by Abbe

It was late July, and the residents of Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, had been enjoying a quiet summer holiday, something they hadn’t had in ages. For the first time in several years, their summer had not been interrupted in some way. There had been no yelling or yowling, no screams or scurries, no cries or crashes coming from the inhabitants of number four Privet Drive. In fact, there had hardly been any comings or goings from number four at all, something that the neighbors had been whispering about since ‘that boy’ had returned.

Everyone knew ‘that boy’ attended St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, and most wished that he would stay there during the summer holiday – or better yet, for the rest of his life. However, Petunia Dursley had explained that once he came of age in little over a year, he would no longer be living with them and would in fact be taken to a remote island where he would be of no danger to anyone. While nobody had ever heard of such a thing, they didn’t question it; as long as he was far away, they didn’t entirely care what happened to him.

The story calmed everyone in the neighborhood except old Mrs. Figg, who seemed jumpier than ever. Several of her neighbors had tried to explain to her that this meant he would no longer be a danger, but she merely started to spout nonsense about some ‘great danger’ they were all in, so they left the matter alone. After all, she was a very old woman, and her mind was obviously going. More than once in the past month, she had been spotted chatting with her cats – a habit that had gotten continually worse in recent years.

At any rate, it had definitely been a quieter summer than was normal, and ‘that boy’ – known to his friends, enemies, and admirers as Harry Potter – was almost nowhere to be found. In fact, unbeknownst to any of the neighbors, he had left Privet Drive behind only a week after his return.

Hardly anybody noticed, of course. Most of the neighborhood usually ignored him or went out of their way to avoid him. Nobody actually knew the boy, of course, but there had been stories. Mrs. O’Grady swore that a strange man in a cloak and a pointed hat of all things had visited number four the previous summer, and while most of the speculation had died down, many were still convinced that he had threatened the Dursleys in some fashion.

When questioned, they became almost twitchy and would quickly change the subject. Since only Mrs. O’Grady had seen the man - and late at night at that - the neighborhood gossips quickly found other pieces of interest to chat about. The recent tragedies were definitely a big point of most conversation this summer: the strange arrests being made throughout Great Britain, the reports of random people being driven insane within minutes, and worst of all, the hurricanes that had been ripping through different parts of the country, becoming more and more frequent and violent as they went.

However, it was now the thirty-first of July, a date that marked several occasions for ‘that boy.’ The first occasion was the fact that it was his seventeenth birthday. The second occasion was the fact that at seventeen, he became of age in the wizarding world, although none of the residents of Privet Drive had any idea. The third and final occasion was the dangerous one, the one that nobody could have guessed: Now that Harry Potter was of age, he was no longer protected by the ancient and mysterious charm placed on him as a baby.

No one living in the area had any idea of what was going to happen, and the only person who could have done anything to defend them was miles away. As the sun set into the west and dusk fell upon Privet Drive, strange figures dressed in black and wearing strange masks appeared in the middle of the street with a loud, echoing crack.

Every nose was suddenly at the nearest window, staring out at the strange black-cloaked people who practically glided up to number four and – to everyone’s shock – knocked the door down. The neighbors watched in astonishment as the silhouette of Vernon Dursley marched through the living room, shouting at the robed figures.

A loud scream was heard from Petunia as a flash of green light filled the household. Several neighbors rushed for their telephones to call in an emergency, but they needn’t have bothered; it was too late. More cracking sounds came from the street, as more strange robed figures appeared. These weren’t wearing masks or hoods and appeared to be fighting the black figures with… sticks? Flashes of light were shooting: green, red, blue, white. Two more loud cracks were heard from inside number four, and suddenly something appeared, floating above the house.

Sightings Mysterious
by Kristine

Celia’s eyes opened with a snap. Blearily, she thought back to her dream, trying to figure out what had awakened her. The pony had been jumping the fence when, CRACK, something had happened. Rubbing her eyes, she gazed out her window and gasped. Terrified and kicking to untangle her six-year-old legs from her blankets, Celia stumbled out of bed. She could just make out the sound of the television downstairs. Her parents must have stayed up late again. Tripping down the stairs, she just caught herself on the rail and hopped quickly down the last two on one foot as she held her banged toes.

Her parents looked up at the noise, concern evident on their faces. “Celia, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?�

Celia hopped the rest of the way around the worn sofa, still holding her toes. “Mum! There’s something yucky outside in the sky!� Celia’s parents exchanged amused looks over her head as they lifted her to sit between them.

“Dumpling, it was probably just a bad dream,� her mother assured her kindly, stroking her hair. Then, with a shrewd look at her husband, “It was probably that McDougall boy worrying her again at the playground. He’s been telling her all sorts of frightening tales. I’ll be speaking to his mother about it first thing. Now, Celia, love,� she began, turning back down to her trembling daughter,� I’m sure…�

“No, Mum!� Celia burst out, tears creeping into her voice. “It wasn’t a dream! It’s outside my window and I want it to go away! Dad, can you make it go away?�

He gazed down into his daughter’s trusting, pleading eyes and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder before hefting himself up from the sagging cushions.

Checking his watch as he padded to the door, he stifled a yawn and turned the bolt. It was unseasonably cold again this summer, and he was not anxious to step out into the stiff breeze that had been whipping branches against the window all day. When he had moved his family to the village of Ottery St. Catchpole two years earlier, he had been disappointed when the summers had turned out dismal and foggy. Today it had been downright blustery.

Muttering about unreliable weatherman, he swung the door open and braced himself against the gale pushing him back into the house. The little town was fast asleep, with only a spattering of lights in the valley. Then, he gasped in astonishment as his gaze rested on an image in the sky, floating over the northeastern side of the village.

“Margaret, come see this!� His wife hurried out the door as the wind caught at it, nearly ripping it from her hand. Apparently, his shout had aroused the neighbors as well, and a light snapped on in an upstairs room.

She looked in bewilderment around the yard, expecting to see some vagrant animal, then gaped in horror as her eyes lit upon the image in the sky. “Robert,� she shrieked. “I’ve seen that before!�

“What?� gasped Robert, staring now at his young wife.

“Yes. I have.� He watched as fear filled her face. Margaret felt terror rise up in her as she remembered… remembered her best friend sixteen years ago.

They must have been so small, playing dolls after Adelaide’s ninth birthday party. They hadn’t known they would never see each other again. They hadn’t known that three days later Margaret’s best friend Adelaide Bones and her whole family would be killed in what the police said was some bizarre chemical accident. Margaret’s family had moved a week later.

“My father thought it was for the best,� she murmured, unconsciously hugging herself against the wind.

“What, darling?� Robert continued to gaze with concern at his wife.

“Right before we moved, when I was ten,� she said, coming back to herself. “When Adelaide died. That image was over her house. Mum said it was some freak result of the chemical explosion that killed them, but…� She let the sentence die out as a screen slammed next door.

“Mr. Diggory!� Robert shouted to his neighbor, who seemed transfixed by the image as well. “Mr. Diggory! Amos!�

Amos Diggory jerked his head toward his young neighbors, realizing with a jolt that they were calling to him.

“Amos!� Robert yelled again. “Do you know what this is about?� Robert was surprised to see his normally jovial neighbor gaping at him with terror and dread on his face.

“INTO YOUR HOUSE, MAN! IF YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR FAMILY, GET INTO YOUR HOUSE!� With surprising agility for someone nearly the age of Robert’s own father, Amos leaped over the fence separating their yards and began ushering, almost shoving them back towards their house.

Too shocked to argue, they allowed themselves to be herded roughly through their door. “Don’t come out until you hear from me!� Robert and Margaret exchanged amazed looks as Diggory leapt off their porch and back over the fence.

“What can it mean, Robert?� Margaret gripped his arm, her eyes filled with fear. He had no answer for her.

There was a large CRACK and they rushed to look out the window. Diggory was gone.

Moments later, on the far side of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, Amos Diggory was banging on the door of an oddly shaped house.

“WEASLEY!! ARTHUR WEASLEY!� He shouted desperately as he continued his assault on the door. A light flickered on inside as a bleary-eyed man with tousled red hair and cockeyed horn-rimmed glasses peered through a slit in the door.

“Amos? Is that you? It’s after midnight. Can’t this...�

“Arthur! They’ve been here, in the village! They must have gotten the Lovegoods or the Fawcetts, I couldn’t tell which!� He thrust open the door, wrenching Arthur Weasley out by his nightshirt, gesticulating wildly at the image in the sky: an image of an enormous skull with a snake slithering horribly out of its mouth.

“No…� breathed Arthur. “The Dark Mark.�

The Return Home
by Cindy


Blinding sunshine pierced the August morning as insects’ buzzing and birds’ twittering greeted the new day. This nice, quiet neighborhood street hummed with these sounds of summer and much more: children squealing excitedly in back yards, splashing through sprinklers where the shouts of football and rugby could be heard quite clearly. No one noticed the tall, raven-haired young man who walked in the gutter. Where he had come from, no one would have been able to say as he had just appeared out of thin air. He stepped out immediately with purpose, past well-kept lawns and cars, down towards the end on the lane, a small lot on the outskirts of the little village.

He stopped at the gate as he reached the property and glanced at a shabby, charred sign, overgrown with vines and nettles, which, even through the mess, proudly proclaimed the land to be “Godric's Hollow� with a lion rampant below, so life-like that one would think it to roar at any moment. But it, along with the wooden sign, stood sadly still as young man looked further to the rubble that once was a fine house. A battered fence surrounded the place where wood and stone littered the lot, untouched for almost sixteen years, with the occasional piece of furniture or sink jutting up, severely damaged.

It's odd, Harry thought as he wiped away a dark lock of unruly hair, revealing a lightning-bolt scar, that no one has bothered to clear it away. Then he adjusted his round glasses, pushed the gate open, and soldiered on, climbing though the splintered boards, carefully picking through crushed pebbles, and headed for what seemed to be the epicenter of the damage.

"This must be where it happened," he said aloud, quietly. He squatted down and touched his hand to the burned carpet as a single tear trickled down his cheek.

Suddenly, he stood up quickly and whirled on the spot, facing the street. "You can come out now," he shouted. "I heard you two back at that oak tree. I thought I told you to stay away."

As he said this, a young woman with brown hair and a young man with flaming red hair appeared at the gate, as if tearing off a sheet.

"Sorry, Harry. She made me come," said Ron, who was quickly jabbed in the ribs by Hermione.

"You know very well no one should be alone these days! I'm sorry, Harry, but I honestly didn't think it was safe. I thought we could - "

" - come to my side in case I need saving?" snapped Harry.

"And come to be there for you!" she defended. "I think you may need support in one way or another today. No one should do this alone, Harry - no matter what you’ve got to do in the end."

Harry turned and grumbled and continued to explore the remains.

As they all sorted and shifted the materials, Harry discovered bits and pieces of an odd thing here or there and pocketed them. Nothing was of any real importance, just a hairbrush or a couple grimy knuts, but it was worth it to have, just for a while, the only remnants of his parents left.

Then he found something he couldn't have ever imagined. The magic was reeking from it as he approached and he could sense it before he actually saw or touched it. He lifted a blackened shingle and underneath it found a mirror. It seemed to be nothing more than a looking glass, with a beautiful, silver ornate frame that glittered and shined like a beacon in the sunlight.

Somehow in this pile of wreckage where not one thing was spared from destruction, this mirror somehow managed to survive from not only from being cracked, but to be completely whole and polished clean, as if someone had maintained it every day for the entirety of its life. He almost thought one of them had dropped it here by mistake. He cradled it in his hands with reverence as he peered into his reflection. Vivid green eyes stared back as Hermione and Ron came closer to have a better look.

"What is it?" said Ron as he peered over Harry’s shoulder.

"I dunno," said Harry. "Just a mirror, I guess," he finished lamely.

"Just a mirror?" said Hermione incredulously. "Can't you feel the magic coming from this thing? I mean, even a Muggle would know something was dodgy about this."

But Harry didn’t hear her. He had noticed something. He stared at his face in the mirror in absolute disbelief: His scar was gone. His hand raced to his forehead as he felt the faint line against his fingers, but yet he saw nothing but smooth, untouched skin in the mirror. Hermione, who saw him slap his brow, spoke.

“What? Is it your scar? Is he close?" she said in slight panic.

"No, nothing like that,� said Harry, vaguely annoyed. “He knows how to stop that now. Quick, tell me, is my scar still there?"

"What?" said Ron, confused, "Of course it is, Harry. What are you talking about?"

"Look in the mirror!"

He watched their faces widen in surprise as they saw that there was no trace of Harry's scar left anywhere to be found in his reflection.

"What is this?" they all whispered.

“Harry, look,� said Hermione in an awed and slightly frightened voice, as she pointed to an edge of the object.

“That isn’t - no,� breathed Ron. But it was. Engraved upon it as ornately as the frame (it nearly blended in) were two words - a name:

Godric Gryffindor

by Craig


Dinner at the Dursleys’ house was always a quiet affair and this Friday was no different. Harry Potter was used to eating his dinner in silence; after all, his Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and cousin Dudley were no more anxious to be in his presence than he in theirs. But the reason for the complete silence at the Dursley dinner table this Friday was something new.

“… and another six were pronounced dead at the scene,� the breathless television announcer finished. “This marks the worst day for murders in London history.�

The anchorman paused, blinked twice, took a deep breath, and resumed. “We now go live to the scene of a second shocking series of unexplained homicides.�

The news report cut away to a reporter standing in front of a small country cottage.

“I’m Dan Shane, reporting from Godric’s Hollow,� intoned the lanky, young reporter. “Police are at a loss for words today, and, frankly, I am too. The death toll in this small, rural village is simply shocking, and the authorities can’t explain who – or what – is behind these killings.�

Four members of the Dursley household sat at the table in their home at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, watching the report, and all four responded in ways that would have told a visitor – had there been one, which on this occasion there was not – a lot about each of them.

Dudley Dursley set his meaty elbows on the table, hunkered his broad shoulders over his plate, aimed his snout downward, and shoveled food forkful after forkful into his greedy mouth, apparently unaware of the TV report, the television, his mother, his father, and Harry.

Vernon Dursley was nearly comic in his reaction. A bite of pork chop, dripping applesauce, hovered in mid-air. He stared, open-mouthed, at the television, equally unaware of his dinner companions.

Petunia Dursley seemed to shrink into herself as she alternated horrified glances between the television set and her nephew, Harry.

And as Harry Potter absently rubbed the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he also stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t even listening to Dan Shane. He already knew what had happened, and he knew that Dan Shane would never report the true events of that morning.

At a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, Harry had picked up the copy of The Daily Prophet that his pet owl, Hedwig, had delivered earlier that morning, and he casually opened it. There, cowering beside a bed and trembling with fear, were his parents in full color. Seeing that would have been bad enough for Harry; what made it worse was the fact that his parents were dead and had been for sixteen years.

The headline blazed itself into Harry’s consciousness: “More Murders At Godric’s Hollow,� and Harry, though by now an accomplished wizard who had faced Lord Voldemort on four separate occasions, felt sick to his stomach and dropped the paper. When he could marshal his senses, he read the caption and understood that war had come to the wizarding world: “Eighteen Muggles, including three children, were killed in Godric’s Hollow last night. The attack comes nearly sixteen years after James and Lily Potter (shown in an artist’s rendition) were killed by Lord Voldemort. Sources in the Ministry of Magic confirm that Voldemort was behind yesterday’s attacks as well.�

The date on the newspaper, August 1, reminded Harry of another important event: his birthday. Yesterday, Harry Potter had turned seventeen. Yesterday, Harry Potter had received his official Apparition License from the Ministry. Yesterday, Harry Potter had received three birthday cards, two birthday cakes, and three packages of birthday gifts. Yesterday, James and Lily Potter were a memory and a motivation to Harry. Yesterday, war was distant.

All of that changed once Harry Potter opened The Daily Prophet. Now, Harry Potter realized that war was here and that he was needed.

So, when Harry Potter sat at dinner on the evening of August 1, his thoughts were not about the events in number four, Privet Drive. His thoughts were about his friends: Ron and Hermione; his girlfriend, Ginny; his friend, Hagrid; and those relatives and mentors of his who had died in fighting Voldemort’s forces: his mother and father; Sirius Black, his godfather; and, most recently, Professor Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He thought back to Dumbledore’s funeral, to Hagrid’s echoing sobs, to the broad assortment of mourners, to the long lament of Dumbledore’s phoenix, Fawkes. His reverie was interrupted by the news report.

“… with no leads to go on and the bizarre manners of death,� intoned Shane, “some residents are saying that the attacks seemed caused by magic.�

That last word triggered a chain reaction in Uncle Vernon. First, his face turned an unappealing shade of purple. Then, he dropped his fork, spattering applesauce on the tablecloth. Next, he swung around to face Harry and began to sputter and cough as if his words had to fight their way to the surface. Finally, he roared at Harry, “You!�

Harry’s words shot out rapid-fire. “You have no idea what’s happening, Uncle! You have no idea what kind of trouble we are all in. You talk about how heroic Britain was in World War II. This is going to make World War II look like a schoolyard tussle.� As he shouted at his uncle, Harry left the table and marched out of the room.

Before he reached the stairs, Harry turned, unconsciously gripping his wand, and resumed the offensive: “It’s not magic that’s bad, Uncle Vernon; it’s dark magic that’s bad. Evil, wicked wizards are killing good people because most of us are too scared or too blinded or too stupid to do anything about it. Well, I’m not. My mum and dad were killed because they were willing to stand up against the dark forces. Because they were good!�

Harry turned and climbed the stairs to his room, leaving behind his only relatives in this world.

Harry Potter and the Seal of Merlin
Chapter One: Bonds of Magic and Love
by Janet

It was with a great deal of hesitation that the secretary of the Minister of Magic took a carefully preened eagle quill from his desk, dipped it in a fountain, and wrote in careful script an address upon a plain and ordinary looking piece of parchment. The words danced under the dull light of candles, drifting into odd symbols and pictures before finally settling down. Watching the green ink dry so as to avoid smearing, he took the paper, folded it once, then twice, then again, until it formed the unsealed foundation of an envelope.

A seal for a seal, he thought ironically, waving his wand and muttering a simple incantation to imbue the paper with magical properties. The parchment glowed in his hands, simmering along the edges like hot coals until he could tug at it with all his strength with no fear that the bond would give.

Then, from inside a drawer, he withdrew one last item and set it before him on the desk.

The secretary gazed at the second piece of parchment, and a great many questions ran through his mind. Oh, but how the Ministry had fought over something so simple, he wondered with a shake of his head. How the counsel had found itself divided, in an uproar even, over what appeared to be nothing more than an old and yellowed letter. How they had tried, each of them in turn, to claim it for their own purposes.

How Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic himself, had been forced to bow to the wishes of a man who, even in death, still caused Scrimgeour to grow red in the face with frustration and anger.

For, in the end, a law was a law, and a will was a will, and soon Scrimgeour himself had been forced to bow to the wishes of the dead, and had passed the letter on to his secretary for proper delivery to its proper recipient.

Worn hands and calluses now held it tightly, shaking ever so slightly, as the secretary slid the letter, red wax seal and all, into the envelope. For the briefest of moments, he could have sworn that from inside the folded parcel he saw a flicker of light, like a star in the night sky. Just as quickly there was nothing but darkness, and the letter was sealed with another quick swoop of a wand and put back into the drawer for safe-keeping. The wooden cabinet banged softly as it slid into place, causing the shadows in the room to dance as the candles swayed and flickered dangerously.

Realizing that he had been holding his breath, the secretary let it out slowly, gave a tiny laugh, and drew forth a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. He hadn’t noticed that, either; he had been more concerned with the letter, and what the magical properties it contained would have done to him had he disobeyed orders that may as well have been written with blood.

For, as he thought with a trace of apprehension, a vow was a vow, and magic was magic. Not Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry of Magic, nor the entire wizarding world, could stop it from happening - not now that the letter was sealed away safe, hidden and locked for a week until it was time for it to be mailed.

Magic itself, like the magic that had sealed the envelope and had bonded it to the young man whose name was written in ink, would set the letter on its due and proper course. Nothing in the world was stronger than a bond, especially one of magic and of love. The Unspeakables from the Department of Mystery often alluded to such things, though they spoke in general terms so as not to reveal their secrets. The secretary thought there was a bit of both hidden in his desk drawer; a bond born of a love of magic, for all those who used magic . . .

And even those who did not.

So it was by love that if, by Albus Dumbledore’s last wish, the recently passed wizard’s most valuable and prized possession was to be delivered to a Mr. Harry James Potter upon the midnight hours of the last day of July, then it would be done.

by Jessie

It had been years since anyone had visited the old manor. The last time anyone had lived there was before the accident, when the Potter house was still standing, fully intact.

The residents of Godric's Hollow were at a loss to explain why the lot had never been sold away. As far as anyone could tell, the young couple who lived there had no close family. They had had a small son, but no one had been told what happened to him. They could only assume that he had perished along with his parents in the explosion. No, the only explanation that seemed plausible was people were still too frightened by the house's history.

Most families had moved away after it happened, ("If there were one explosion, who's to say it won't happen again?") but the few couples that stayed never missed a chance to tell the story.

It was just before sunrise when the villagers had seen a tall man with long, flowing black robes coming down the street. The man had walked up the steps of the Potters', and by the light of the full moon, they saw the man raise his right hand in front of him. The door flew open, as of some unseen force had blown it.

The neighbors had come out to see what was going on once they started hearing yelling and banging from within the house. Afraid to get too close, all they could do was stand back and watch as there was a bright green light, and the house collapsed right in front of them. The man who had entered before did not come out.

The wreckage had been cleared away a few days later, and the Potters (as well as their son and the cloaked figure, the villagers could only assume,) were buried in the old graveyard just north of them.

So that was it. The spot where the manor had once been was now thick with weeds, and it would have been impossible to guess that something so tragically- well- strange could have happened there all those years ago.

There had, however, been a man who seemed to have known the Potters, who had come back every few years. None of the villagers had spoken to him, but they had all watched him, peeking behind curtains and cracking the door open, just a tad, all wanting to get a good look at him. He had dull, mousy brown hair with streaks of gray, and they noticed he always seemed to be a little bit ill when he came.

The last time anyone had seen the man had been three years previously. The local parents had had to stop the younger children from going out to greet him, for he had had an enormous, beast-like black dog with him, and they feared that the creature could attack at any time. The man and his dog had stayed longer that day than any of the villagers could remember before.

Now the man was back. This time, he didn't have the dog with him. Instead, beside him stood a woman with violently violet hair, her hand locked with his. The neighbor watched as the pair walked through the weeds, not talking, just...being there. Being together.

And yet, the villagers noticed, there was something different about the man. He looked less sickly than he had on his last visits, and while both had tears streaming down their faces, their eyes still showed signs of- there was no other word for it- joy. They seemed to find comfort in each other, something that even the residents of Godric's Hollow all agreed, was one of the greatest things anyone could hope for in times like these.

Chapter 1- The Headmistress's Duty
by Loren


Professor Minerva McGonagall stopped at the statue of the gargoyle within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She adjusted her skirt, took a deep sigh, and said clearly, "Pepper Imps."

The gargoyle's wings opened up to reveal a grand, stone, spiral staircase. She walked briskly upwards and opened the door at the top.

The room before her was a magnificent one; filled with glittering gadgets, ancient artifacts and a vast array of dusty books. The room itself had an air about it as if someone very important had lived there; this room had housed every Headmaster and Headmistress that Hogwarts had ever seen, including Professor Albus Dumbledore.

Professor McGonagall ambled over to the desk. Where there was once a plaque with Dumbledore's name stood one with HEADMISTRESS M. MCGONAGALL scrawled across it elegantly.

She sat down and sighed again- she had made a habit of sighing lately. Dumbledore's death had placed the weight of the world on her shoulders. She had always fancied herself a strong woman- one had to be, being second in command of the largest Wizarding school in Europe- but that was with Dumbledore in charge. He was the one that everyone looked to in a time of crisis; the irony was that now he was gone, the Wizarding World was in the midst of the worst crisis imaginable.

Professor McGonagall looked out the window. It was one of the clearest days that she had ever remembered seeing at Hogwarts. The sky was shockingly blue, with wisps of powder white clouds drifting by lazily. The vibrant green hills rolled across the grounds towards the sparkling lake. From a distance, she heard the familiar whistling of a steam engine, which could only mean one thing: It was the first of September.

She rose from her seat. Soon, the hordes of students, old and new alike, would be making their way up to the castle. She walked over to a glittering gold mirror in the corner of the room in order to check her reflection. As she pinned back a stray hair, she froze. From the corner of her eye, she thought she had seen... No, no... She must have been imagining things. The frame next to her was empty. Reassured, she turned on her heel and began to walk out.

"But, Minerva, where are you going in such a hurry?" a voice said.

Professor McGonagall stopped dead in her tracks and whipped around. She knew that voice, but she hadn’t heard it for many months. It was the voice of Albus Dumbledore.

She briskly walked over to the corner of the room and saw, very clearly, what she thought she had seen only a moment ago. A portrait of Albus Dumbledore, complete with a long, white beard, half- moon spectacles and twinkling blue eyes, was smiling back at her from under a handsome bronze frame.

"Albus!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed, in a tone of shock, excitement, apprehension, and sadness all in one.

Dumbledore kept smiling. "Yes, it is I, Minerva... Or rather... my portrait."

Professor McGonagall nearly toppled over, grabbing the end of a table for support. "Dear Merlin..." she whispered. "But... but Albus, why haven't you.... spoken before?"

"Our paintings do not immediately come alive after our deaths," Dumbledore explained. "I remember when Headmaster Dippet passed on, he didn’t return to us for over a year.�

“It’s nice to be on holiday,� a portrait across the room interrupted bitterly. “It’s a bit too busy in here sometimes. I used to enjoy a good nap; it’s impossible now that there’s people swarming in like bees every minute...�

“That’s enough, Armando,� Dumbledore said commandingly. “Anyway, Minerva, I found today to be a particularly important day to strike up a conversation with you.�

“The start of term,� Professor McGonagall mumbled, almost to herself.

“Naturally,� Dumbledore replied simply. "Things have changed at this school since I left. It won’t be easy. However, I want you to know that you have my entire confidence.�

Professor McGonagall examined the lines in Dumbledore’s ancient face... they seemed to be alive, moving as though etched into human flesh... but they were merely the strokes of a paintbrush.

“Albus,� she began shakily. “I don’t know if I can do it. You were always the one that was good at these things, good at keeping control and normalcy....�

Dumbledore laughed. “I was the one who was good at those things? Please, Minerva, let me refresh your memory. I was the one who hired a teacher who was housing Lord Voldemort underneath his turban. I was the one who allowed the memory of Tom Riddle to re-open the Chamber of Secrets. I was the one who allowed the Triwizard Tournament to be tampered with, causing the death of a student. I was the one who allowed Voldemort to control Harry Potter through legilimency. I was the one who allowed Death Eaters inside this school.� Dumbledore’s face looked sad and regretful.

“But Albus, those things were out of your control,� Professor McGonagall pleaded. “No one could have foreseen...�

“No,� Dumbledore interrupted. “But that does not erase them from history. It is up to you too keep this school in order, and other things will be taken care of in other ways.�

Professor McGonagall clutched her heart. “You don’t mean... Harry Potter?�

Dumbledore nodded. “The very one. I have known for seventeen years that this time would come, Minerva. It’s Harry’s duty to save the world... As for you, you must save this school.�

Suddenly, there was a tap at the door. Dumbledore winked at Professor McGonagall as she walked over to open it.

“Minerva, the students are arriving,� said the squeaky voice of Professor Flitwick.

“All right, Filius,� she replied. “I’ll meet you down there.�

As she shut the door, she turned around to face Dumbledore’s portrait one more time.

“Albus, I-� she began, but only the top of an ancient white head could be seen. The portrait was suddenly fast asleep, snoring loudly.

by Matt

"Professor...where are we?"

"Someplace safe. For the time being."

Draco looked at the humble surroundings and for a moment thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Besides that oaf Hagrid's poor excuse for a home, he had never seen such awful living conditions. His gaze fell on Professor Snape. The head of Slytherin house (or former head now, Draco supposed) was opening cabinets and filling his robes with all manner of odds and ends. Draco immediately recognized these as potion ingredients. Then it struck him.

"Professor...is this your house?" he asked. The thought was absurd, but Snape was clearly familiar with the surroundings.

Snape turned on him and held him with the same fierce gaze he had as he ran Draco out of Hogwarts and across the grounds. The sharp nose stood out in the confined space and managed to make the professor more menacing than usual. "Technically, yes. It was my childhood home. What there was of it." The last was more of an afterthought and, Draco thought, not meant for him. As he watched Snape busy himself, the events of that evening started to catch up with him. It all did not seem real. He wondered what Voldemort would do to him - and his family - for his failure. He had to try to play this off somehow.

"I would have done it, you know," Draco spat out. "You just wanted the credit for yourself. I was in control of the situation."

Snape turned on Draco like a whip and pinned him against the wall by the throat. "Listen good, young Malfoy, if you want to maintain the shred of sanity you have left in that spoiled head of yours." Snape leaned in close. "The Dark Lord will not be fooled by your petty lies. Your thoughts are an open door to him. There is no hiding behind your father or your wealth. You will be as exposed and raw as if you were a newborn child. I am your only hope of surviving. Remember that and treat me with the respect I deserve! You can start by not lying to me. I would expect that of Potter, but not of you." He let Draco drop to the floor unceremoniously and continued his search.

Draco picked himself off the floor, rubbing his throat. Professor Snape had never spoken to him like that before, much less been violent. He found a chair at the bare wood table in the middle of the room and climbed into it. Draco figured he did not have much choice but to trust him. After all, hadn't the professor proven beyond a doubt that he still worked for Voldemort? To Voldemort, killing Dumbledore would be the ultimate act of loyalty. Clearly, he had underestimated Professor Snape.

The professor was now standing in front of the door, examining the room. His eyes were darting this way and that as if he was counting something in his head. His mind seemingly made up he walked over the far side of the room and grabbed Draco by the arm.

“We should be leaving,� Snape announced and pulled Draco out of the chair. Draco suddenly felt panicked. He was not prepared to face Voldemort yet. He needed time – and advice. This was too soon.

“Wh-wh-“ Draco started and found it difficult to even speak.

“We’re not going to visit the Dark Lord, if that’s what has you speechless,� Professor Snape responded. Draco felt a moment’s relief at this and felt his heart settle back in his chest.

“Where then?� he asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Hang tight to my arm and concentrate on Disapparating.� Draco shut his eyes and focused. He felt that familiar pulling feeling and before he knew it, the smell of dust and mold was replaced by the scent of oiled wood. He opened his eyes to an elaborate living area. An enormous fireplace crackled and furniture of exquisite quality adorned the room.

“Severus. Nice to see you again, sir. I trust all went as planned.� Draco turned to see none other than Rufus Scrimgeour walking toward them. Draco noticed he looked tired and strained. Despite this, he was still an imposing figure.

“Indeed,� Snape said and looked at the floor. Scrimgeour patted Professor Snape on the back and led them all toward the fire.

“You did what had to be done. He knew what he was doing. You have to have faith in him.�

“My faith was never in question,� Snape responded. “It didn’t make the task any more bearable.� Scrimgeour gave Snape a weak smile and nodded quietly.

“You’re going to the funeral then, I take it?� Snape asked.

“Oh, most certainly. It would look out-of-place if I wasn’t there. While I am there, I think I will give Harry one more test to see where his loyalties are. Couldn’t hurt.�

“Where is he?� Snape asked. Scrimgeour looked confused for a moment until Snape looked down at Draco.

“Ah, yes. This way. In the library,� Scrimgeour replied and led them to a door at the far end of the room. Scrimgeour opened the door and stepped aside. Draco looked at Snape for help.

"The business in there is yours, Draco. You should see to it," Snape said and walked back into the living room with Scrimgeour.

Draco slowly stepped into the library. The door shut behind him of its own accord. The room had rows upon rows of ancient texts that led to a window on the far side. Staring out the window was a man with long, silver-blond hair and a black cloak. Draco's mouth fell open when the man turned around and for the second time that day he was rendered speechless.

"Hello, Draco. I hear you've been trying your best to make your father proud." With a flick of his wand, Lucius Malfoy caught his son in mid-air before he hit the floor.

Black as Death
by Mendax

On the outskirts of London, in the parlor of a rickety old mansion, Draco Malfoy was shaking--violently shaking.

The house itself seemed to sway in the strong winds of the thunderstorm that had been raging for over an hour now, and the occasional groan could be heard from the framework of the structure. To put it bluntly, the mansion was ancient. It had been passed down from generation to generation for well over a century, but Draco didn’t know any of that. It was, after all, a Muggle’s house. As far as anyone knew, the usual inhabitants were gone on some sort of vacation.

This was the chosen meeting place, and Draco thought desperately to himself that he would rather be anywhere else than there. He shivered again, the chills coursing through his body having nothing to do with the cold moisture that was gradually seeping through the thin walls of his current sanctuary. Or perhaps his prison.

On the other side of the room, Severus Snape sipped wine delicately, his expression stony and unreadable as he stared at Draco, sizing him up over the rim of his glass. Where others might have been disgusted, Draco found himself awestruck at the lack of emotion on Snape’s part, considering that his hands would be stained forever by the blood of the only man who had ever truly cared about his well-being. That, he thought, is a Death Eater.

Draco looked away, his face suddenly burning with shame and fury.

All his life, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had towered over Draco as impressive figures, and he had long dreamed of one day serving alongside him. Everything about the life of a Death Eater had seemed magnificent, glamorous: the power, the wealth, the prestige, the look of terror that always flickered across the innocents’ faces at the sound of his name and at the sight of that writhing tattoo, black as the death it symbolized. It had been his greatest ambition for as long as he could remember--to glance down at his own pale wrist and see the Dark Mark emblazoned there. A sense of wistful yearning bubbled up inside his battered heart even now at the thought, until the sensation faded to leave him feeling robbed.

Robbed of the Dark Lord’s favor.

That night should’ve been his time to shine. It was his job, not Snape’s; the filthy glory-hunter had no right to muddle around in Draco’s business anyway. He knew what he was doing; he was no child.

It hadn’t, however, been as simple, as easy as he had thought it to be. The satisfaction of having successfully done the Dark Lord’s bidding had been faint - if present at all that night. The accomplishment he should’ve felt at leading the Death Eaters in the battles inside Hogwarts was not as great as he would have expected.

And there was nothing glamorous about killing someone.

As he turned this thought over in his mind, he was ashamed to admit that he felt slightly relieved that he had not had to kill Dumbledore. He wasn’t entirely sure that he could’ve done it, actually. The same indecision that had paralyzed him earlier plagued him even now at the memory, and another shudder racked his body.

Draco jumped, startled, as lighting flashed to match the roll of thunder outside in the midst of the storm. Instinctively, his gaze shifted to the foggy window on the far side of the room, his icy gray eyes scanning the scrubby woods surrounding the mansion for the silhouette of the dreaded figure--for him.

The Dark Lord’s arrival was inevitable, as they had already made arrangements for the short meeting that was to take place in the house. Now Draco, Snape, and the other three surviving Death Eaters who had struggled out of Hogwarts’ grounds only hours before were awaiting his arrival with anticipation and, above all, fear.

Draco did not know what to expect. He had never spoken to the Dark Lord in person--actually, he had never even seen him. He knew that he would be punished for the weakness he had displayed that night, but when--or how severely--he knew not. He might be reprimanded, tortured, or brutally murdered; there was no way to say for sure which he would choose.

He can’t kill me, can he? thought Draco hopefully. I mean, it was I who figured out how to use and fix the Vanishing Cabinets, I who led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, I who remained loyal throughout. He glanced cautiously across the room at Snape, his gaze concealed under half-lidded eyes, and thought, I could just tell him that Snape wanted all the glory…that he killed Dumbledore himself before I even had a chance…

The thought had hardly occurred to him before he discarded it rather feverishly, knowing good and well that the Dark Lord would know he was lying. Not only was he a practiced Legilimens, but…he was so powerful that Draco had heard the other Death Eaters whispering about him. About how he could see in your eyes if you were hiding something… He could sense a lie…could sense treachery… He didn’t even need to use Legilimency half of the time.

Outside, the rain was lashing hard against the windows now, so it was difficult to make out any detail of the forested surroundings. Draco didn’t mind. He would rather not have to look, rather not have to see…

Draco pulled up his left sleeve to reveal the coveted Dark Mark etched into his fragile skin, and felt the blood drain from his own face. A skull…a symbol of death. That was what it meant. That was his duty. As a follower of the Dark Lord, that was his job: to kill those his master wished dead. And Dumbledore’s words came back to him unbidden, leaving an unpleasant ringing in his ears and a sick feeling in his stomach:

"You are not a killer, Draco."

The Photograph
by Morgan


It was cold in the cave by the sea. The dark-cloaked man sat in the little wooden boat continued to stare at the small rock island in the middle of the murky green lake. Finally, the boat bumped into the rocky shore with a dull thump.

He hesitated for a moment, his face shrouded by his cloak’s hood. He was daring to do what he had once thought impossible: challenging the Dark Lord. It chilled him to the bone to know what Voldemort had done, had been capable of doing and what he would do to him once he found out the he, Regulus Black, had stolen his Slytherin Horcrux. But resolve had already settled in his heart, and the young man clambered out of the small boat and onto the island.

A huge chalice full of greenish potion sat in the very center of the black island. The youngest Black walked slowly, like a man being led to the gallows, towards it. He withdrew his wand and with a shaking hand began to prod at the great cup, testing, probing; he eventually found that he could not touch the potion at all.

“Oh, you are clever, my Lord,� he whispered harshly to himself. “But I found your secret. I know what can stop you.� He took a deep breath, and then began to rifle through his pocket, looking for something. Several minutes later, he withdrew a very old, folded piece of paper with neat, flowing handwriting. The eerie glow from the chalice illuminated the small paragraph:

Horcruxes art creationes so fowle an badde that thou wilt not bee tolde of them. I simplee wilt saye that too meke one ist a haynous cryme, an moor than one the unnaturel destrucshonne of the soule. To creayte Horcruxes in plurall woode be the ultimete sacrifise of thy humanitye, an the beginninge of madnesse. Mortalness is best compayred too the halft-liefe lieved bye Horcrux-mekers.


Regulus had found this scrap of fifteenth century manuscript in the great Welsh manor where Voldemort had resided for much of his rein of terror. He read it over and over again, recalling that moment many years ago when he had realized the terrible truth.

“But I won’t rest,� he growled into the silent darkness, “until you’re mortal like me, my Lord. When you are defeated….� But he did not continue. He folded the page and stuffed it back into his deep pocket, but something made him pause. He withdrew a heavy golden locket and caressed it lovingly. Regulus opened it delicately, and his shadowed eyes glistened slightly in the ghostly light.

Inside rested a small photograph of a young woman holding a newborn child. She was smiling joyously and the baby was laughing for the camera. Moving in the picture (as all wizard portraits tend to do), she kissed the baby’s forehead and waved at the photographer.

“He’ll pay,� he murmured to himself, tracing the woman’s face with a single thin finger, “for taking you away from me. And when he finds me and kills me, we’ll be together. You, me, and our baby girl.� And he kissed the photograph so tenderly the thick air seemed to resonate with his love.

He whipped around suddenly, the locket in one hand and his wand in the other. Regulus created a large goblet in midair and thrust it at the chalice full of potion. When the cup was brimming with the unnaturally glowing liquid, he raised it up as though he were toasting an invisible stranger.

“For you, my love,� he whispered, staring at his golden locket. And he drained the cup dry.

Then he began to transform. He grew taller, and his right hand withered and charred without any fire. His robes flowed and billowed behind him, except Regulus Black was not standing there anymore. Professor Albus Dumbledore stood in his place.

“NO!�

***

Harry Potter woke violently in his small room at number four, Privet Drive. His eyes were filled with unshed tears and his body was misted in icy sweat. Shivering uncontrollably, he ripped his way from under the blanket and began pacing up and down in his room. This dream, so unlike the others of his past, had also terrified him more than the rest. To watch Dumbledore about to be tortured by that vile potion when it was still so soon after his death… It was a fate not worth contemplating.

And who had that man been? He was most certainly R.A.B., the mysterious person who had found (and hopefully, destroyed) the locket in the cavern by the sea years before Harry and Dumbledore had found it. Deep within, Harry was very curious; he wished the man had lowered his hood so he could see who he had been.

“It was just a dream,� Harry whispered shakily to himself. He went to his window and looked out into the quiet neighborhood, whose streetlamps were not proving very effective against the summer fog. “Just a dream.�

Anxious and alone, Harry went to his desk and picked up a quill. He inked it and began to write down everything he remembered from the dream. Hermione had told him it might be good for future analyzing.

“A dream diary could also help stop the dreams from coming back,� Hermione had added. “When you get them, you’ll know how they turn out and you can fight them in your sleep.�
“How d’you fight a dream while you’re still sleeping?� Ron had asked. “You’d have to be psychic, or –�
“Stop talking, Ron.�

Harry grinned slightly at the memory. Then his grin turned to a frown as he continued his task. It took him nearly an hour to seek every detail from the corners of his mind.

But the face of the happy young woman and her baby would not leave his head.

The Clock Strikes by Phoenixfire

The air around the shadowy figure was stagnant and warm and seemed to have let loose little of the day’s nearly unbearable heat. With eyes as green as emeralds, the shadow watched the lonely street, his mind deep in thought. He could just imagine this same street sixteen years in the past, when a small shadow, a large shadow, and a tall shadow had delivered a baby on the doorstep of the house he currently resided in. He had been that baby; he could not remember that day, though it had marked the start of his imprisonment under the Dursleys.

Nearly five years prior he had stood at this same window, though it had been barred to prevent him from escaping. A small smile lit the corners of his mouth as he thought of the flying car that had yanked the bars away.

His eyes turned to the sky, as if he expected to see that car or some other object flying his way. Not even the ghostly owl named Hedwig flew these skies, for the shadow had sent her to deliver mail to members of the Order. Why was their carefully laid plan falling apart now? There were supposed to be several members of the Order arriving days before, but they had never showed up.

Behind him he heard a loud snore, though he didn’t need to turn around to see who was there. His two best friends, Ron and Hermione, had kept their promise to stay with him until he fulfilled his destiny.

Destiny. The word sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced at the alarm clock sitting on the stand next to his old bed, and realized that he only had fifteen more minutes before he was seventeen.

Dumbledore. Before his… Before his death, he had told the shadow that the protection that his aunt’s ‘hospitality’ had given him would be diminished when he became an adult. Wizards became adults at seventeen… He had only fifteen more minutes of protection, and then… Then he didn’t know what would happen.

Would Voldemort, the terror of the wizarding world, Apparate right in front of him and finish him off as quickly as possible? Would Death Eaters swarm from all around, the traitorous, murderous Snape in the lead? The thought of the former Potions master filled the shadow with a cold desire to destroy. How could Dumbledore ever have trusted that snake?

He glanced back at the clock. Ten minutes. His eyes still hard from the memory of the Headmaster’s death, he looked back to the silent street. Would he be ready if danger came to knock at his door? He turned away and began to pace the room, the minutes until the spell was lifted waning down like a dying candle. Seven minutes. What would Dumbledore be doing now, in his place? Six minutes. Would the Order come when the magic died and Harry was left more venerable than ever before? Five minutes. He would leave in the morning, first to a celebration of life in a marriage of one of the Weasley’s, and then in a dark voyage of death from which he had no guarantee to return. Four minutes. Why did the seconds stretch longer as the moment drew nearer? Three minutes.

He could stand it no longer. He stopped pacing and took a glance out the window. The street was still deserted. He half wished he could see giant eyes staring up at him from under a bush, not symbolizing a Grim but a determination his godfather Sirius could bring.

Two minutes. He turned away and stalked across the room. Either they had only been pretending to sleep or they had wakened, for Ron and Hermione had followed at his heels. He didn’t say a word to them – there was a silent understanding. He wanted to go outside to meet any danger, and they would be right there, standing by him like they had promised.

One minute. Down the stairs they flew, skipping over the squeaking one, and then rushing to the door that led outside. A groan came from upstairs – well, the shadow just didn’t care about his Uncle Vernon at the moment. There were things far more important to worry about.

Half a minute. The shadow looked down both sides of the street, though, as he had expected, they were silent and still. But he felt deep down in his skin that the instant he turned seventeen, strange things would happen. Who would come first – the Order or the Death Eaters?

He glanced down at his watch, though he seemed to have left it upstairs. Behind him, however, a small voice whispered, “Midnight.� His strangely shaped scar burned slightly. He turned around to face Hermione, and then Ron, silently asking if each were ready, and receiving the same silent reply that they were.

Harry Potter then heard a popping sound down the street, followed by many more. Order or Death Eaters? he wondered again as he spun around to face them.

by Stacey


If there was one thing that could be said about the derelict little town that contained a street called Spinner’s End, it would be that, if on the off chance that you were perhaps on the run from wizarding law - or any other law for that matter - it would be the last place on earth that anyone would come looking for you.

Spinner’s End was the last signposted street in a long line of very similar looking streets with very similar looking houses, complete with garbage strewn walkways and gutters. The place had a strange sense of abandonment. Not a single person could be seen either outside or within their homes, for the windows of all the houses were so encrusted with grime that even if there were people living in them, there would be no chance of seeing them from the outside, or for them to see anything from the inside. And this was exactly what the man who appeared out of thin air liked most about Spinner’s End.

Quiet and privacy . . . Especially now.

The man was tall and thin, and what could be seen of his face through his long, dark and greasy hair was pale. He carried a wand that he did not bother to hide because he knew no one would be around to notice it anyway.

There was a smaller man - no, a boy, almost a man - in tow, and he couldn't have been more different from the one that was leading him up the winding street. He was also pale, but in a more sickly manner, his blond hair sleek and shiny and slicked back. He also carried a wand, and he was gripping it so tightly it looked like it was about to snap. His eyes were icy gray and wide with fright as opposed to the taller man’s, who had just swept his hair away from his narrowed, dark ones.

The dark-haired man lead his companion to the very last house. It seemed that the younger man had had enough, however, for he tried to tug his arm out of the dark-haired man’s grip.

“Don't be a fool,� said the man without taking his eyes off his surroundings. Before he got to the door of the house, he did an odd wave with his wand and a red light seemed to engulf the house and the yard around it before it went back to normal. He then pointed his wand at the door, which clicked and opened, and shoved the younger man inside. He took one last look around Spinner’s End, before slamming it shut and locking it once more. With another flick of his wand, the man lit the candles in the hanging ceiling lamp above them, which illuminated the room and its two inhabitants in a faint, orange glow. The younger man looked around the small, shabby room. He still had not put away his wand..

“Where are we?� he demanded. His voice tried to sound commanding, but there was a definite note of fear and shock in it. The other man had thrown his cloak down onto the grubby little couch and was busying himself over by a wall of books, which he pushed open to reveal another room.

“My home,� he answered.

The younger man looked like he was about to say something rude, and then thought better of it. “What was that thing you did outside? With the light?�

“A certain type of barrier spell,� the dark-haired man answered. “It will alert us when they arrive.�

He disappeared into the door. The younger man didn't seem to need an explanation as to who “they� were. Instead, he gulped slightly, his eyes widening even more. He looked down and noticed that the hand that still held his wand was shaking. He put his wand away finally and put both hands in his pockets to make it stop. “Do you think the Order will come after us right away?�

There was the sound of clinking from the other room, and the other man’s voice floated back through the door. “Of course not. Besides, they would never think of looking here.�

The younger man, who was just about to sit down on an old armchair, jumped right back up again. The older man continued: “No, I expect a few of our... friends... will be joining us very soon. That is why we came here.� The younger man pulled out his wand again, but the dark-haired man had reappeared in the tiny sitting room. He scowled at the wand that was now being directed toward him. “Don't be ridiculous, Draco. You will not be harmed.�

“Oh yeah?� sneered Draco. “Why did you bring me here, then? You knew that when we didn't Apparate with the others that he'd... he'd come looking.�

“Yes,� the older man said. His voice sounded odd. “I did.�

It was then that Draco noticed that the older man was holding a small vial. He walked over to Draco and pushed it roughly into the blonds’ other hand, then turned and walked back across the room. Draco looked at it. It was extremely dusty and contained some kind of liquid. “What’s this supposed to be?�

“Tut, tut, Mr. Malfoy,� the older man sneered. “And you did so well in Potions.�

Now it was Draco’s turn to scowl, but he reexamined the vial again, more closely, and this time a look of comprehension dawned on his face.

“That’s a concentrated dose,� the older man explained. “It should do. You should drink that immediately.�

“But... you killed him. The oath . . . the oath should be done now-�

“Do as I say,� the older man said sternly.

Suddenly, the room flashed a bright red. The older man’s expression was unreadable as he said, simply:

“He’s here.�