Note to MNFF Staff: A big thank you to Robin for her suggestions and for moderating my previous chapters. I’d like to request that she also review this submission.
Disclaimer: The usual, none of the characters are mine; they were created by Ms. J.K. Rowling. The only thing I can claim to own in all this is my imagination.
It was only after Harry was in the air did he realise that he didn't have the faintest idea of how to get to London, because in the first place, he still had no idea where Godric's Hollow was actually located. That meant he didn't have a clue as to which direction he had to fly in. He stopped his broom and hovered for a few moments wondering what to do for the best, and then he remembered a spell that Hermione had taught him in fourth year. Taking out his wand, he laid it flat on his palm and said “Point Me”. The wand spun around like a compass and finally came to rest pointing north.
“Right, so if that is north, then London should be... that way,” said Harry looking towards the south-east. Stowing his wand in his jeans, he began to fly again, until a new problem struck him; the fact that he had no idea how far London was. Sighing, Harry decided to keep flying for a while and if he didn't seem to be getting anywhere then he'd land and weigh his options. Besides, he preferred flying to any other means of transport, at least it made him feel alive and forget even momentarily, the dark path that he had to tread.
Harry flew for what seemed to be hours at a stretch, checking constantly to see if he was still flying in the right direction. Eventually, his optimism began to fade as he began to feel incredibly cold, almost as if he was being frozen to the broom. Shivering, he decided he'd give it another half hour and then he'd fly down and either he’d use another portkey, or apparate to Grimmauld Place.
But there was no need for such courses of action, as twenty minutes later, Harry saw the lights twinkling below and looking closer, he concluded that he was back in London again. He took a few moments to pin point his location and then he figured out the direction he had to head in. Minutes later he was flying down and soon he landed on the street facing Grimmauld Place.
As usual he could see number eleven and thirteen but no number twelve. In his mind, he thought “’The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’ is at twelve, Grimmauld Place”. And before his eyes, a house began to inflate itself; pushing aside numbers eleven and thirteen. It always amazed him when it did this because it seemed incredible that the muggle neighbours never seemed to notice a thing. He could hear a television droning on in number eleven and the clatter of dishes in number thirteen, but neither seemed to have noticed that a house had just materialised next to them.
To Harry’s great relief, there was no one out at that time of night who might have seen him entering an invisible house. Harry quickly ran across the street and using his key, he let himself into Grimmauld Place that now, technically, belonged to him. Shutting the door and locking it, Harry turned to take a look at the place that he intended to use as his base for the fight against Voldemort. He was sure that the Order would have been here searching for him and would have found nothing. And since the Order headquarters had been moved to the Burrow, there did not appear to be cause for any of the order members to pay an impromptu visit to Grimmauld Place. Even so, Harry decided to take a look around, to see if there was anything left in the house, which might prompt them to return.
Placing his trunk and Hedwig's cage against the wall in the corridor, he whispered to Hedwig, “Whatever you do, don't make any noise, not even a hoot.” Hedwig regarded him sagely and Harry stole a glance at the curtains that covered the portrait in which Mrs. Black resided. The slightest sound would set her off into one of her rages at which point she'd bring the whole house down with her screaming. Right now, however Harry could hear the snores coming from behind the curtain, which indicated Mrs. Black was asleep at least for the moment.
Quietly Harry tiptoed across the corridor and then headed down to the basement kitchen to start his inspection from there. The kitchen looked just as dank and depressing as he remembered it. But someone, most likely Mrs. Weasley, had made an effort to clean it and as a result everything in the kitchen was in its rightful place. All the plates, saucers and cups along with the vessels had been stacked away neatly. The table, which had served as a dining table during and after Order meetings, was scrubbed and clean. Harry felt a surge of gratitude for Mrs. Weasley's concern.
Harry then headed upstairs and checked all the rooms in the house one by one. He looked in the drawing room that he had helped decontaminate two years earlier. Except for the tapestry, which had the Black family tree on it, the drawing room was free of most of the Dark objects it had contained earlier. He looked into the room that he and Ron had shared, where he had had his almighty tantrum at being left out over the summer after his fourth year. He paused a while before entering Mrs. Black's room, which had housed Buckbeak when Sirius had been at Grimmauld Place. The room was empty now save for some bones that littered the floor, and bloodstains, which obviously had resisted all attempts at removal. As he stood there, he couldn't but help remember locking himself into that very room in the fifth year, when everyone had believed that Voldemort had possessed him. He remembered how he'd nearly gone mad, sitting alone in that room, until Hermione had finally managed to get him out. Idly, he wondered how Buckbeak was doing, now that he was under the care of Hagrid. Knowing Hagrid, Harry was sure that he was likely to be trying to get Buckbeak and Grawp - Hagrid's sixteen-foot giant half brother - to be friends. Harry definitely could not put it past Hagrid to try out such a hare-brained notion; Hagrid did seem to have a knack for undertaking schemes, which were doomed to failure even before they began.
After going through the whole house, Harry satisfied himself that there was no-one there, nor did there seem to be any reason for anyone from the Order to come to the house. Harry returned to the main corridor where he had left Hedwig. It was as he came into Hedwig's line of sight that he noticed she was rustling her wings preparatory to giving a hoot of welcome. Harry rushed forward quickly to stop her from doing so and that's where he made his first mistake. The next moment there was a resounding crash and Harry went sprawling across the floor after tripping over the severed troll leg, which served as an umbrella stand and as an obstacle to the unwary and the clumsy.
Harry sprang up quickly but it was too late. The curtains across the portrait had blown open and there was Mrs. Black, looking as malevolent as ever.
“TRAITORS, MUDBLOODS DEFILING MY HOUSE,” she screamed.
Harry rushed to the portrait and tried with all his might to pull the curtains across the screaming Mrs. Black but to no avail. And the sight of him seemed to inspire Mrs. Black to greater heights of eloquence.
“BLOOD TRAITOR, MUGGLE LOVER, YOU AND YOUR FILTHY MUDBLOOD AND TRAITOR FRIENDS ARE NOT WELCOME TO THIS HOUSE, DEFILED AS IT ALREADY IS BY MY WORTHLESS SON,” she bellowed.
Harry had never had much patience for Mrs. Black’s portrait and in his current situation with his nerves on edge; it didn’t take a lot to push his temper to dangerous limits. Harry’s blood boiled when he heard these words; not only was she referring to Hermione as a mudblood and to the Weasleys as traitors, she was even calling her own son, Sirius, his godfather, worthless. Harry stormed into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers till he found a large and very sharp knife. He returned to the portrait, which was still screaming its head off.
“SHUT UP,” roared Harry and amazingly, Mrs. Black did just that.
“Now listen to me, you old bat,” said Harry, his voice controlled but tinged with menace, “One more crack out of you about mudbloods, traitors and your son, and I’ll slash your painting so badly that you won’t have anywhere to go. Do you understand?”
There could be no doubt that he meant every word he said and Mrs. Black quailed for a moment. Then she screamed again, “FILTHY SON OF A MUDBLOOD, YOU DARE THREATEN THE DAUGHTER OF THE PUREST OF THE PUREBLOODS.”
Harry drew back his hand and then brought the knife down towards the portrait. Mrs. Black screamed, in fear this time, but the knife came ever closer. Finally when the blade was about an inch from the canvas, Harry stayed his hand.
“Next time, I won’t stop,” he said simply.
Convinced now that he definitely meant what he said, Mrs. Black obeyed. She continued to mumble under her breath but it was clear she had given up on the screaming. Harry drew the curtains across the portrait, and breathing heavily at the thought of what he had just done, he returned the knife to its drawer in the kitchen.
It was while he was standing in the kitchen, breathing heavily, that he realised he had not eaten for a while and he felt rather empty around his middle. However, the books in Hermione's bedroom had proved to be quite useful in providing him information on how to make food and drink with magic. Trying to remember some of them, Harry flicked his wand a couple of times, but other than causing some of the plates to fly off their shelves and shatter on the ground, he had no food. Cursing, Harry tried again and this time he closed his eyes to aid concentration. He tried again and strained his ears. Not hearing any sounds of breaking crockery, he opened his eyes warily. Before him on the table was a plate of sandwiches and some pumpkin juice. Feeling that he could do worse, Harry said down to his frugal meal. It didn't take him long to run through it and once he was done, he headed up to the room that Fred and George had used earlier. He didn't want to return to his and Ron's room as that had a portrait of Phineas Nigellus, Sirius' great-great-grandfather and Harry didn't particularly feel up to facing him yet. As he closed his eyes, Harry sleepily told himself that he had to search the house the next day, for any clues or any possible Horcruxes.
As Harry was searching through twelve, Grimmauld Place, the next day; Hermione was eating her breakfast at the Great Hall at Hogwarts, with the Daily Prophet propped up against a jug of pumpkin juice. The Great Hall was more subdued than she remembered it since their first year but then again that was to be expected. A lot of students had not returned to Hogwarts, many parents no longer felt that their children were safe there. Gryffindor House had the highest number of returning students, though the number was less than half the usual. Ravenclaw and then Hufflepuff followed it. Slytherin had the fewest students this year, and Hermione really wasn’t surprised since most pureblood wizards had been threatening to take their children out of Hogwarts for a long time, and this had been the perfect opportunity for them to do so.
As she sat reading yet another article on the increasing number of deaths among both wizards and muggles, she felt a presence next to her and she looked up. Ron was standing near her looking rather sheepish. Ron and Hermione had hardly said a word to each other after Harry's departure and Ron sometimes had gone out of his way to avoid her. Hermione had let him have his space, assuming that he would come around in time.
“Hi, Hermione,” Ron began, his voice sounding rather strangled.
“Hello, Ronald,” Hermione replied and went back to reading the paper. Uh-oh; full name, big trouble, thought Ron.
“May I sit down?” he asked, sounding a little more normal now.
“If you want to,” she answered without looking at him.
Ron bit back the retort that had sprung up to his lips. He looked across at Ginny who was sitting a little way down the table. She nodded to him sternly. Sighing, Ron sat down. Hermione continued reading the paper with great interest. Ron cleared his throat meaningfully but Hermione didn't look up. He cleared his throat again, a little louder this time. This time Hermione turned to face him.
“Would you like a lozenge, Ronald?” she asked coldly.
“Eh? Err, no, no I'm fine,” he mumbled. Hermione gave him a withering look and went back to reading the paper. Ron stole another glance at his sister. Ginny inclined her head towards Hermione and mouthed, “Go ahead”. Ron sighed again, this was more difficult that he had imagined.
“Err... Hermione?” he ventured tentatively.
“Yes?” she asked without looking around.
“Look, um... I wanted to apologise for being such an idiot till now,” Ron said.
“You mean since first year?” she asked nastily.
“No, I don’t mean since first year,” he snapped back, mimicking her. Hermione didn’t bother to answer, preferring to read about the seventh occurrence of strange hurricane like weather, to have sprung up in the Yorkshire Dales that month.
Ron took a long calming breath. He knew he had to sink his pride and avoid their normal bickering if they had to make up. It was bad enough that Harry was gone, without driving Hermione away as well. He tried again, “What I meant was, I want to apologise for being such a prat since Harry left.”
He saw Hermione’s shoulders slump. Slowly, she passed a hand across her eyes. “It’s alright, Ron, I understand,” she said finally, “I just wish you could understand how it was trying to talk him out of it.”
“I'm trying to,” replied Ron quickly, glad they were back on talking terms, “But I still don't know how you didn't hex him.”
“I wanted to,” admitted Hermione, “But seeing him that night, it was like a Harry I had never seen before. He looked so sad and yet so determined; I just couldn't hex him after that.”
Ron still couldn't quite convince himself that letting Harry go had been the best course to pursue, but recognising that since Hermione was now talking to him, he was loath to do anything to jinx that so he decided to let it go.
“And by the way, congratulations on being made Head-Girl,” he said, changing the subject, “I'm really glad you got it.”
“Thanks Ron,” she said, brightening up. Ron didn't have the heart to tell her that others weren't as thrilled at her selection now that she had showed that she was likely to be quite a strict Head-Girl. Even Ernie had mentioned that often he had had to remind her that he was Head-Boy when she had been on the verge of ticking him off.
“McGonagall got pretty teary-eyed at the opening feast didn't she?” said Ron. It was an observation that all of Hogwarts had made after McGonagall had broken down during her opening speech and had been unable to continue. Luckily for her, since most of the students were similarly stricken, the incident had been discussed with an air of sympathetic understanding.
“Well what do you expect Ron, she's known Dumbledore for ages, surely she'd be at least a little bit emotional at his death,” Hermione replied, a trifle more sharply than she had intended to.
“Oh yes, yes quite,” said Ron, quickly backing off. “So what have we got first today?” he asked, trying to take Hermione’s mind off McGonagall.
“Defence,” she replied shortly.
Ron groaned. He had vivid memories of the previous day's defence class that had involved a rather harsh hex test. Apparently the real Professor Moody was taking a page out of the fake Professor Moody's book and was giving them as much practice on Defence Against the Dark Arts that they could get. By the end of the class, Ron had ended up with his face blackened, and his hair having turned curly all of a sudden. If that hadn't been bad enough, he had passed a group of sixth years on his way to the common room, a group that had included Ginny and Luna. Luna had dreamily gazed at him before announcing that he looked like a redheaded gollywog. Ron supposed he should have been thankful for that, especially since Ginny's appraisal had been much less flattering.
“What do you reckon Moody's going to throw at us today?” he asked Hermione, “I just hope I can exit his class vertically today.”
“Well, you wouldn't have to worry if you listened in class a little more,” she said smiling, as she gathered up her books.
“Why would I want to do that when I have you?” he mumbled, as he loped along beside her.
“Well, if that's going to be your attitude, Ronald Weasley, then you can stop expecting help from me,” she said severely, as they left the Great Hall. And the last that Ginny heard from the two was a heartfelt groan from Ron, which seemed to come all the way up from his shoes.
Harry had spent two days searching through Grimmauld Place for anything that could possibly be a Horcrux. The problem was that, since the Blacks had had certain leanings towards the Dark side, he wasn't entirely sure that he had actually been through the whole house. But the parts that he had been able to reach, he had searched thoroughly and for the second time in a week he had had to admit defeat. There was still no sign of anything even remotely like a Horcrux.
Harry was slowly beginning to despair of ever finding the Horcruxes in time. He thought of Voldemort getting stronger, recruiting more followers, causing more mayhem and slowly taking over the wizarding world.
“Why me?” he yelled at the ceiling of the drawing room where he was seated, idly turning the fake locket over in his hands. But the ceiling did not answer and Harry didn't know if he wanted to know the answer.
Maybe it would be better if I just go back to Hogwarts and tell the Order about the Horcruxes and let them help find it. At least they might have some ideas about it, after all, some of them taught Tom Riddle; surely they’d know or would remember something about him that could be significant, Harry had thought, in some of his most desperate moments. And as pleasing as the proposition sounded, Harry regretfully decided that it was a course of action that he could not pursue.
“Dumbledore asked me not to tell them and I won't,” he told the cabinet sternly, and then slumped back in the armchair feeling incredibly tired, not from exertion, but from sheer loneliness. He looked over at the Black family tree, which had been embroidered onto a tapestry that would not come off. He saw the burn mark where Sirius' name had been blasted off. Close to Sirius’ name was another, Bellatrix Lestrange, and as he saw the name he felt a burning hatred grow in his chest. She was the reason Sirius was dead. He was looking forward to meeting her sometime.
And near hers was another name he was hoping to meet, Draco Malfoy. It was Malfoy's cowardice that had given Snape the opportunity to kill Dumbledore. Malfoy, who had been so ungrateful to Dumbledore after all Dumbledore had done for him, that he had gone to the extent of trying to kill him. Oh yes, he was definitely looking forward to meeting Malfoy. And if he were to meet Draco's pathetic father Lucius Malfoy, then so much the better.
Harry let loose a deep sigh, realising that these were but idle daydreams. It did not do him any good at all to contemplate what vengeance he was going to wreck on the Malfoys and the Lestranges. It didn't matter, at least, not greatly. What was important was to get to the Horcruxes and destroy them. He began to swing the locket, absentmindedly, on his finger, like a pendulum. As he watched the locket swing to and fro, he began to get the strangest feeling that he had seen the locket somewhere before. He stopped swinging it and began to study the locket closely. The feeling grew stronger; he had seen it before, but where? Like most irritating memories, this one also stopped short of actually telling him where he had seen the locket. Harry studied it closely for almost five minutes, hoping for some clue of its origin, or of where he might have seen it before.
“Come on,” he asked it, “Where have I seen you before?”
The locket remained silent as did his memory, no matter how much he jogged it.
Maybe I need some fresh air; clear my head and then try to figure out where I saw this before, he thought, And how about if I...
Coming to a decision, Harry grabbed his jacket and he put it on, pulling the hood over his forehead as before. He snapped the shades onto his glasses and then he peered at his reflection in the closest mirror. Satisfied, that few could recognize him now, he headed towards the front door, but stopped short when he heard Mrs. Black's muttering growing louder. Drawing the curtains a crack, Harry glared and her and she immediately fell silent.
“That's better,” he told her and shut the curtains again.
Opening the door, he looked out into the dark street, lit by street lamps that showed him that the street was empty. Stepping out, he shut the door quickly and hurried out into the street. He headed towards a nearby park that he knew, which was usually empty after sunset. As he had expected, the park was deserted and covered in pitch darkness. Harry stood in the shadow of a tree and closing his eyes, he concentrated hard on his destination. Then he turned and stepped forward. Immediately he felt the pressure that always reminded him of being pushed through a very thin tube. And then, just as quickly, the pressure eased and opening his eyes, Harry found himself in the little village of Hogsmeade.
A/N: Well, this chapter is up faster than the last one, and for that I have to thank my beta for turning it around so quickly, and for all her encouragement. Thanks also to all who have read, and especially to those who reviewed. Keep those reviews coming, as the interesting bits are just around the corner.
Chow for now.
Scarhead Steve.