered yet) and their construction was as confusing as their origins.

According to the knowledge in his Vault, as well as the opinion of several high-profile academics, elderglass was constructed by a race of wizards several thousand years ago known as the Eldren. A nation of powerful sorcerers who could accomplish feats of astounding magic that made the silly wand waving done today look just that—silly.

But that was just an informed theory—an informed theory, based on slim facts—but Harry guessed the real picture might have looked a lot… bigger, and he would have given a lot to know the truth behind the glass.

The stairs disappeared below the water for about a hundred feet, heading toward the heart of the lake. At the bottom, amidst the noise of commerce and the scent of frying street meat, Harry saw an amazing thing.

An entire city—what was left of it, at the very least—made of elderglass.

He stopped to admire the view, cast in an eerie green light from the waters of the lake pressing in on the fishbowl from all sides. The glass beneath his feet was razor thin, and black water was all he could see, but indestructible. It was humbling to think that all that separated him from an unfathomable amount of water was a bubble of fine glass wrought by unknown means.

Buildings constructed of the strange glass were stacked high and low, through narrow alleyways and wide streets. Beneath the _Lac de Saint-Cassien_ were miles of warm glass, a city founded millennia ago, and abandoned some two thousand years later.

Modern wizards—well, those around when the pyramids were under construction—had claimed the nameless, abandoned city as a place of strength and refuge, and across the centuries it had become a centre of commerce and trade.

The Floating Markets—miles of underwater glass suspended in the heart of a lake.

Having been here a few times before, Harry did not stop to admire the view for long. He set off in the direction of the apothecary district, his list of ingredients in hand and a substantial purse lightened and concealed in the folds of his robes.

With any luck, he'd be in and out in less than an hour and back at Hogwarts before half-eight and his detention with Umbridge.

Over the centuries, wizards and witches had altered the elderglass as best they could. No spell or tool could damage the glass, but folk had attached wooden boards and cloth hangings, and covered several of the buildings with bright paint and torches.

Harry strolled down a busy alleyway, heading downhill, and stepped out between neat rows of buildings on the edge of a boardwalk built above the elderglass base of the markets.

His boots clunked against the faded wooden planks. His first port of call that evening was a tavern on the edge of the boardwalk, constructed over a man-made lake on the far side of the district.

Away to his left, dark waters lapped gently at the wooden beams supporting the boardwalk. He was walking over a lake within a glass bubble within a lake. _Amazing_, he thought.

Amazing it may have been, but the waters didn't look too inviting. A thousand years or more of waste and refuse had turned the inner lake foul. It stank of rot and ugly, purple foam clung to its surface.

The apothecary district was an enormous plethora of various sights, sounds, and smells. Some wonderful, some not so much. Barrels of potion ingredients sat out the front of a dozen different shops. Dried or fresh meats hung from hooks over crooked, warped signs. The air was alternately fresh with scents of wildflowers and clogged with smoke.

"Fresh eye of newt!" a scraggly old witch called from the shadows. "As fresh as it gets, my dears!"

"Dementor's Bane, my friends. Perfect for those calming potions!"

Harry embraced all of it. He revelled in the throngs of people, the mix of old and new, in this old, alien city below the lake.

He had first come here with his father some years ago, just before starting Hogwarts. Already possessed of a keen mind, Harry had begged and pleaded to visit Loyal's Library—a bookshop on the other side of the Floating Markets that contained over one hundred miles of shelves, all fit to burst with magical texts.

Since then, Harry had taken any and all opportunity to visit these markets. In his third year, after he started developing his potion and had gained access to faster, swifter means of travel, he had come back here in earnest.

And discovered that one could buy almost anything, if one had the resolve and, more importantly, the galleons.

A three-storey wooden tavern, leaning forlornly to the side and lit with all manner of rich, colourful lights, extended out along a dock running adjacent to the boardwalk. Scatterings of dilapidated rowboats were tied against the dock, which in turn was covered in loose nets and sodden crates that probably hadn't been used in half a century.

A steady clientele made their way in and out of the tavern. Harry adjusted his satchel under his robes, made sure his face was still covered, and let himself into the Whale & Ale.

The air was hot and stank of stale beer, greasy food, and a heavy mix of all the nearby apothecaries. Again, Harry breathed it all in like he was coming home.

The tavern was busy, full of laughter and music. Old tables and chairs were scattered in no discernable order. Smoky, luminescent fog clung to the floor, and tiny magical sprites—creatures of fug with glowing yellow eyes—darted between legs and under chairs. The mice of the magical world.

Harry forced his way to the bar and sat on an empty stool, second from the left corner, as he had been instructed by Gus some years ago, when he first started selling his potion, and waited patiently for one of the bartenders to notice him.

After a time, a man appeared from between the bars and the kitchen. He was old, bald, and a vicious scar cut his face in half. One of his eyes was missing. He smiled into the darkness of Harry's hood, revealing rows of yellowed and gnarled teeth.

"What'll it be?" he asked.

Harry cleared his throat. He had to get this next bit just right, or the whole trip would be wasted. "I'll take a dragon steak with mallowsweet sauce and a pint of Brooklyn Brown ale."

"Mash and winter veg?"

"Chips and salad. Hold the rind and make it bleed."

The barkeep nodded and poured a pint from a wooden cask connected to a bridge of taps. He placed a coaster from his pocket on the bar in front of Harry and sloshed the pint on top of it. "That'll be the usual price, lad."

Harry reached into the folds of his robes. He handed the barman three thousand galleons exactly, magically light and shrunk in an expanded coin purse. The barman made it disappear with a sharp nod and walked away.

Harry sat a moment longer. He took a sip of the brown ale, found it delicious, and took another sip. He stood, pocketed the coaster underneath his pint, and headed back through the bar, his business concluded.

He made for the exit, through the sprite-clouds again between the tables, and soon found himself out in the cool air once more alongside the dock and the dark lake.

"Good work, Harry," he whispered. Now that that bit of underhanded business was out of the way, he could see about some of his more legitimate purchases. Cauldrons and burners and the like. He was making good time.

Walking back along the boardwalk, he removed the coaster from his pocket and snapped a seal on its underside. The coaster unfurled into a square piece of parchment, six inches by nine. Ink swirled across the page, and the number _7856_ appeared in the top right hand corner.

Harry knew that the barman would be counting the galleons in the purse right now, and would match the tally to that order number—minus a small commission. Harry could then use the coaster to order what he needed, up to his balance, in less than savoury goods.

Satisfied, Harry refolded the coaster and hid it away in his satchel.

Something hard stabbed him in the back and a harsh, ragged voice whispered in his ear, "Make one move and you're dead."

Harry froze.

"Walk," the unseen voice ordered. "Down the dock there. Go."

Harry did as he was told. His wand was in his right pocket, below the folds of his robes. Of little to no use at all. He silently berated himself for that, thinking of his mythril armour and holsters back in the Vault. Hindsight was a many splendored thing.

"What do you want?" Harry asked. "There's a coin purse in my right pocket if you'll just—"

"This isn't a mugging, you fool," the voice hissed. "Just keep walking, Potter, until we're away from these crowds."

_Potter…_

Oh.

Shit.

Harry did as he was told, and soon he was alone, save for his attacker, away from the busy Whale & Ale and the crowds on the apothecary boardwalk, out over the unnatural lake on the edge of a dock. He was well and truly hidden from view by stacks of wooden crates.

"How could you have possibly known—?"

"The Dark Lord sees _all_. You think you can hide from him? No, you're a fool to leave the protections at Hogwarts."

His attacker jabbed his wand hard into his back and Harry stumbled forward, on top of a load of netting and ropes. He turned, raised his hands, and stared into a face hidden by shadow It was too dark to see who he was dealing with.

"Now don't move, or I'll slice you open from head to—"

"Avery! Drop your wand!" A voice full of command and authority came hurtling out of the dark.

Harry glimpsed two figures, wreathed in darkness, about twenty feet down the dock over Avery's—Harry's attacker, and, he realised abruptly, one of Voldemort's inner circle—shoulder, wand tips afire with silver light.

Avery cursed and turned on his heel. "_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

A jet of emerald-green light burst from his wand and shot down the dock toward the two figures. One of them pulled the other out of the way and the light exploded against a stack of barrels behind them. Splinters of wood exploded and gouts of slick, oily green flame spluttered to death across the dock.

Harry's hand darted to his pocket as soon as Avery had focused his attention elsewhere. He tore his wand free and brought it up in a swift flick, just as Avery turned back—

"_Confringo,"_ Harry yelled.

A jet of red light erupted from his wand at the same moment a stunning spell left Avery's. Harry's blasting curse collided with Avery's stunner in midair and was deflected down into the wooden planks at his feet.

The far end of the dock exploded.

Harry was knocked back into crates, loose ropes, and netting. His wand went flying from his hand and toward Avery. He gasped as the force of his spell rent the old dock asunder. It collapsed beneath him and he plummeted out of sight.

Harry fell through the dock, in a tangle of ropes and splintered wood. He hit the freezing, filthy lake water and sucked in a harsh lungful of air before he went under.

The weight of the ropes and metal lashings dragged him kicking and screaming below the murky surface.

* * *

><p>James and Kingsley kept their heads low and their eyes open as they strolled through the brightly lit streets of the Floating Markets, fighting the crowds under the pale green light from the gloomy lake.<p>

Their destination was the Whale & Ale—a tavern on the outskirts of the apothecary district where a lot of under the table dealing in rare potions ingredients was done. Well, not so much done, but arranged.

As far as the potions masters at the Ministry could discern, the mysterious blue poison contained a mix of expensive and exotic ingredients that just weren't available in England. You'd need a lot of money and a lot of very specific people to ensure a steady supply.

Which was why two of the finest Aurors in London were in France tonight, operating a touch beyond their purview.

The specialists at the Ministry had also been at pains to explain to James during his briefing on the assignment that the potion was masterful. Despite what it did, they had almost been in awe of whoever was brewing it. They could identify a few of the items in the recipe, but _how_ it all went together was beyond them.

Not so much a potions master, but a completely different way of brewing.

"Fresh eye of newt! As fresh as it gets, my dears!"

"Dementor's Bane!"

James kept a hand on his wand in his pocket. While not openly dangerous, this part of the Floating Markets was known to be a bit seedy—a sort of watered down Knockturn Alley.

He had Kingsley at his side, and at six and half feet of tough muscle, that should be enough to dissuade the pickpockets or worse.

The Whale & Ale was as packed and crowded as always when James and Kingsley entered. They fought their way to the bar and ordered two schooners of golden ale.

"Now we wait," Kingsley said, commandeering some bar stools with a stern gaze.

"Now we wait," James agreed. "And see what we see."

A few of the more prominent and, perhaps, careless black market dealers had made their way onto the British Ministry's wanted lists. In a place like this, at least one or two of them, or their known associates, would make an appearance. And if not tonight, then perhaps tomorrow night. Or the night after.

James was under no illusions. This blue potion distribution ring was as sophisticated as these networks came. It may be weeks if not months before he caught a break.

"So, Audrey is pregnant, hmm?" Kingsley asked, and took a sip of his beer.

James cursed. "Merlin, where'd you hear that? I only just told Scrimgeour."

"Office gossip, Jim. Congratulations."

He clinked his glass against Kingsley's. "Cheers."

"I have to ask, but was this planned? Given what we know… and what Dumbledore and your boy are saying."

James nodded. "I understand, I do." He sighed. "She fell pregnant before those rumours started circulating. Before what Harry and Dumbledore say happened last year. I believe them, I have to, but with any luck…"

"With any luck?"

James tossed back his schooner in one well-practiced flick. The beer fizzed down his throat. He thought of Lily. Of what was lost and what could still be lost. "With any luck this baby won't have to be the saviour of the goddamn wizarding world. One in the family is enough, don't you think?"

Kingsley laughed, but neither of them found it very funny. James ordered another round and conversation turned to milder topics. A few minutes later, Kingsley let out a low, careful whistle and inclined his head toward the door of the tavern.

"Well, well… look who we have there."

James followed his gaze and chuckled low. "Aloysius Avery, as I live and breathe."

James had attended Hogwarts with Avery, twenty or so years ago now. He had been one of Lestrange's crowd, one of Snape's and Rosier's friends. Death Eaters, all of them, through and through. Only Avery had pleaded the Imperius Curse after Voldemort's downfall and wormed his way out of trouble.

Avery was sipping at a glass of firewhiskey alone. His face was grim, covered in stubble, and his greying brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. His eyes kept darting up and across the bar. James tried to see what was so interesting, but the crowds around the bar were thick and almost impenetrable.

"What do you think he's up to?"

"Nothing good," Kingsley said. "Look at how he's standing. Tense, rigid. He's barely touching that drink. Let's keep an eye on him."

A minute or two later Avery left his drink unfinished on a table in front of him and shrugged into a grey cloak. He drew his wand and hid it, clenched in his fist, within the folds of his cloak and disappeared back out into the eerie green light of the Floating Markets.

Without a word, James and Kingsley followed, curious as to where the ex-Death Eater (or, perhaps, reinstated Death Eater) was heading.

In case he was waiting just outside, they stood half a minute inside the entrance to the Whale & Ale before exiting. Stepping out into the cooler air, James cast a quick look up and down the boardwalk for their quarry.

"You see him?"

Kingsley shook his head. "He can't have gotten far—"

"There. Down the dock. Look at that stupid ponytail." Kingsley snorted. "He's with someone."

"Shall we have a chat, you think?"

James stroked his chin. "Wands out, I'd say."

Walking side-by-side, James and Kingsley set off at a steady but quiet pace down the dock after Avery. He was about thirty feet ahead, walking behind someone in a dark hood. The light was poor out here over the lake, but good enough to see that.

Avery and the hooded figure came to a stop at the far end of the dock. A pale mist clung to the crates and loose netting. James felt a chill shiver through him. Something wasn't right here.

He and Kingsley moved closer, close enough to hear what was being said.

"The Dark Lord sees _all_. You think you can hide from him? No, you're a fool to leave the protections at Hogwarts."

James and Kingsley exchanged a heavy look. This had suddenly gotten a whole lot more interesting. _Hogwarts?_ Was the man beneath the hood one of the professors? Severus Snape? No, he wasn't tall enough. _A student?_

"Now don't move, or I'll slice you open from head to—"

That was enough for James. "Avery! Drop your wand!"

Avery turned on his heel, with a snarl, and bellowed, "_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

James pulled Kingsley a staggering step to the side as a jet of dark green curse light burned through the air. It missed him by a cold inch and slammed into a wall of strapped barrels.

They kept moving, doing what they were trained to do, and sought cover behind a stack of wet wooden crates.

Sounds of a struggle came from the end of the dock. A younger voice, not Avery's, yelled a blasting curse and James felt the dock beneath him buckle as it struck wood. He peeked his head around the edge of his hiding place in time to see the dock collapse beneath the hooded figure and Avery leap back away from the edge.

"Son of a bitch…" James breathed. "A killing curse, Avery? Really?"

"Oh I recognise that voice!" Avery laughed. "Two for the price of one tonight. You think I'm afraid of you, Potter? You think anyone fears you bastard Aurors anymore? You've no idea what's coming for you."

Kingsley moved around the edge of the crates and nodded at James. He disappeared over the side of the dock, pulling himself along the old wooden planks by his fingers—out of sight.

"So tell me then, why don't you?" James called, keeping the attention on him.

"You can't arrest me, Potter. Not here. Your family will be one of the first to fall—"

James stepped out of cover and fired a barrage of neat curses, swift and sure, down the dock at the stack of crates next to Avery. The crates erupted in flame and Avery leapt to the side, toward where James knew Kingsley—

Kingsley's head popped up over the edge of the dock, face grim, and his wand arm followed him.

A silent beam of yellow light erupted from his wand and struck Avery in the chest. He snapped in place, stiff as a board, and fell face-first. James heard his nose break with no small amount of satisfaction.

Kingsley hauled himself back up onto the dock proper and nodded. "This is a development, don't you think, Jim?"

James darted past his partner and over to the destroyed end of the dock. The splintered wood smouldered with crimson flame. Whoever Avery had been with had gone down here, but there was no sign of them.

James cursed and dived into the black, filthy water.

* * *

><p>Wandless, Harry struggled with the ropes caught around his legs. The weight dragged him deeper and deeper under the lake inside the elderglass bubble. It was dark, save for that eerie green light reflected through the thin glass.<p>

A rush of angry bubbles escaped his mouth as he cursed and fought against the weight. One of his arms was wrapped tight to his side, caught in the wire mesh netting.

The heavy crates and ropes struck a thousand years of waste and refuse at the bottom of the elderglass structure, buried below the French lake overhead. Frantic now, the last of his air rushing out of him in a burst of invisible bubbles, Harry _tore _at the ropes, but that only served to pull them tighter.

He let out a soundless scream, almost gasping for air that wasn't there.

He had no wand.

He couldn't reach the portkey in his pocket, not with his arm strapped to his side.

Harry allowed himself to entertain the very real possibility that he was about to die in an unmarked watery grave.

A bright flash of silver light lit up the bottom of the lake-within-a-lake and severed the ropes beneath his boots. A pair of strong, solid arms grasped Harry from behind. He bucked in the grip purely on instinct, but was too weak to put up much of a fight—his lungs _burned_ for air.

Whoever had a hold of him did not let go, and Harry felt a pair of legs kicking him in the back, paddling for the surface and salvation.

Half a minute that felt like three-quarters of an eternity later, Harry breached the surface and inhaled a lungful of crisp, clear air. He gasped and made a retching sound somewhere between grateful abandon and wearied relief. His rescuer kept an arm around his chest and used his free hand to swim over to the broken dock.

It was all Harry could do to keep his head above water as he was pulled up onto the dock by a pair of hands under each arm. Two rescuers then. His enchanted hood had fallen down, revealing his face to the world.

He was lowered gently onto the wooden planks on what remained of the dock, gazing up at the distant elderglass ceiling, reflecting the murky waters of the _Lac de Saint-Cassien_ above. Two wands flared to life with soft, silver light.

Harry's rescuer came into focus, and he managed a short, startled laugh.

"Hello, Harry," James Potter said. "You here on a school trip, or something?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Uh-oh, how's Harry going to explain this one?_

_Okay, again, my __**ORIGINAL NOVEL IS AVAILABLE NOW.**_

**_Google: Distant Star by Joe Ducie_**

_Currently, it is an ebook for all formats, via Smashwords/Amazon/Barnes&Noble, and a paperback on Amazon. I demand you read and enjoy it!_

_Thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing,_

_Joe-diddy-o._


	6. Like A Rolling Stone

_**Disclaimer:**__ A long time ago, I learned not to deprive._

_**A/N**__:_ _Okay, it's been a month or two, but here's a juicy update. Some relationship building in this chapter. Read the author's note at the end for some awesome and orgasmic news!_

_-Joe_

* * *

><p><em><strong>An Unfound Door<strong>_

_Chapter Six – Like A Rolling Stone_

Sodden and feeling sorry for himself, Harry retrieved his wand from the edge of the ruined jetty and cast a few drying charms on his clothes and hair. His father argued quietly with Kingsley Shacklebolt, gesturing both to Harry and the unconscious Death Eater bound in spelled light.

Harry let them argue. His satchel had kept his valuable belongings dry, thanks to a series of varied and complex enchantments. The order form he'd just spent several thousand galleons on had survived his near-drowning, as well. Still on track, despite a somewhat disappointing setback. _I need to be quicker..._

"I take it Hogwarts doesn't even know you're missing?" James asked.

Harry shrugged and straightened his glasses. After the drying charms, he was feeling a lot more human again. Centuries of lake gunk clung to his robes, however. "No, I imagine they don't. Although who knows with Dumbledore, eh?"

James clapped Harry on the shoulder and exhaled slowly. "This could've ended a lot differently."

"I'm aware, Dad, but it didn't. We prevailed. Who is this man?" He kicked the Death Eater—none too gently.

"Avery," Shacklebolt grunted. "We've got him on using an Unforgivable, Jim, but how do we explain our presence here to the French? They're not going to take too kindly to our operating on their turf."

James tapped his chin thoughtfully. "We were just out shopping. Father, son, and friend, and Avery attacked us... No, that won't hold up beyond two minutes. Merlin, this could turn nasty. Shit, he'll walk. What the hell are you _doing_ out here, Harry?"

"Looking for some rare books," Harry replied, and that was at least part of the truth. "And don't glare at me like that. You going to tell me you and your mates never snuck out of the castle?"

James threw up his hands. "No, but we only ever went to Hogsmeade—which is practically on the school grounds as it is—for a few butterbeers. And we went as a group. You're being reckless, Harry. Merlin, kid, you're _smarter_ than this. You know _who's_ out there."

Keeping a tight rein on a scathing retort, Harry stuffed his wand away. "I was there when he died. I was there when he was reborn. Don't for a minute think I'm disregarding the threat he represents."

"He had you tonight," James said, pointing at Avery. "_Voldemort_ very nearly had you. You think if he'd gotten his way we would've found one _piece_ of you?"

"Thank you for being here then," Harry said. "But now I'm overdue back at Hogwarts, so I'll be off."

He retrieved his portkey, deep within his robes, and considered a better delivery system in the future. Perhaps a watch, strapped to his wrist, with a series of small portkeys behind the face aligned to the hands of the clock. Hogwarts at twelve, Diagon Alley at one, Hogsmeade at two, and so on... Yes, such a watch was worth constructing. Perhaps something less obtrusive though. Something better hidden... and capable of underwater activation.

His father waved a hand in front of his face. "I said, are you listening, Harry?"

"Yes, I am. Are you going to report this?"

James' eyes bulged. "Merlin, no. If the Ministry got wind of this... Blimey, some of them are looking for a reason to have you kicked out of school, Harry. Didn't Dumbledore tell you? Haven't you been reading the _Prophet_?"

"I find more articles of journalistic merit in the _Quibbler_," he said. Shacklebolt snorted a rough laugh. "What are you going to do with Avery?"

James shrugged and ran a hand back through his hair. "Leave it with us—you need to get back to school, I guess."

Harry considered telling his father about the poisoning a few nights ago, then shook his head and grasped his portkey home. "How's Audrey?"

"Yeah, we need to talk about a few things." James rubbed at his brow. "Audrey, your little excursion here... I'll come up to the castle this weekend. You better be there, kid."

With a nod that could've meant anything, Harry activated his portkey and felt that old familiar pull behind his navel. The Floating Markets, and his father, disappeared in a swirl of colour and a rumble of howling wind.

* * *

><p>"He looked tired," Kingsley said, once Harry was gone.<p>

James cursed and sat down on the edge of a rotten wooden crate, glaring at Avery. "Yes, he did. I want to kill this bastard, Kingsley."

Kingsley said nothing for a long moment, and James blinked, surprised that the older Auror may have actually been considering doing away with Avery himself.

"I can understand your anger, Jim, but don't let them turn you into something you're not."

To that, James wasn't so sure. He'd felt a lot in the long years since losing Lily and finding Audrey, the calm between the storms of war, and now here his family was again at the tip of Death Eater wands. "What do you suggest we do with him then? We let him go and this'll only play itself out again sooner rather than later."

Kingsley hesitated. "Memory charm? Make him forget he ever saw Harry?"

James thought about it, then sighed. "As much as I'd like to dick around in his head, I think his master probably sent him here tonight. He'll know something's amiss. Let's wake him up and send him back with a message."

"What message? Leave Harry alone?" Kingsley chuckled quietly. "You're rather protective of the boy, aren't you?"

James snorted. "I'm his dad, for what it's worth to him, but even growing up that kid never needed much in the way of parenting..."

* * *

><p>Back in the Vault and after a long hot shower and a change of clothes, Harry set about brewing what amount of potion he could with the supplies on hand. His shopping trip had been cut short by Avery and his father's unexpected intervention, which meant he'd have to use other avenues to procure the necessary equipment and ingredients.<p>

_Send a list to Fleur, perhaps..._

At least he still had the black market coaster, with funds to the value of about twenty eight hundred galleons. Most of the vital and _restricted_ components to the crystal blue potion could be obtained that way, and delivered to a location of his choosing.

"Saw my father tonight, Sirius," Harry said, addressing the ethereal, floating form of his soulless godfather. As was habit, he did a quick diagnostic check of the wards and enchantments keeping Sirius' body alive. "Wonder what he'd think, seeing you here like this..."

In the lab, Harry emptied his cauldrons into wooden casks and came up about three-quarters of a barrel short on his next delivery to Gus. _If I weaken the next batch by... _He did a few quick calculations in his head. _By about thirty-four percent, that should top off the delivery._ The idea of providing a subpar product irked Harry, but the thought of angering Gus and the people Gus worked for was, perhaps, more irksome. Not to mention the fine they'd levy against his fee.

With all that had happened these last few days, Harry was too far off schedule. Now _that_ was what really bothered him. Umbridge, the poisoning, the Dragonfly Queen, and now Avery... Meeting his commitments was like trying to spin plates on sticks in a thunderstorm, while people took shots at him from the shadows.

Setting what potion he could to boil took ninety minutes, well beyond curfew, but Harry had spent many nights in the Vault before. Indeed, he often preferred the small living quarters up the spiral staircase to his bed in the Ravenclaw dormitories.

Once the potion was underway, Harry summoned a few thick tomes on portkey creation, as well as some parchment and a pencil. He spent the next hour designing and tinkering with plans for his multi-portkey watch. With a bit of difficult magic, he could make each point on the face a portkey. It _seemed_ possible, but would require some pretty precise spellwork.

The main issue would be Harroway's Principle of Deterioration. Over time, a single-use portkey would deteriorate at a rate of about eight percent a month. A somewhat inaccurate measure that didn't account for exposure to dawn light, but a good rule of thumb nevertheless. Portkeys with multiple uses deteriorated even quicker. _Add about three percent for every use..._

"I'll need to reset the charms once every two months, and after every sixth use..." he muttered, scrawling a few runes and crossing out some negative calculations. "Six uses before I hit diminishing returns on time and effort."

He heaved a sigh and nodded to himself. It was possible, but difficult. Difficult, but possible. Harry admired the challenge in the idea. The air in the lab carried the scent of ash after rainfall. Turning his attention back to the crystal blue potion, he stirred the last of his diamond essence and dragon's blood into the four bubbling cauldrons and set the brew to simmer.

When he checked the time, he was surprised to find the hour had already crept past midnight. Harry wanted to keep working, but as tired as he was his error rate would rise on a steep scale.

_Could take a sip of the blue..._ whispered a small voice in the back of his mind.

Harry licked his lips. Now that was a tempting thought. He slumped in his chair somewhat when he realised he'd barely have enough for the delivery as it was. Never mind if he kept dipping into the product. _Pepperup Potion just doesn't cut it these days._

Rubbing at his eyes, Harry checked his potions a final time. _Good until morning_. Then he spent an hour working on his silent casting before bed. As two in the morning drained away, he dragged himself up to his quarters utterly shattered.

Shattered was good.

With his mind a jumble of runic wards, portkey calculations, the alluring scent of blue potion, and Death Eater attacks, tonight he may actually trick his overactive brain into switching off for once.

Harry slipped into bed, but sleep was long in coming.

* * *

><p>For a wonder, Hermione actually found Harry Potter in the Great Hall for breakfast. He sat in his customary spot at the far end of the Ravenclaw table alone, with his head in his hands, stirring the dregs of some frosted cornflakes around the milk in his bowl.<p>

Luna Lovegood—_who else?—_had levitated a bagel to rest on the crown of his head.

Hermione sat down and cleared her throat. "Good morning, Harry."

"Miss Granger," he said, glancing up at her briefly. The bagel fell into his lap, peanut butter and all, but he didn't seem to mind.

Large black suitcases hung under his bloodshot eyes. Digging around in his tatty old green satchel, he uncorked a dark vial and tossed back the contents in one gulp.

"What was that?" Hermione asked.

"Pepperup Potion," Harry said, and smoothly made the vial of dark-blue potion disappear back into his satchel. "I know it's for curing colds, but the nettlebane and murtlap essence does wonders for taking the edge off a sleepless night."

"You just keep a stock on hand like that?"

Harry grinned and looked a whole lot better. The bags under his eyes had been sent packing and the spider-web of red lines crossing his whites faded away. "I brew the stuff myself actually. Good practice, I've found."

"You've not been coming down to the Hall for meals much the last few days?" she said, with a hint of a question glazing her tone. "You... you're okay?"

Harry chuckled and stacked a pile of muffins into a pyramid. One thing about the elves, they provided such a spread for _everyone_, every morning, no matter whether they sat all alone.

"You mean after that unfortunate poisoning? Trust me, I've almost died once or twice since then. Rather unfortunate series of events, truth be told." Harry blinked, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and tugged on his earlobe, as if he were distracted. "You know enough to, perhaps, send me to Azkaban for the rest of my natural life. At least enough to ensure the Ministry expels me from Hogwarts."

Hermione licked her lips. "Harry, I—"

"I don't believe you'll kick me in the balls." Harry rolled his eyes. "Forgive the vulgarity, but I'm feeling rather immortal after the latest attempt on my life. Perhaps fate, destiny, or sheer dumb luck is simply on my side, hmm? Anyway, I'd like to invite you into the Arbiter's Vault. The knowledge and history alone... I think you're one to appreciate the majesty and put it to good use."

Hermione felt her heart beating a vicious tempo. She did want what Harry was offering. Indeed, she'd never wanted anything as much as the magic she knew was hidden away in his secret part of the castle.

"I... Yes." She reached across the table and grasped his hands. "Merlin, Harry. _Yes._"

He offered her half a tired smile. "Only the good die young, Miss Granger. Perhaps you'll have more luck with some of the old books and enchanted items in there than I've had."

* * *

><p>Harry kicked off his boots in the Vault and dragged his chest of mythril armour into his lab. It cost a pretty penny, this armour, but it was harder than dragon scales and lighter than silk. It had saved his life more than once, least of all running from the shadow creatures that seemed to be only attracted to him and his hideaway.<p>

To that end, he liked to keep the mythril well oiled, polished, and in an altogether battle-ready condition.

Not only could it deflect medium range destructive curses, but it afforded some protection against the Dark Arts—the subtle enchantments and wicked hexes that didn't wound, but corrupt.

With an entire vat of the blue potion bubbling away to his left, burning through the last of the key ingredients in the Vault, Harry set about polishing his armour. The potion delivery would be made on time, and in full, despite the various setbacks he had suffered over the last week.

Half an hour later, he returned the mythril piecework to the chest and went to check on Hermione Granger. She was upstairs, on the Vault's second level, ensconced in a reading nook with some pretty hefty tomes of advanced magic.

_A strange one_, Harry thought, as he ascended the spiral staircase in the heart of the Vault's main room. Up here was a loft library and his living quarters—a luxurious suite, much more agreeable than the Ravenclaw dorms. Alas, Harry had to keep up appearances and spent few nights in the suit, much to his annoyance.

He found Hermione right where he'd left her, snuggled up with her legs tucked underneath her in a large, velvet armchair, nose buried in a book. She didn't seem to notice his arrival, so he took a seat opposite her and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot she had brewed.

It was tasty—orange and... ginger, perhaps. He'd never been a big tea drinker.

His thoughts turned to his father, and the meeting they were supposed to be having tomorrow. James Potter would want explanations, answers, and Harry had none to give. None that would suffice, at the very least. _Sorry, Dad, I was just out shopping for ingredients for my highly illegal potions business. Oh, and I was poisoned earlier in the week, and someone calling themselves the Dragonfly Queen seems to be taunting me from afar..._

"Harry," Hermione said, surprised to see him.

Harry fell out of his thoughts and found that he'd finished his tea. He placed the cup on the wooden table between them and offered Miss Granger a tired smile.

She beamed at him. "Sorry, I was lost in this book. Have you read it? There are branches of magic in here that I've never even heard of. You know, we're told the curriculum here at Hogwarts is the best in the world, comprehensive, but what we've been taught so far doesn't even scratch the surface, does it?" She paused for breath and tutted. "I've got a lot of reading to do."

Harry rubbed at his temple. Another headache coming on, most likely due to lack of the blue potion. He was no idiot, and knew he had perhaps more than a slight addiction to his own concoction, but he _liked_ the edge it gave him. The mental and physical awareness. He was better on the potion. And with enemies on all sides, he needed to be better.

Or he would die.

Simplicity could be a harsh thing.

"You look positively giddy at the prospect of all that reading," he said.

Hermione chuckled and slapped the pages spread across her lap. "Yes! You'll have to drag me out of here, Harry Potter."

Harry checked his watch, remembered he was supposed to be enchanting portkeys into the damn thing, then shrugged. "Well, it's gone one in the morning. We're at Sunday now, so perhaps enough for tonight, yes?"

Hermione seemed startled by the time. "Oh no, I'm out after curfew!" She seemed genuinely distressed, biting her thumbnail and looking worriedly at the books.

"You can stay here. There's a bed at the end of the loft. I'll sleep downstairs on one of the sofas." He met her gaze. "Don't leave here without me, or in the dawn light. It may... may not be safe."

She frowned but nodded.

* * *

><p>James awoke just after dawn on Sunday morning with a yawn. He stretched, cracking his joints, and heard Audrey pottering around in the bathroom. He grinned. Last night was the first night in a week he'd been home in time for dinner. Audrey had certainly made coming home worth it, as she often did.<p>

"Good morning, sleepy," she said, emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Her long, charcoal-black hair hung in gentle wet waves across her pale shoulders. "Tell me you don't have to work today."

James yawned again. The sun streaming in through the high windows was warm and inviting. He wanted to go back to sleep. "I don't have to work today."

Audrey smiled and gave him a satisfied nod. "Are you still going to visit Harry up at Hogwarts?" His turn to nod. "Perhaps I'll come along and we can tell him we're expecting company. Long past due, don't you think?" She pressed a hand to her belly. "Sausage and eggs?"

"Oh yes, please. I'll be down in a minute."

Audrey's soft footfalls disappeared down the hall and James rolled out of bed with a groan. He stumbled into the bathroom, stood over the toilet, and relieved—

Audrey screamed.

A high, piercing shriek that made James damn-near jump out of his skin and spray piss along the walls and mirror. He swore, dove out of the bathroom, and grabbed his wand from the bedside table.

"_Audrey!_"

He stubbed his toe on the doorframe and cursed again, running down the hall and sliding down the banister at speed. He'd heard screams like that long ago, the cries of the terrified.

He found Audrey in the kitchen, naked and her back to the wall. Her towel had fallen away and she pressed a hand to her chest, breathing hard.

"Wha—?"

James saw what had caused the scream and his eyes bulged.

On the kitchen table, acting as a gruesome centrepiece, was the screaming maw of some decapitated monster. Bloated and matted, one eye missing, and sitting in a pool of congealed, purple ichor, was the head of a Nundu.

"Huh," he said. If James had to guess, he'd hazard that this was the beast he'd drowned not half a week ago.

He scanned the rest of the room, checked the corners, and handed Audrey her towel. "Floo Kingsley. We need a team here."

Audrey took a deep breath, nodded to herself, and grabbed a pouch of floo powder from the shelves along the wall behind her. "James, I..." She trailed away and dashed into the living room.

James kept her in sight and his wand at the ready. He cast a few revealing spells, sent gusts into a few corners, just to make sure no one was hiding where they shouldn't. But he didn't think there was anyone in his home—not now, at any rate.

Keeping Audrey in the corner of his eye, he turned back to the severed head and sighed. Whoever had done this had wanted to send a message. _But what? Back off? _From _what? The blue potion case? _No, James hadn't even been assigned that case when he'd sunk the cargo ship and drowned the Nundu.

So who, or what, had gone to the bottom of the channel to recover their illegally imported beast?

In his mind, he saw the wicked lightning bolt scar carved into the side of the container. The head was another message, of that he was sure, but for him or for Harry?

* * *

><p>Despite this being her fourth trip down off the roofs from Harry's Vault, Hermione still found the journey unnerving and more than a little dizzying. Her feet were on solid ground, but a sheer, slick drop of close to a hundred feet fell away on either side. And some of the roof tiles were broken.<p>

Harry seemed to dance across the roofs, his steps light and sure. He turned and chatted and gestured to the castle as if they were doing nothing more than strolling down by the lake.

"You know," Hermione said, as Harry took her hand and helped lower her down onto the crenulated terrace of the east wing above the seventh floor. "You're more than welcome to sit with me and my friends for breakfast, at the Gryffindor table."

Harry considered and then nodded. "You sit with Weasley and Longbottom, yeah?"

"Usually. We sort of gravitated together over the years. Neville's a clever one, and Ron, although don't tell him I said this, comes off as rather dim-witted, but he's not. Merlin, it took us years before we got along."

Harry nodded. "I usually sit alone."

"I've seen you and Luna Lovegood playing at meals. She's you friend?"

Harry chuckled. Hermione thought it sounded somewhat sad.

"Luna and I... Well, when you cut the head off a sixty-foot snake for someone, let's just say a bond is formed."

Hermione almost stumbled as they traversed the corridors down through the castle toward the Great Hall. "The Chamber of Secrets, yes? You were actually _down_ there?"

"In the muck and the thick of it, Miss Granger." Harry ran a hand back through his messy hair. A mess that was kind of endearing. "And yes, okay, I'll join you and your friends for breakfast."

"Wonderful," she said. "You know, I had this really... _vivid_ dream last night, about you."

Harry tilted his head and offered her half a smile. "Oh, Miss Granger, who'd a thought?"

"What?" Hermione frowned and, when the penny dropped, blushed. "Oh, no, no. No. Nothing like that. I mean, I had a dream that you'd been my friend for years, that you were a Gryffindor and played Quidditch. A Seeker."

"I've never really cared for Quidditch. Too windy."

"Windy?"

"Windy."

Hermione thought about that. "Ron and Neville love the game. I always go and cheer along the team. He made Keeper this year, Ron did."

After a few minutes of meandering down through the castle, Hermione and Harry fell into the throngs of students making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. Her stomach grumbled, and she realised with a start that she'd skipped two meals yesterday, locked away in the Arbiter's Vault.

_But the books!_ The books, and the knowledge therein, more than made up for the lack of meals and sleep. _Still, perhaps an extra large breakfast today._

As they entered the hall, Hermione was surprised to find she felt more than a touch nervous about introducing Harry to her small group of friends. There they were now, Ron and Neville, and the rest of her year group nearby. What would they think? Knowing this lot, they probably hadn't even noticed she'd been gone the entire night.

And that was probably for the best

"Didn't see you last night," Ron said, as Hermione and Harry drew level with the fifth-year Gryffindors. "You go up to bed early?"

"Oh I was just... with Harry," she said, somewhat lamely. A few seats away, Parvati raised a single perfect eyebrow and smirked. "That is, we were in the library, studying."

"Studying," Ron said, then shrugged and returned to what looked like a pyramid of sausages and baked beans. "Okay."

"So this is Harry, as you know," Hermione said, introducing the Boy Who Lived to the table. Even after four years, he was still something of a mystery to most in the castle. Always kept to himself. He looked a touch unnerved, even now, having so many eyes on him. "He's joining us for breakfast. Move up, would you, Neville?"

Neville obliged and Harry sat himself down, next to Neville and opposite Ron. Hermione squeezed in next to Harry and poured herself a glass of fresh orange juice.

"So what were you studying?" Ron asked around a mouthful of beans and toast.

"Potions," Harry said blandly. On the plate that had appeared in front of him he placed an apple and a bowl of muesli.

"Not Defence? I thought with 'Mione's club idea—"

Hermione kicked Ron in the shin to shut him up, and cast a surreptitious look around to see who had been paying attention. Ron grunted, scowled across the table, then seemed to realise the implications of what he'd been about to say.

"Yeah, Potions, right," he mumbled. "Sounds like... fun."

"So, Harry," Neville said. "Don't see the Ravenclaws in Herbology this term. Are you still working on the hybrids we started last year?"

Harry nodded and poured himself a glass of milk. "Finished the seedlings, actually. Should start growing in the spring, producing the honeyberries."

"What's this?" Hermione asked.

"Harry and I came up with it when we were Herbology partners," Neville said. "Naturally occurring caramel in little grape pods. We spliced a few plants together using some incantations from Professor Sprout. Never thought it would work."

"Wait a minute... You're growing sweets?" Ron asked. "That's bloody brilliant!"

At the staff table, Hermione watched Dumbledore rise from his chair. He motioned for silence. It took a moment, but the hall quietened down for the old headmaster.

"Just one small announcement, ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore said. "Something rather exciting, to this old man at the very least. Although storm clouds begin to gather on the distant horizon, I believe this is a time to band together. With that in mind, and in the interest of school spirit, I am pleased to announce the return of the Hogwarts Games."

Dumbledore paused as if expecting tumultuous applause. It was only Hermione, however, that clapped her hands together in a rush of excitement. A few dozen heads turned her way and she blushed.

"Honestly," she muttered. "No one has read _Hogwarts, A History_, have they?"

"I have," Harry said.

"The games are a long standing tradition here at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued. "Or rather, they were. In times recent, due to events outside of the school's purview, wars and upheaval, as you know, the games fell into disrepair and memory. The last Hogwarts Games were fought and played—"

"In 1912," Hermione said.

"—in the year 1912," Dumbledore said. "Consider them something akin to the Triwizard Tournament of last year, but without the interschool rivalry and, well, dragons."

"Or murder..." Harry muttered, scowling at a basket of hard boiled eggs.

"Historically, the games sought to unite the houses under a single banner—the crest of Hogwarts." As he spoke, Dumbledore waved his wand in slow circles. Bars of pure light, red, green, yellow, and blue, formed in the air over his head, and began to dance about, weaving and winding. "Tests of magical knowledge, of ingenuity, of cunning, and bravery. Traits you will find in Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff, in our Ravenclaws and our Slytherins."

The hall hung on the headmaster's words, near spellbound by the show of house-coloured lights spinning above his head.

"Participation in the games requires you to form a team of seven," Dumbledore said.

And it was here that excited whispers began to spread throughout the Great Hall. Dumbledore let them mutter, to chatter, and begin to scheme. He smiled down at them from on high and raised his hands for silence.

"Teams of seven, yes. The intuitive amongst you may have already associated that number with the years you find yourselves within these ancient halls." The headmaster paused. "Your teams of seven must either include a member of each year within your house, or a mix of years from all of our wonderful houses."

This was met with murmurs of confusion and a touch of disgruntlement. Hermione found a smile.

"What's that mean then?" Ron asked, wearing a bemused frown.

"You can have a team of Gryffindors, but only if the members are comprised from each of the year groups," Harry said. "Or you can have a mixed team from other houses, with multiple people from the same year. Keeps things... mingled, I guess."

Dumbledore wasn't quite finished. "You have a week to form teams, select a leader, and submit a team name to your leader's respective head of house. After which, well, the games will begin! Most of the trials will be kept secret, in the interest of the games. However, I can tell you the first game will involve a not insignificant amount of transfiguration knowledge."

A round of applause echoed throughout the hall, and already Hermione could see people shuffling closer to one another, talking animatedly about the games and who would be on whose team.

"Oh, and did I mention, the team that wins the games will be awarded a minimum mark of Exceeded Expectations on their end of year examinations, perhaps even Outstanding, depending on their performance."

To this announcement, Hermione didn't know whether to be encouraged of dismayed. She settled on determined.

"Now do enjoy your breakfast," the headmaster said, and sat back down in his chair.

* * *

><p>AN: Well, back on track, so to speak.

Now this update has a nefarious motive, too. _**My second original novel just went live, so I command you to go and buy it!**_

Seriously, check out the info in my profile, or just Google **Joe Ducie**. Head to Amazon and search for **Joe Ducie**.

Those who loved **Distant Star** are going to demolish **Broken Quill**!

Thanks for reading, folks, and please review. Or buy my novels. Whatevs...

-Joe


	7. The Lost Castle

**_An Unfound Door_**

_Chapter Seven – The Lost Castle_

Two days after Harry had given Hermione access to the wealth of knowledge and forbidden – even _forgotten_ – magic in the Arbiter's Vault, she felt that perhaps she was abusing the trust and goodwill he had shown in letting her into the vault in the first place. Granted, he'd been dying from an unknown poison at the time, so that trust had been forced, but still.

So it was with a heavy heart that she limited herself to only a few hours of reading after dinner, preferring not to spend another night grating on Harry Potter's hospitality. He seemed more than happy to have her there, but perhaps he was being far too polite.

He had walked her down off the roofs and wished her a good night on the balcony up on the seventh floor. A sort of weary darkness had clung to his face in the last few days. Large, bruised-purple suitcases had appeared below bloodshot eyes. Whatever he was up to in his laboratory, and outside of classes, was taking a toll.

_I don't think I know him well enough to say anything_, she thought. Hermione ambled through the corridors. She was out beyond curfew, the fourth time this week, and did not want to run afoul of Filch or his horrid cat. Hermione prided herself on the fact that, five years into her magical education, she had never once been issued a detention.

_Meanwhile Harry's cutting his hand to shreds every week because of Umbridge…_

She rounded a bend on the third floor, heading for the moving staircases, and pale squares of moonlight coated the red carpets through the series of large windows along the corridor. A shadow moved in the fifth window and Hermione's heart leapt into her throat when she thought it may be a professor—or Filch's cat!

Luna Lovegood sat in the window alcove, looking out at the world with a dreamy smile on her face. Once again, her feet were bare, and she rested her head on her knees tucked up beneath her chin. She sighed against the window, her breath condensed on the cold glass, and the young Ravenclaw drew a single lightning bolt in the mist.

"It's not polite to stare, you know," Luna said.

"Hello, Luna," Hermione replied. "What are you doing out after curfew?"

"Nothing interesting happens during the day."

"Is that so?" Hermione said carefully.

Luna nodded and unlatched the window. With a gentle push, it swung open outwards. A cool breeze, scented with wet leaves, blew into the castle. Quite calmly, Luna swung her legs round and hopped out of the window, disappearing from sight.

Hermione gasped and, after a staggered moment, leapt forward and into the alcove. She stuck her head out of the window and saw Luna, just three feet below, clambering along a thick branch from one of the mighty oak trees that grew alongside the castle. She reached the trunk of the tree and looked back.

"Well?" Luna said. "Are you coming or not?"

Hermione hesitated only a moment, looked down at the ground through the branches and leaves three floors below, then swung her legs out of the window. Her foot, encased normally in a proper pair of sneakers, just reached the branch. She tested her weight and stepped down, crouching low to use her hands and crawl across to Luna.

Her heart hammered in her chest the whole way, though it was a distance of less than ten feet.

"What are we doing in a tree, Luna?" Hermione asked. "And why did you use the window when you could have used the entrance doors to get outside?"

Luna gave her a serious and, frankly, condescending look. "If I'm ever a person that starts to use perfectly good doors instead of a mischievous window, then this world will be beyond saving." She reached up into the foliage and pulled something from the leaves. "We need an acorn, of course."

"…Of course." Hermione was beginning to question her decision to leave the castle. The wind was picking up, shaking the leaves. A good gust could send them tumbling to the ground. Nasty broken bones, at the very least. Hermione had never broken anything in her life. "What's the acorn for?"

Luna met Hermione's gaze and, for once, she didn't look faraway or as if she were daydreaming. Her eyes were dark, solemn. Even grave. "There's a place I have to go tonight. While the moon is halved. I'm going to protect him, like he protected me from the basilisk." Tears filled her eyes and Luna quickly retrieved an empty potion vial from her pocket. She caught the tears, one after the other. "I'll need these, as well."

"Protect who?" Hermione asked, but she already knew the answer.

Luna laughed and swatted away the last of her tears. Then, as if she did it all the time, she climbed down the tree, winding through the branches as gracefully as silk against the wind, to the roots below. There she waited.

And Hermione followed, though with rather less grace and more than a few twigs caught in her hair on the way down. At the base of the mighty oak, the castle walls only a dozen feet away at their backs, Luna held a finger to her lips.

"Follow me," she said. "But don't speak until we're hidden by trees again. Too many ears in open spaces."

"Follow you where?" Hermione whispered.

Luna only shook her head and darted off across the castle grounds, keeping to the shadows where she could find them. Hermione followed. Five minutes later, as they swept from the greenhouses—where Luna collected a handful of white rose petals—and sneaked past the Whomping Willow, Hermione realised where they were heading.

The sky was cloudless, blazing with about a billion stars and, as Luna had said, a half moon. Something in the air felt charged, and Hermione took deep breaths to keep her nerve. _Out after hours and heading toward the Forbidden Forest! If we get lost in there they'll never find us._ She clutched her wand in her back pocket, safe in the knowledge that at least she could find her way back with magic.

With no hesitation whatsoever, Luna entered the forest, gesturing quickly for Hermione to do the same before they were seen. Hermione, wondering just how she'd come this far and what on earth she was doing, thought on Harry, on the life and danger that surrounded him. She thought on how she'd never had a detention or broken a bone.

Never been really scared or_ scarred._

All at once those things didn't seem like a point of pride. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She clasped her hands together and entered the Forbidden Forest. Once under the eaves of the trees, Luna surprised her by giving her a quick hug.

"Safe to speak again. You're a wanderer now. Part of the night folk." Luna smiled. "This is what happens of getting too close to Harry James Potter. A touch of his moonlight pierces your heart, and you have to give up pieces of the waking world." She sighed and brushed a hand back through her hair. "No matter, and he really does mean well."

"What are we doing in the forest, Luna?"

Luna nodded. "There's a secret place. I don't even think he knows about it, even with all his exploring. But then again maybe he does. He's all surprises and nonsense that boy." She giggled softly. "Come this way. Once we're through the first bit, we can light our wands."

Hermione steeled herself and Luna led the way, taking no discernible path that she could see. After half a minute, Luna ignited the tip of her wand with soft blue light. The light made the trees, speckled with dew, shine as if strung with crystal drops.

Luna paused and sniffed the air. A moment later she continued walking, winding through the heavy roots that, the more Hermione looked at it, resembled an actual pathway. Not overgrown, but simply grown.

"He's light of heart," Luna said and took Hermione's hand as the descended a small crest, deeper and deeper into the forest. "Bound to good intentions but also in a position, a terrible place, where his choices will have such lasting impact on the world. I do not envy him the days ahead. That's why he needs looking after now, because he's going to be so unhappy later."

_How does she know I've been with Harry? Do they talk?_ Hermione had only ever seen the two of them interact at meal times. Luna levitated him various pieces of food. Hermione kept looking through the trees, hoping none of the supposed dark creatures inhabiting the forest were out and about that evening. She could barely see five feet in any direction.

"This is a safe path," Luna whispered. "It's only here on fae-nights like this one."

"What did you mean the other day," Hermione asked, "when you said Harry is the only one of us who isn't broken?"

"Did I say that? I don't recall…"

Hermione was going to press the point, but another thought occurred to her, one outlandish and frightening, good-frightening, and wholly part of the picture she'd been painting in her mind of Luna. "Luna, do you love Harry Potter?"

The delicate hold on Hermione's hand tightened and Luna burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling in the half-light. "Oh my, yes. Yes, I do. So very much. Don't you?"

"I… I don't really know him." Hermione frowned. "He seems nice."

Luna rolled her eyes, not unkindly, and pointed through the trees ahead. "We're here."

Together they entered a clearing, not very wide, and ringed by an impenetrable wall of guardian elms and a bramble hedge. Within the clearing stood six stones, about ten feet high, in a loose ring. The stones were bathed in moonlight.

_It's like Stonehenge_, Hermione thought. _And beautiful._

"This used to be the top of a very tall tower," Luna said. "Long before Hogwarts was here. Long before… people were here. The forest swallowed it whole. Only the standing stones are left now." She stamped her bare feet on the ground which, to Hermione's astonishment, were clean and unblemished after the walk through the forest. "Beneath us are vast halls, grand cathedrals and chambers, and the king and queen of light buried with mountains of dragonfly gold."

Hermione stared at the circle of stones, moss-covered and skewed at odd angles. She reached out, carefully, and touched one. Despite the chill in the air, the stone was warm under her hand and a rush of something… something nice, and calming, flowed through her. _Like cider at Christmas_, she thought.

"This is a safe place," Hermione whispered, and just for that moment believed every word Luna had said.

A heartbeat later, as her hand fell to her side, uncertainty shrouded her belief and she smiled faintly at Luna. _Of course there was no castle here before people. Who could have lived in it? Dinosaurs?_

"Old magic and happy thoughts are here," Luna said. Hunching her shoulders, she entered the ring of stones and stood in the centre. Hermione followed.

Luna fell to her knees and, gently with her hands, dug a small hole through the grass and soil. In the hole she placed the acorn from the oak tree, the rose petals from the greenhouse, and her tiny vial of tears. Luna tapped all three with the light from her wand and then looked at Hermione expectantly.

"What?"

"You're not here just to watch, Hermione." Luna used her name for the first time. Hermione honestly hadn't known whether or not she'd remembered it. "The aura won't work without what you brought for him."

"I didn't bring anything…" Hermione began, but trailed away as Luna stared pointedly at her right hand.

Hermione looked down and was surprised to find a smooth river stone, no larger than a galleon and as black as obsidian, and a crunchy autumn leaf, though it was the wrong time of year, clutched in her hand. She could not recall collecting them along the way. Not at all. Without a word, she knelt and placed them with Luna's acorn, petals, and tears.

Luna nodded happily and tapped Hermione's contribution with wand light. She then buried the items and patted the soil down gently.

Hermione didn't know what she expected, but when the six standing stones shone with white light, just briefly, in the space between heartbeats, she felt happy and safe. Powerful. As if something had been put right with the world.

"This feels like a dream, Luna," Hermione said. "Am I dreaming?"

"No," Luna said. "You've never been more awake. But come now, we have to get back. Tomorrow, in daylight, this will seem silly. But at night… when he needs the most looking after…" She sighed. "This is the best we can do for now. It won't be enough, I fear."

* * *

><p>Harry sat at the desk in Healer Tenbrook's office on the fourth floor of the castle, overlooking the lake and the forest beyond, with a carefully suppressed-yet-not-too-suppressed frown of annoyance on his brow. It was the end of the day, a useless day of boring classwork—including Defence, with Umbridge being more than a touch hostile. She had been trying to goad him into further detention.<p>

Given that Harry still wasn't certain just who had poisoned him three days ago, very nearly killing him, he hadn't risen to the bait. There was some benefit to be gained in letting the Ministry's lackey think she was winning, but not enough to expose himself to another possible poisoning. _Though I don't feel like it was her_.

"Your father visited the castle yesterday. He wanted to talk to you?" Sarah Tenbrook, Dumbledore's councillor and healer, brought into the castle after Cedric's murder, asked.

Harry rubbed his forehead, sensing a headache. He needed sleep, but that wasn't on the cards for nine hours at least, possibly later. Potion business tonight, crystal blue, and a few experiments in the Arbiter's Vault that required his attention.

"Yes."

"It was a nice visit?" she pressed.

Harry smirked. "What do you want me to say, Healer Tenbrook? I'm here at Dumbledore's request, nothing more."

James Potter had come to the castle during lunch, with Audrey, and they had spent a quick half hour wandering the shores of the lake. The incident in the Floating Markets wasn't brought up by either Harry or James, not with Audrey there, but the tension the near-death had left was palpable. Audrey had picked up on it, Harry was certain, but left it alone.

The news they had delivered had been rather momentous, and had left Harry at a loss for words.

Audrey was pregnant – pregnant with a little half-brother or -sister. Harry had, after a second of fear and doubt, embraced them both and offered his congratulations. He didn't need to say what they were all thinking—that with James and Harry being who they were, Harry in particular, the unborn child was already at war with the Dark Lord.

_She'll have to leave the United Kingdom_, Harry thought, idly picking threads out of the arm of his chair. _Her name, everything, will need to change. Will dad go with her? No, he has as much unfinished business with Voldemort and the Death Eaters as I do. _Merlin, it had only been three months since the Dark Lord's resurrection, and the madmen had torn apart Harry's family again—without raising a wand.

"But will Audrey go…" Harry muttered, a knot of worry settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Pardon me?" Healer Tenbrook said. "Audrey?"

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing… important."

"You seem tired, Harry. Distracted. Your eyes are bloodshot." She paused. "And your hands are shaking. How are you sleeping?"

"From dusk till dawn," Harry lied, without much conviction.

"Will you be participating in the Hogwarts' Games?" she asked, changing tacts.

Harry shrugged. "Ah, yes, Dumbledore's attempt to foster solidarity between the houses. He knows people are going to have to take sides soon, in the coming conflict. It's not an unreasonable idea, I suppose."

"Is that a yes?" Tenbrook smiled. "Have you made some friends, Harry?"

Harry thought on Fleur and Cedric, his fellow champions, and the closest thing he had ever had to friends. One dead and the other receiving threats from someone calling themselves the Dragonfly Queen. He thought on Hermione Granger, on Luna Lovegood, and the meal he had shared with the Gryffindors the other day.

He thought on Voldemort.

On Avery, very nearly killing him in the Floating Markets.

"I don't know if the games are for me," he said. "Last school event I competed in birthed a Dark Lord."

Healer Tenbrook's calm and reassuring mask splintered just a touch. "Is that something you want to talk about, Harry?" She tapped her quill against the edge of the desk. "The man who murdered your mother?"

"He's not a man," Harry said simply, staring not out the window but into his mind's eye, into a snake-like face and crimson eyes, with faint silver lines of archaic runes coating his pale skin. "He's a monster."

"A monster—"

Harry stood and slung his satchel over his shoulder. "That's half an hour, Healer Tenbrook. Dumbledore's request to the minute. Have a nice day."

* * *

><p>After twilight that evening, when the shadow creatures that only Harry seemed to be able to see – and they him, with their razor sharp claws – Harry retreated to the Arbiter's Vault and, with a sigh that skirted the edge of exhaustion, allowed his shoulders to slump and his satchel to fall to the floor.<p>

He stared around the vault, from the bookcases of lost magical tomes, to the myriad instruments and sparkling devices he didn't begin to understand, up to his quarters on the second floor, and over to the door to his lab, where more crystal blue potion simmered in platinum cauldrons. There was work to be done in there tonight, before he could rest, but all he really wanted was to sleep.

He considered knocking back a vial of the blue potion, mask his fatigue with a pure high, raw energy, but decided against it. Even the elixir had its limits, and this fatigue was more of the mind than the body.

Instead he forced his eyes across the left side of the room, between two perpendicular rows of bookcases, at the dark form of his godfather, Sirius, hovering three feet off the ground and suspended in a cocoon of otherworldly, ethereal light. Light so fine it was near radiant. A sustaining light, keeping Sirius' body nourished and alive.

"Evening, Sirius," he whispered. "Been a bit of a week, and I've made no progress on solving your… condition." _On recovering your soul._

Harry dragged himself over to his godfather and pulled over a wooden chair with a soft cushion. He sat down and held his head in his hands for a moment. After that moment had passed into a minute, Harry reached over to the bookshelf and retrieved a bottle of firewhiskey and a goblet.

"Haven't had a sip of this since Cedric…" he muttered. "One addiction at a time, eh? But I think the last few days have earned me a sip. Someone poisoned me this week, and I nearly drowned." He poured himself four finger's worth and corked the bottle before returning it to the shelf. "Oh, and my father and Audrey are expecting a baby. Poor kid's already got a list of enemies as long as mine. Don't think you're first choice for godfather this time around, mate."

He knocked back two large gulps of whiskey, savouring the burn, and stared at Sirius' calm face. The night, nearly two years ago now, when the dementor had taken his soul was still fresh in his mind. _I should have been quicker, better…_ The crystal blue potion had been the result of that night. Harry had scoured the vault for anything that would give him an edge, that would never let him slip up again. He had found it. Of course, the potion hadn't helped Cedric.

"I worry that by the time I figure this out, Sirius," Harry said and let another sip of whiskey rest on his lips before swallowing, "you'll be an old man. Thirty, forty years from now. Longer? Who knows? I worry more that I'll die long before then, which seems far more likely, and you'll be left here alive and alone…"

Harry thought on that and shrugged. "I suppose Hermione Granger knows about all this now. That's something, I suppose. An insurance policy."

He swirled the dregs of his whiskey around in the goblet and finished the cup with a shiver that rushed down his spine and settled warm in his stomach. He let himself enjoy that warmth for a moment before standing, a little taller, shoulders back. He placed the goblet back on the shelf next to the bottle of liquid gold.

"Okay, that's enough wallowing." He nodded to himself. "Work to be done."

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN:_** _Been awhile, eh? I've been working on a lot of original fiction, but needed something to cleanse my palate, so I thought a chapter here would get the house back in order. As discussed, not abandoning these stories, just on a rather long string of deadlines. Hopefully find some time soon to make a greater push to finish this and Heartlands._

_Thank you for reading._

_-Joe_


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Harry Potter, Adventure, Mystery