The Voice
I saw him again. It was from a distance, but I knew it was him. He has a presence about him that cannot be ignored. Where has he been all this time?
- The Diary of Cassiopeia Black
It was quiet here, and not just because the village was sleeping. There was an eerie silence, not a peep from a single creature, nor anything else, even in the distance.
Even so, despite what most would deem to be a rather unsettling phenomenon, Harry found it to be peaceful.
It was odd to think of Godric’s Hollow in such a way given that his parents were murdered here, and his entire life had been uprooted, but Harry could not deny there was a serenity both in the village and within himself.
There was almost a sense of welcoming, and that did not change as he stood in front of the monument of his parents explaining what had befallen them.
Both were happy, smiling as Lily Potter cradled her infant son in her arms, and then there was his father, who Harry did indeed resemble quite uncannily.
It was a rather touching tribute to them both, though it wasn’t a tribute that Harry would be satisfied with. No, until all who’d been involved in tearing his family apart had faced just, he never would be.
Placing his hand on each of the stone figures, he smiled sadly before making his way towards the graveyard in the distance, the words of Iolanthe Peverell replaying in his mind as he spotted the church just beyond.
Harry felt it too.
He could not decipher exactly what it was that seemed to be making itself known to him, but it was there, lurking on the edge of his consciousness. What he realised, however, was that it wasn’t repulsive.
It was ominous, and made him wary, something that only grew the closer he came to the graveyard. By the time he was pushing open the kissing-gate, it was no longer on the edge, but it filled him, even within the confines of the cloak, that sense of wariness and caution.
Still, it wasn’t as unpleasant as he would’ve expected.
Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to look towards the church as he skirted around the dozens upon dozens of graves, stilling as he spotted a name that was familiar to him.
“Hardwin Potter,” he whispered.
The man had been buried next to his wife, and their son the row in front with his own spouse.
Harry followed the rows until he reached the freshest of them, and he stood before where his parents had been laid to rest, both scarcely half a dozen years older than he was now; murdered before their lives together had truly begun.
It hurt.
It hurt him to realise that James and Lily Potter had perished in such an unfair manner at an age none should be taken. That hurt, however, quickly gave way to the anger that bubbled beneath the surface, and Harry needed to look away to calm himself.
It would not do to allow his anger to get the better of him, not here.
No, that anger was reserved for those responsible, an exhaustive list that Harry might not work his way through when all was said and done, but he would try his damndest to see it so, even if it took his last breath.
For that eventuality, he needed to be ready, continue the work he’d begun, and double his efforts. Voldemort had decades of experience on him, and yet, thus far, it was Harry who’d somehow gotten the better of their exchanges.
He’d thwarted the man as a babe, during his first and second years at Hogwarts, again at the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament, and had even prevented him from obtaining he prophecy. Of course, most of those were achieved through sheer, dumb luck, but Harry knew he could not come to rely on that.
No, he needed to develop the needed skill to defeat the man, and although that seemed to be an insurmountable task, he would not quit.
Wiping away an errant tear that rolled down his cheek, he turned back to face the fate of his parents and nodded to himself, his gaze flitting towards the church.
He found it to be almost as alluring as the Veil had been. Here, however, the fear of the unknown didn’t plague him, and he found no need to ignore the compulsion to see it up close.
It was where his parents had been married, after all.
Harry recognised it from the photos Hagrid had given him for Christmas during his first year at Hogwarts, and it would be nice to be able to leave here with less troubling thoughts than those currently running through his mind.
The experience had been more overwhelming than he’d imagined. Seeing the graves of James and Lily Potter had only served to close the distance he’d managed to somewhat put between himself and his parents all these years.
Now, however, it was very much real, more so than it had ever been.
Nonetheless, before he could reach the gate leading into the churchyard, his attention was caught by something else only a few plots away, and Harry found himself pausing once more, this time in front of a trio of graves.
One name in particular stood out to him, one he had read several times since he’d began delving into the life of Iolanthe Peverell.
“Ignotus Peverell,” he murmured.
The man had indeed perished almost one thousand years prior, but it was the two accompanying memorials that he was studying just a little closer.
“Cadmus Peverell.”
He had passed on more than a century before his sibling, and for a wizard, had been young when he’d done so, and Antioch Peverell, younger still. Harry had not forgotten what he had read in Iolanthe’s journal pertaining got her two uncles, and he wondered if they truly had been in possession of two other incredible artefacts, allegedly given to them by Death.
He shuddered at the thought, only to realise that it wasn’t only that very notion to cause the sudden chill. No, it was in the very air around him, and Harry felt his breath hitch in his chest as he looked towards the church once more.
There truly was something rather ominous about it, and he moved cautiously, wincing as the gate screeched when he pushed it open, acutely aware that the chill only became more prominent.
Still, it remained inviting rather than repugnant, though that could be the magic of the cloak keeping it at bay.
Regardless, Harry was certain that such a coldness in August was not natural, well, until the previous year when the dementors had been breeding.
No, this wasn’t that, but it was magic.
He could feel it probing at him, almost greeting him familiarly, but before Harry could ponder it, he caught sight of something that stopped him dead in his tracks.
Had he not become accustomed to their odd appearance, Harry might’ve been alarmed, but he could only look upon the small thestral fondly, though he frowned as it limped towards him.
It was hurt, and its head hung. The creature’s gaze was firmly on the floor, but as it came to a stop only a few feet away, Harry choked as it looked up, its gaze boring into his with a pair of brilliant green eyes.
“I know you are here.”
The coldness that filled him at the sound of the hoarse voice was like nothing else. Not even the dementors could compare to it, and Harry dared not to move.
“I can feel you, Peverell. It has been some time since one of you walked among the living.”
Harry said nothing and wasn’t certain he could even if he wished to.
“My cloak can keep you even from me, for now, but I am inevitable to all, Peverell. Fate may have decided that you will serve her, but you belong to me. You can feel me, Peverell. You feel me flowing through your veins, in your blood, and in your soul. Do not deny it. You will only be lying to yourself.”
Harry swallowed the fearful lump that formed in his throat, remembering all he’d read about Iolanthe’s son and what he’d claimed to see here.
“Yes, you’re here, Peverell,” the voice sighed. “You may be avoiding me, and I have not taken kindly to you refusing my summons through my gateway. You may leave now, but you will return here. You will be unable to ignore the compulsion to do so. We will be waiting.”
The thestral turned and began to limp away, and though Harry could not see a cloaked figure that Henry Potter had, he could feel himself being watched, even when he managed to urge his legs to carry him away from the churchyard.
That feeling remained with him until the church itself was once more in the distance, but the fear that had gripped him remained.
“Kreacher?” he whispered, daring not to remove the cloak.
The elf appeared, his eyes widening as he felt the magic permeating here.
“Take me home, Kreacher,” Harry requested.
The elf nodded as he revealed himself and immediately took him by the hand before vanishing them back to Grimmauld Place, where Harry doubted even the magic of the Blacks could keep him safe from whatever it was he’d encountered in Godric’s Hollow.
(Break)
“You know, I couldn’t care less if you come back or not. If you don’t I won’t have to put up with Snape teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I won’t have to continue with Potions.”
“Not continue with Potions?” Horace scoffed.
“I can’t stand it,” Harry replied. “Snape has made studying it miserable for me. On my first day, he was asking me about wormwood infusions, or some crap like that.”
“Oh dear,” Horace sighed. “He is talented, Mr Potter, much like your mother was.”
“Well, I didn’t inherit that talent. Anyway, I haven’t decided if I will continue with it even if you do decide to come back. You haven’t said no.”
Silence fell, and Albus took a moment to observe the two.
Under the guise of using the facilities, he intended to see how Harry would handle someone like Horace Slughorn, and how Horace would respond to him.
“No, I left Hogwarts for a reason. I have no plans of returning.”
“But you planned on having to hide from Death Eaters, and even Voldemort?”
Horace winced at the use of the name.
“So, he’s after you then,” Harry continued. “Well, I know how that feels, but I don’t have the luxury of hiding from the git. We’ll meet again, just as we have several times over the years. One day, he will either kill me, or I’ll kill him. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know that Hogwarts is safer than whatever this is.”
Albus had never seen Harry so cunning, and he silently applauded the boy.
“Anyway, if you can’t see that, then I’ll probably read about your disappearance or death soon enough, if he’s after you. Why is he after you?”
Horace recoiled and shook his head.
“I’m not certain he is…”
“You were his Head of House,” Harry said in realisation. “You taught him and probably know him better than most. Either you know things about him that would make him come after you, or you just think you do. Not that it matters. If he thinks it, he’ll come anyway and hiding like this won’t help. Bloody hell, I found you.”
He had, and Albus was still as impressed as he was taken aback by it.
“I’ll tell Dumbledore to leave you alone,” Harry assured Horace as he stood. “He has a way of getting on your nerves until he gets what he wants.”
Albus smirked to himself but paused as he finally caught a glimpse of the scar upon the boys’ brow, or lack of. He’d seen it more than enough times over the years to remember its appearance, and now, it was just a faint but noticeable line.
He` would need to ponder such a development. For now, however, he stepped back into the hallway and undid the charms he’d cast to hide himself.
“What a fascinating home,” he declared. “May I take this?”
Horace eyed muggle magazine Albus was carrying and waved him off dismissively.
“Ah, thank you, Horace. Come, Harry, I believe we have outstayed our welcome here. I’m certain Horace has other things that require his attention.”
Harry nodded in response, and Albus followed as he left the house.
“I know you were there,” the boy said pointedly.
“Is that so?”
Once more, Albus found himself taken aback.
He had used the very same spells to conceal himself as he had the night he’d intruded upon Harry whilst he was sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised, and over the years, his presence had never been detected.
Before he could question Harry on just how he had managed such a feat, he heard the wheezing breath and heavy footsteps of his former colleague, and Albus turned to be greeted by the sight of the winded Slughorn.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” he huffed, “but I want Merrythoughts office.”
Albus offered the man a bow, as pleased as he was relieved Horace had agreed to return.
“And a rise!” the man called after him as he and Harry continued on their way.
It had made for a most interesting evening.
Harry had certainly changed during the intervening weeks, so much so that he was barely recognisable. Of course, the physical changes were exceptional, but it was how he comported and even caried himself.
He was no longer so meek, and though his gaze remained haunted by all he’d seen, he seemed to be carrying it just that little easier.
It was odd to say the least, and as Albus re-read the pages upon pages of notes he’d taken, he could only shake his head. The moment Harry had handed him the diary he’d destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets; he’d known that somehow, he’d been turned into a Horcrux.
As unfathomable as it was, Albus knew it to be true, and he’d watched the boy closely, vigilantly waiting for any sign of Tom Riddle to show itself.
Time and again, Harry had proven himself to be so unlike his former student. He was a compassionate boy, undeniably brilliant, but lacked the confidence and arrogance of Tom, and certainly the cruelty.
No, Harry had not given him any cause for concern until he’d seen him most recently.
All of his calculations, however, every last one, pointed to the Horcrux somehow having been destroyed, removed, or perhaps absorbed by the young man.
Had the effect of it not been so profound, Albus would not be so concerned, but to be certain it would not be detrimental to Harry, he would need to test his theory.
He did not wish to believe that anything untoward would happen, or that Harry was no longer himself, but too much relied upon him. A few simple tests would suffice, and it was something he could initiate come September when he returned to Hogwarts.
Although his calculations spoke of it as an impossibility, Albus needed to know that Harry Potter was not Tom Riddle posing as the boy.
Wizarding Britain, and likely far beyond, depended on it, after all.
(Break)
“Are you certain about this, my lord?”
He nodded as he continued to probe at the protections, meticulously unravelling them, doing his utmost to not trigger any others. Doing so would likely lead to his failure, and he refused to accept any more of it.
No, there had been more than enough of that these past weeks.
He wanted his followers who had been imprisoned returned to him,, and he needed to seize and advantage to do so. Tonight, he could achieve both in one fell swoop, but he needed to be as quick as he was cautious.
It was indeed a risky undertaking, though one that would prove to be worth it.
“Of course, I am certain,” he whispered. “You know where I need you to be. I will join you shortly.”
It wasn’t often that Bellatrix Lestrange was nervous, but he did not miss the glimmer of it in her eyes as she nodded before walking a safe distance away to apparate, leaving the Dark Lord to the most intricate of tasks.
Yes, there was risk to what he was doing, but there was no reward without it. Besides, it would be most unlike him to not welcome the new Minister of Magic with a rather special gift, after all.
The very thought brought a grin to his lips, and he continued his work, anticipating the fallout of what was to come, and striking quite the blow against his enemies.
(Break)
He tentatively peered out of the window of Grimmauld Place, shaken by what he’d experienced, and unable to rid himself of the chill that had followed him back here.
For a fleeting moment, Harry had convinced himself that what he’d seen and heard had been only a figment of his imagination, but it wasn’t. A disembodied voice had spoken to him, had referred to him as Peverell, and there had been a small, injured thestral with eyes much like his own.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, closing the curtains before drawing his wand, hoping to distract himself from what had happened, shuddering as he cast his first spell.
Harry knew that he’d been feeling different these past weeks, that his magic had indeed changed for reasons he couldn’t quite understand.
It was the chill.
It not only seemed to now be plaguing so obviously, but it had been there for some time when he wielded his magic. Now, however, he felt it more so, and he looked at his wand questioningly.
What had happened to him?
Healer Tullius had not been concerned. On the contrary, he’d been astounded and even encouraging about it. Harry, however, having encountered whatever it was in Godric’s Hollow was no longer so certain. Yes, he was well, better than he ever had been, and his magic had never felt so strong within himself. The trade-off for that… was it worth it?
He shuddered once more as he pondered the past weeks, the changes he’d undergone, and just how different he felt. For Harry, they had been gradual, but when he considered all of it, how he’d been prior to what had transpired in the Department of Mysteries, and where he found himself now, he could not deny how drastic they were.
Of course, he’d been working hard on his magic.
Still, that did not explain how he had been able to detect Slughorn as he had. It was almost like following a trail of sorts, magic that he couldn’t see but could feel.
It had been the same when Dumbledore returned to the room, though the man had not revealed himself.
“What is happening?” he murmured.
Should he be worried?
Perhaps not about the changes he’d experienced but he was concerned about the voice he’d heard, and the admission that it was responsible for him finding himself in front of the veil once more.
It had been a close call, as it was this evening. Nonetheless, Harry felt it calling to him still, urging him to return to investigate what it was who had spoken to him.
Death.
No, despite Iolanthe Peverell’s observations and experiences, Harry could not blindly believe that was so.
How could it be?
Magic.
Maybe there was something in Godric’s Hollow that did not belong, and yet, it had been so welcoming to him, safe even, and much to his consternation, intent on haunting him, likely until it got what it wanted.
“Shit,” Harry cursed irritably, peering out of the window once more.
It was bad enough that Voldemort and his followers were after him. The last thing Harry wanted or needed was a voice that might just belong to Death being out to get him too.
He shook his head as he pulled the curtains closed again to find a way of distracting himself, though even before he’d attempted it, he knew it would be for naught.
(Break)
“Albus!” Rufus Scrimgeour greeted him enthusiastically, more so than he ever had before.
It seemed that, already, the man had found his political demeanour when he required a favour.
“How may I help you so late in the evening, Minister?”
“Only with the most trivial of things,” Rufus said dismissively. “I firstly wished to offer my apologies for how you were treated this past year. Of course, a statement to that effect will be made.”
Albus frowned and waved the man off.
“The truth is known now, Rufus, and that is all that matters.”
“Oh, undoubtedly, but your apology will be given, nonetheless, as will one to Mr Potter.”
There it was.
He suspected that this conversation would come, just not so soon. He thought Rufus would at least have the common decency to allow Harry to grieve properly before trying to use him as a puppet.
“I would be interested in meeting the boy.”
“Well, I’m afraid Mr Potter is quite unavailable. He is currently having some much-needed time to himself to recuperate after what he endured before the end of the school term, and forgive me, Rufus, but I do not believe he will be so amenable. The Ministry of Magic has only ever been a hindrance to him at best, and outright hostile this past year. We can thank Cornelius and Dolores for that.”
“How is Umbridge?” Scrimgeour asked with a frown.
“Recovering well, given the circumstances. She endured quite the traumatic event herself at the hands of the centaurs, who only released her because of their respect for Hagrid. She is most fortunate.”
Scrimgeour hummed.
“She always was an unpleasant woman,” he grumbled. “Regardless, we have a new administration in place, and I would much prefer a positive relationship to flourish between ourselves, you, and Mr Potter.”
Albus shook his head.
“Even before Harry might consider such, he will expect a posthumous pardon for Sirius Black.”
“Black?”
“Was innocent of all he was accused of. Harry provided more than enough evidence to Cornelius to prove that, but he decided to ignore it. I must say, that certainly did not endear Harry to the Ministry, and nothing else has since.”
“Well, a pardon for Black is likely out of the question…”
“Then any other overtures you may be willing to make, I expect, will fall on deaf ears.”
Rufus frowned deeply as he stood.
“I will consider it, but I must speak with the boy, Albus. I would rather have your cooperation on this matter. I will leave it with you for now and grant the boy some time before I approach him. Us working together is for the benefit of all, no?”
He did not wait for an answer before stepping through the fireplace, and Albus released a deep sigh.
“And so it begins, old friend,” he murmured, stroking Fawkes’ plumage, eliciting a trill from his companion.
Albus could not abide politicking or pandering to others to swell the reputation of the Ministry of Magic, and he knew that Harry wouldn’t either.
Rufus, although his intentions were undoubtedly benign, wished only to use Harry as a puppet of sorts, to benefit from the boys’ reputation, and Albus would not see it so.
No, Harry had more than enough on the horizon to confront, and the last thing he needed was Rufus Scrimgeour making his life any more difficult, or in the spotlight than it already was.
(Break)
Although he was certain he’d fallen into something of a restless slumber, it was difficult to tell if Harry was indeed dreaming, or he’d somehow been transported back to the church of Godric’s Hollow.
It felt no different than it had when he’d willingly visited only a matter of hours prior, but this time, there was no injured thestral, and thus far, no voice, though he suspected that would change imminently.
Harry could feel that same presence, that eerily familiar chill all around him. This time, however, there was no cloak to protect him, and he was rooted to the spot.
“I did warn you that I was inevitable, Peverell. Had you not been so intent on avoiding me, I would not be here.”
“My name is Potter.”
“But you remain a Peverell to me. Your blood, soul, and magic tells me all I need to know.”
Harry cursed irritably under his breath.
“So, I can’t even rest peacefully now. Who the bloody hell are you?”
He already knew that it was a rather redundant question, even before it had passed his lips, and Harry could almost feel the smile of the being that was yet to show itself.
“A foolish question when you already know the answer. Let us not waste time, Peverell.”
“What about the thestral?”
The voice snickered.
“He is well enough.”
“He was injured!”
“As were you, but you are not so broken, Peverell, not anymore, at least. For most of your life, you were.”
Harry frowned.
“But I’m not now?”
“Not so much,” the voice responded, “but you are scarcely whole, nor what you could be.”
“Not whole?”
“Not quite, Peverell. Your mind, body, and soul has changed.”
“And my magic.”
“No, the magic has always been yours but was stifled for many years.”
“But it isn’t now?”
“No, but whether you choose to use it or not is your decision. You feel it within you, and it will only become stronger. You need only accept it.”
Harry frowned thoughtfully.
“Is it the same magic in my cloak?”
“My cloak!” the voice snapped. “You have it by my grace only.”
Harry could only shake his head.
“I didn’t ask for it. It was given to me.”
“But it was one of your own who did.”
“So, you want to punish me because of something someone else did.”
The voice chuckled.
“No, Peverell. On the contrary, I wish to help you.”
Harry didn’t believe that for one moment.
“Why?”
“My reasons are my own. Perhaps you will learn of them, when the time is right, but for now, you need me, Peverell. You are alone in the world, your enemies are many, and one of them might well be insurmountable.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Harry snorted.
“But that doesn’t have to be so. Pass my trials, accept my help, and you may just survive what is to come.”
“Trials?”
“My help does not come without a price, Peverell. Your ancestors knew this.”
“So, it’s true that you gave them gifts.”
“Yes, and two of them were dead within a matter of moons because they were damned fools. The third, he lived a full life. I gave them my blessing, and perhaps you will earn it too.”
“Why would I want that?” he mused aloud.
Harry wasn’t certain he wanted it.
“Because through me, you can become so much more than a boy who survived the odds only to die at the hands of the same foe a handful of years later. With me, Peverell, you could live, thrive even, but the path ahead of you is not an easy one. There is much I would ask of you. I am your best hope. You are alone in this world, one that is plagued by enemies you are not ready to face. When all is said and done, you will either perish or rise to true greatness. Which is it to be?”
Harry swallowed deeply.
There was undeniable truth in the words, and yet, it was not lost on him that he was convening with something claiming to be Death itself.
Even so, he was alone in the world, lost, and facing odds that he doubted he could overcome. Not that he wouldn’t give it his all, and though Cadmus and Antioch had died having accepted their gifts, Ignotus had not.
“What are the trials?”
“You will know when you need to.”
“So, you will tell me nothing and accept me to have faith in you?”
“You must put all of your faith in me, Peverell, just as your ancestors did. You must accept me in your heart, live by me, swear to me, and you will be rewarded with my blessing. You need not answer me now, Peverell, but I would have you come to me. Pledge yourself to me, Peverell, and I will change your life more than you can comprehend.”
The voice and much of the presence faded, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
Even in his dreams, however, he could not escape, though he could not deny that this was much more preferable than seeing the world through Voldemort’s eyes.
That had been terrifying.
Not that the voice was exactly the most calming of things. Even now, he felt himself trembling uncontrollably, but the presence was still eerily familiar to him.
“Time to wake up,” he murmured as he felt himself being pulled away from the church.
Oddly, he felt well rested, and had evidently been sleeping for some time.
The sun had risen, and the smell of his breakfast being prepared wafted underneath the door of what had been his godfather’s room.
Dressing, and pausing briefly to look at one of the photos adorning the wall, he smiled at the young innocent, yet mischievous visages of his father, Sirius, and Remus.
Wormtail had been in the picture, but Sirius had burned him away, leaving the trio.
Only one of them remained, and Harry knew he should reach out to Remus.
The werewolf was just as alone as he felt, and without anyone to look out for him, he might just spiral again as he had when he believed Wormtail had been murdered by Sirius, and James and Lily Potter had been killed by the Dark Lord.
He made a note to do so as he left the room, pausing as he reached the kitchen to find an ethereal phoenix waiting for him.
“You have my apologies for disturbing you again, Harry, but there is something we must discuss. Feel free to visit my office using the floo network. Just call for Hogwarts, and I will let you through.”
Harry deflated.
He had hoped that he would be able to enjoy the rest of his summer without being interrupted, but now that he’d humoured Dumbledore once already, it seemed that the man had decided to do so once more.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled as he settled into his chair to eat his breakfast, spearing some egg onto his fork whilst he cursed the headmaster.
Still, it would serve to distract him from the other thoughts plaguing him, and his odd encounters both when he’d returned to Godric’s Hollow, and when he’d slept.
The latter certainly gave him pause.
How could something not connected to him invade his dreams in the first place?
Harry did not, but it was as troubling as it was curious as he continued to ponder just what it was that haunted him so. Was Iolanthe Peverell’s journal so frighteningly accurate that Death had truly come to him, or had Harry finally taken leave of his senses, and his mind had finally broken under the strain?
He wasn’t certain which was more preferable, but Harry doubted now that it had found him, he would be granted little peace from it.
Why?
After so many centuries having gone by since the Peverells had done whatever it was they had, Harry now found himself caught up in the consequences of their actions?
That was something he could not answer, and with how unforthcoming the voice was, he knew he would have to work for an answer.
He could only shake his head once more as he cursed his lot in life, though, if he knew now just how much stranger and different it was soon to become, Harry Potter would’ve been content with the notion that he had indeed lost his mind rather than contemplate the journey ahead of him.
(Break)
Despite the rather turbulent events of the past weeks, Albus was still responsible for the running of the school. Between managing the fallout of the public learning of Tom’s return, Cornelius resigning, Harry taking it upon himself to leave the magical protections of his muggle family, and the other plethora of things that kept Albus busy, the summer had passed at an alarming rate.
In just under a few weeks, the students would be returning, and fortunately, he’d been in his post for long enough now that he could complete the required admin work with little trouble. It certainly helped that he had such a capable deputy in Minerva, whom he would undoubtedly be lost without, especially when meetings like the one he’d had with Rufus Scrimgeour occurred.
At the very least, he needed to give Harry fair warning that the man would be seeking him out.
“Ah, come through, Harry,” he called as the floo chimed.
Only a moment later, the boy did so, and Albus once more marvelled at the changes he’d undergone since leaving Hogwarts at the beginning of the summer.
Even so, he appeared to be troubled, but said nothing, frowning thoughtfully as he took a seat.
“Has something happened?”
It was an unintentionally loaded question, and Albus could likely spend several hours speaking his mind, questioning the boy before him, and seeking conclusive answers to them.
Now, however, was not the time to do so.
“I had a visit last night from Rufus Scrimgeour.”
“The new Minister of Magic.”
Albus nodded.
“He seems to be very interested in meeting you, Harry.”
The boy frowned.
“You mean he has an interest in me for his own gain.”
An astute observation.
“I do believe he is genuine in his desire to apologise to you for the Ministry’s treatment of you this past year.”
Harry snorted and shook his head.
“I’m not interested in an apology. Unless Scrimgeour is willing to pardon Sirius, I have nothing to say to him. I’m not going to be used by the Ministry to score points or to make them look good when they’ve done nothing but prove just how shit they are.”
Although Albus would not have put it such a way, he very much agreed with the sentiment.
“I would approach any conversation you might share with Rufus a little more tactile. As the Minister of Magic, you will not be able to avoid him, unfortunately, and he is a decorated Auror.”
Harry deflated as he nodded.
“I’ll still tell him to bugger off, just more politely.”
Albus’s beard twitched amusedly, but he frowned as the floo chimed once more, and the rather pale visage of the man they’d just been discussing appeared in the fireplace.
“Albus?”
“What is it, Rufus?”
The man shook his head.
“I-I don’t know how it happened,” he stuttered. “Azkaban has been destroyed, and the prisoners are free.”
“That’s just bloody great,” Harry huffed irritably, and Albus held up a hand to silence the boy.
“What else, Rufus? What aren’t you telling me?”
He swallowed deeply.
“Bones, Albus. Amelia Bones is dead. She didn’t arrive for work this morning, and she and her niece were found dead at their home, which was barely standing. The… the Dark Mark was hovering above it.”
Albus closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself.
“I will be with you shortly,” he declared. “There is much we must do.”
Scrimgeour nodded before his head vanished, and Albus looked towards Harry.
“Susan is dead?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Albus answered sadly, “along with her aunt, who staunchly opposed time during the first war. She was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…”
“I know. She was the only one who stuck up for me during my trial last year.”
Albus nodded.
“Her death is quite the blow for us, Harry,” he said grimly. “Amelia was an incredible witch. I expect Tom would’ve had to kill her himself. Not only has he ridden himself of quite the foe, but the Ministry will also once more be plunged into chaos. There are not many who could or would wish to take over from Amelia, not with war on the horizon. My apologies, but I must see what I can do.”
Harry nodded as he stood, and said nothing until he reached the fireplace, pausing with a curious frown creasing his brow.
“Professor, have you ever heard of the Peverells?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Albus was taken aback by the question, and although he was certain he’d not been able to hide his shock at being asked such a thing, he did his utmost to compose himself.
“Why do you ask, Harry?”
“No reason,” the boy said dismissively. “It’s just a name I came across in my vault at Gringotts.”
Before Albus could question him further, Harry was gone, leaving behind a headmaster troubled by the death of Amelia Bones, and now with something else to be concerned about.
The Peverells.
It was not something Harry would enquire about had he merely come across the name.
No, there was much more to it than that, and Albus would look into the matter, but for now, he was needed elsewhere, so anything pertaining to the Peverells must wait.
Still, as he made his way towards the fireplace to venture to the Ministry of Magic, he was acutely aware of the wand he carried up his sleeve, and all that had transpired on the way to it coming into his possession.