Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Come-Hither	By : 77dmk77DMK77 Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2988 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own "Harry Potter". All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. Original characters and plot are the property of Rowling. No money is being made off this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Come-Hither
- 2-Dumbledore's Letter
- 1
- 2
Chapter 2

Dumbledore’s Letter

Harry left the train alone; Ron and Hermione were prefects and were having a meeting in another compartment. He waved emphatically at his half-giant friend, Hagrid, who waved back at him with a huge hand the size of dustbin lids as he continued to bellow orders at the stream of even shorter kids thronging at his feet.

“This way, first-years, this way!”

Harry slipped through the thick forest of bodies and eager voices towards the horseless carriages that would take them to the gates of the castle… Or they were supposed to be horseless…

Harry stopped where he stood, his jaw hanging somewhere in the region of his middle and his eyes swelling at the... creatures that were strapped up to the carriages. Suddenly awoken to a few misgivings about approaching them, he scanned around and noted that he was the only person betraying such hesitation – all the other kids were climbing up happily into the carriages, chatting, completely oblivious to the ugly creatures that would drag their carts to Hogwarts.

Before he could form an opinion on what he thought about the appearance of the horse-like abominations, a very pale girl with waist-length blonde hair and abnormally protuberant eyes floated over to his side and spoke in a dreamy voice so ridiculous she must be someone who did not take herself seriously.

“You can see them as well?”

Harry turned abruptly to her. “Er, yeah?” he said, in an inquiring, reasonable manner, for he did not want to sound as loony as the girl appeared. To enhance this facade, he adopted a sceptic and judgemental look so that he could appear as though he were regarding her as strange – in short, he was trying to appear comparatively normal.

Nonetheless the girl only smiled and nodded approvingly at him as though ushering him into her own crazy world: apparently his sceptic look had not carried.

“Thestrals, they’re called,” said the girl vaguely. But before she could continue – as there was every indication she would – she was interrupted by a loud voice with a very mother-like tone.

“Honestly, Ron, he’s not planning anything evil! I think he was more tolerable than any other time since we set foot in that castle! Now hurry up! Harry! You should have been up there by now!”

Without a moment’s notice, Hermione swept them all off towards the repulsive Thestrals, as the blonde girl had called them, and into one of the awaiting carriages.

The Sorting took a little longer than last year but finished soon enough, followed by the great feast and a couple of interspersed speeches by Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry idly let his eyes roam around the Great Hall when Dumbledore took his seat to see the students of Hogwarts in their entirety. He saw the same faces, and a good sprinkling of new ones mingled among them. A cursory look down the Slytherin table, merely for the sake of completeness, revealed that nothing was new there as well.

Inexorably, his gaze fell upon Malfoy, the loudest mouth in the Slytherin House and whose uppity smirk made him seem as arrogant and aloof as ever. Harry narrowed his eyes at the lean, blond figure, wondering when Malfoy was going to take the Dark Mark, if he had not already. But he let his attention wander back to his food, not wishing to work himself up on the first day back at Hogwarts, even though Death Eaters were a considerable part of the reason why he was having that lingering apathy that had smothered him in his summer. He pushed aside all the negative thoughts and focussed on his friends. He caught up with their chatter and laughed with them at the right places.

Feeling quite filled and content a few minutes later, Harry made his way to the Gryffindor common room with his other Housemates, again without Ron and Hermione, since both of whom were charged with guiding the first-years to Gryffindor Tower. Harry had been shocked to spot a big, golden “P” on the front of Malfoy’s robe and see him leading off the Slytherin newbies.

In the common room, Harry met everyone in his year more intimately, played Exploding Snap with them and some wizard chess with Ron. He made a point to show Hermione the dagger Sirius had given him as well. He thought that perhaps Hermione would somehow be able to decipher the strange markings on its smooth blade and hilt.

Hermione’s eyes darted to the dagger in his hands twice before he rushed to finish off the sentence she was on (she was already busy with her schoolwork, preparing timeously for her O.W.L.s, and the academic year had not even officially started yet).

“Hm,” she said quietly, as she squinted at the markings on its smooth surface within an inch of her face. “Well, they seem to be runes, but I don’t think we’ve covered these types of them in class – they don’t look familiar. I’m going to have to do some research in the library for this.”

Harry had been afraid of that. Perhaps unreasonably and childishly he had hoped for an answer right away from her. He felt apprehensive at first at the thought of not having the gift his godfather had sent him, even for a short while, but rationalized that it was better to understand what the markings on the dagger meant. Ignorance, Harry had learnt, was never a good thing.

“Sure. Thanks,” he replied.

Shortly after, the three of them went down to go visit Dobby in the kitchens before trooping down to the grounds to Hagrid’s hut, but the half-giant was not there, which they found strange, as they, together with the rest of the school, had seen him only hours previously greeting the first-years and escorting them along the boat ride towards the castle.

“I’m telling you, he’s shacking up with that Olympia giant,” Ron said.

“Giantess,” corrected Hermione, as they made their way back to the castle. “And her name is Olympe.”

“Nah,” said Ron, “that makes her sound better, but she isn’t any. She could take down a tree without breaking a giant sweat and then she has the audacity to feel insulted by Hagrid? Remember that?”

Unfortunately the few hours that separated Harry from the following day were quickly spent, and in no time he found himself in a classroom. The first day went off without a hitch, as did the following days – provided one disregarded Professor Snape’s escalated viciousness towards Harry and the Gryffindors. It became so bad that at one point instead of snickering as usual the Slytherins appeared to have something akin to pity for them.

It seemed no one knew what had gotten into their professor and prompted his new, invigorated spitefulness, which would sometimes, amazingly, make victims of even Snape’s own House. However rarely this happened, the fact that it did in the first place was something to be said. Indeed Potions class was quite a tense and precarious affair of which no one was inclined to test the bounds.

As though Harry did not have enough to deal with, also high on Professor Trelawney’s list of priorities was making his life miserable with her newly inspired and rather creative, long-winded and misty tales of his death. And these were coming with rapidly increasing succession.

“Beware the cliff that calls your fate, my dear boy! Beware the cliff! Despair in brief but resist the chasm that abounds! May your courage be stiff!” she shrieked one day in Divination class, pointing a trembling, gem-studded finger. One could only take so much of hearing one’s own death relayed to one so many times and in so many gruesome ways before it started affecting one, even though one knew it was utter bollocks.

It was thus with a dour mood that Harry approached the second week of school, already exhausted with the daily stress of having huge piles of homework to go through every night, since they were to write their O.W.L.s that year, Snape’s unprecedented levels of sourness toward almost anybody, and having his death prophesied in almost every single Divination class he attended.

On a particularly splendid day the stress was enough to drive Harry to seek solace from the nice spot under the thick Sycamore tree that stood just next to the lake. Unfortunately, Hermione, buckling under the pressure of their merciless workload, wished to accompany him, and at this, Ron suddenly developed his own stress symptoms as well, and joined them. Along the way they somehow managed to pick up Luna, much to Harry and Ron’s chagrin. How it happen Harry was not clear on. So the four of them, where it was initially meant to be just one, journeyed to Harry’s favourite spot, and along the way, Harry suffered one more misfortune when he passed by Malfoy and his boulder-sized cronies.

Quite strangely Malfoy, and by extension Crabbe and Goyle, had never seriously bothered him since the very first day. Admittedly there were a few episodes here and there but it certainly never escalated to the previous years’ levels. The ridicules did come, but in lesser numbers and in less intensity. Granted Malfoy’s arrogance and his unshaking belief that he was superior to any other student never left him, but he was different somewhat: he was quiet and rarely attempted to bait him or insult Ron or Hermione. This new behaviour struck Harry as odd, but, of course, because it was Malfoy, he did not push the issue. He thought if something was keeping the boy down, then let it, and then some, just because he deserved it for simply being Malfoy.

As they lumbered past, Crabbe and Goyle took the liberty to push him and Ron threateningly, a fleeting gesture of their power, eliciting a smirk from Malfoy, who had not even called for this but had merely sauntered past wordlessly. Nothing further untoward happened to them, which was particularly due to Luna admonishing the two goons in her echoing voice, even though no caves were nearby.

Putting Malfoy and his gang out of mind, Harry, together with Ron, Hermione, and their beloved guest Luna, under a heavenly clear blue sky and with a few wisps of clouds, and rolling down shining grass that gave the surroundings a picturesque view, proceeded down the grounds to Harry’s favourite shade under the large tree overlooking the lake. They reclined on the ground and on the bark of the tree, doing either homework, throwing things into the lake, or just talking nonsense (needless to say who spearheaded that particular discussion). Crookshanks was scuttling about on the edge of lake, tempting his fate each time he clawed its surface.

Harry was juggling his chat with Ron and Luna and studying the birthday present Hermione had gifted him. He was just browsing and had failed to see the point of publishing such a useless book, as he had yet to come across a spell that he could use practically – or advantageously, more precisely – particularly one that was defensive or perhaps even mildly malicious. But all he gleaned from the book was Teeth-Yellowing Charms, Spray-Painting Charms, Perforating Charms, and there was even one that made the target of the spell shake their bum as he would doing the funky chicken. The only thing the book satisfied was its title; it was rather useless. Honestly, he could not see why he would want to see someone shaking their bum.

What about a bloke doing that, though?

Harry grinned. Now that would be funny.

He wondered if he could hex Malfoy with it, and immediately, a new liking for the book burgeoned. Yes, Malfoy shaking his bum on top of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall in front of the whole school… The embarrassment would shut him up until graduation. With new vigour, Harry turned a page and studied the book more intensely.

A few minutes later he was interrupted when Ron summoned him to his defence of the value of Quidditch against the girls. It was then that he was interrupted by a first-year Gryffindor boy who looked like he was trying his best not to stare at him and redden, and who wordlessly gave him a rolled parchment with an elegant, silver ribbon. Perplexed by this, and ignoring the eyebrows raised in his direction, as well as an encouraging smile from Luna, Harry took the letter warily and muttered his thanks at the boy. Before he had even finished thanking the boy he had turned tail and was a step short from breaking into a run in the opposite direction.

Ron was first to speak in the silence that fell. “Well, he’s no doubt a Gryffindor. By Merlin, a love le--” Harry whipped his head round and glared at him, whereupon Ron cut himself off and held his hands up in resignation.

“We don’t even know what it is yet!” Harry indignantly told his presumptuous, freckled friend, unnecessarily reddening in his cheeks.

Luna, on the other hand, cooed dreamily, “That’s so sweet!”

Harry heatedly ripped off the ribbon in answer to her preposterous insinuations. He hoped his friends did not think or suspect he swung that way because Merlin knew he did not.

The parchment was quite simple and a touch rich, giving a modest impression, and Harry unfurled it to read the message therein:

Mr Potter,

Please be so kind as to report to my office as soon as you finish dinner tonight. I apologize for any inconveniences and for those of the current mode of notice.

For the entrance – I squeeze a few of them onto my fish and chips!

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

For several moments Harry frowned at the small note, floored, his mind working rapidly. What did Dumbledore want with him? And more strangely, why was he sending messages with first-year blushing Gryffindors? Yet another strange thing happening at the start of the year was Dumbledore’s curious absence on most mornings: sometimes he could not be seen at the High Table for days on end. Harry wondered where the headmaster was going. He surmised Dumbledore was probably doing damage control at the Ministry – that is, if Fudge even let him through the doors – or perhaps fending Voldemort off before he could do damage to vulnerable areas in Wizarding or even Muggle Britain. Harry could find out tonight, if he could conjure enough nerve to ask the question.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“It’s from Dumbledore,” Harry replied, and handed the parchment to them. He was most surprised to see Hermione frown and turn the parchment over and back again, only to see that it was blank on both sides.

“Harry, it’s blank,” Ron said, puzzled.

“It probably has a script-concealing charm on it,” Hermione pointed out, with contracted eyebrows. With the air of someone already defeated she drew out her wand and all watched keenly as she muttered, “Scriptus Revelum,” and then, “Aparecium,” but nothing happened on both turns. It seemed to Harry that she had anticipated this. “Well, of course it wouldn’t work. Dumbledore probably put a more complicated spell or possibly, spells, on it. I knew it wouldn’t be that simple – it’s Dumbledore,” she said, as though the man’s name explained everything.

“Shouldn’t expect anything less, with brains like his,” Ron remarked proudly, about his favourite hero.

Harry, who thought Ron was showing his patented lack of tact yet again, conversely sympathized with Hermione for her inability to solve a problem, as he suspected she usually took this personally. He reached for the parchment to draw it away from her, if her deepening frown was anything to go by, and when his fingers made contact with the parchment again, the inked letters reappeared.

Hermione’s frown cleared. “Oh you have to touch it, Harry, to reveal the message. Figures.”

She looked somewhat pacified after that, so Harry made to pocket it again but Luna requested to see it for whatever reason. Harry did not bother to question her but gave it to her readily, only to keep her from setting off as she did on Crabbe and Goyle. As soon as she touched the parchment it instantly ignited and fell in her hands and to the ground in ashes. Crookshanks, who had streamed over to them as soon as her lamp-like eyes spied the messenger boy, jumped back and hissed accusingly at Luna, who did not seem startled whatsoever. If anything, the exploding letter made her eyes glaze over even more brightly.

Hermione turned to Harry after witnessing the auto-incineration. “Harry, this probably means that this meeting is top-secret and very important,” she intoned, almost in chastisement.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, probably, but I have so much homework.” He knew he was riding his luck but was amused to notice that Hermione looked torn by his words: the apparent importance of this meeting and the certain importance of doing homework were warring against each other in her head. But a smile broke out on Harry’s face as her expression eventually turned into a scowl, to exasperation, and then to an amused shake of her head.

“Fine, Harry, I guess I could lend you my notes.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said, his face breaking into a broad grin.

Beside her, Ron looked scandalized. She ignored his spluttering and beseeching for similar favours, however, taking to pet Crookshanks, at whom Ron now glared, looking grossly underappreciated.

The following hours found Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the Great Hall enjoying their dinner along with the rest of the school. Harry dug into his shepherd’s pie whilst Ron shovelled chicken wings and some tart into his mouth indiscriminately.

“Food is like a blowjob,” Ron told them around a full mouth, while Hermione’s eyes bulged and Nearly Headless Nick’s silvery orbs narrowed cluelessly. “It doesn’t matter if the person is a boy or girl – a mouth is a mouth – it has no face, it has no gender. Food is food whether it’s sweet or salty.”

Harry grew red and wondered if his friends were still suspicious of his orientation after the episode of the small Gryffindor boy who delivered Dumbledore’s letter to him. His stomach flipped when Ron winked at him with cheeks bulging with… food and nothing else... Harry grimaced back excitedly.

Harry was feeling apprehensive as well as excited about the meeting with Dumbledore tonight. He wondered what the headmaster wished to discuss with him that was so significant that the letter had to be sent by a random student, have a spell that would ensure the message would appear only at his touch, and to self-detonate afterwards, or at least if Luna Lovegood touched it. Whatever it was it gave him butterflies in his stomach. Somehow dinner suddenly seemed indecisive of its procession, going back and forth; it felt at moments too long and at others too short. What was certain to him was that this meeting was not anything good; nothing coming out of that office was ever good.

Nevertheless Harry steeled himself, marshalling positive thoughts to course his mind instead of the negative ones that were going to leave him tense and discouraged. He kept trying to catch Dumbledore’s eyes for a clue but got nothing for his efforts except a twinkling blue glance over half-moon glasses that revealed nothing. Harry tried to return the gesture with a smile, but between his cringing stomach, forcing himself to eat for eating’s sake and his swirling thoughts, it probably turned out to look no less uglier and nervous than the constipated grimace he had given Ron.

After coming up to Gryffindor Tower in an agitated and tense mood to settle his affairs – which included giving Hermione his Transfiguration essay on Trans-species Transfiguration and grinning smugly at Ron’s indignant scowl – he journeyed to Dumbledore’s office still in his school cloak over his Muggle clothes; it turned out to be a little chilly outside. Not long before long, unfortunately for him, he was standing before the gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office.

“Lemon Drops,” he said firmly, remembering the cryptic clue Dumbledore had provided in the letter, and he swiped at his thighs to dry his sweating hands.

“Come in!” trilled a soft, muffled voice from beyond the large oaken doors after he rapped on them, having ascended the spiralling staircase. Harry took in a deep, bracing breath and opened the door.

“Ah, Harry my boy, good to see you!” sang Dumbledore, as though the sight of Harry was the highlight of his day. “May I entice you to a Mint Toffee?”

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore,” Harry said, with a mixture of cautious cheer and apprehension.

The room was just as bright, welcoming, and cluttered as always. Various paraphernalia lay scattered on many surfaces, the numerous portraits looked down on him with a host of mixed expressions on their painted faces, some less welcoming than others (and Harry had seen a few of them frowning disapprovingly at Dumbledore for his overenthusiastic reaction), and Fawkes was perched regally on his wrought platform in his scarlet and golden glory.

He accepted the proffered Mint Toffees and, out of sheer nerves, popped five of them in his mouth at once.

“How has your term been thus far?” Dumbledore asked conversationally, beaming up at Harry.

Harry thought back to all the hell that characterized his school life thus far and could not decide where to begin.

“It could have been better,” he answered finally, with a rueful smile, choosing to be vague and as brusque as possible: he was getting lockjaw from chewing a mouthful of Mint Toffees.

Dumbledore smiled warmly at him and his eyes twinkled. However, the smile slowly fell, the beaming expression fizzled out, and the last trace of the light in his eyes vanished altogether. “Very well. I think it’s best we get to why you’re here tonight before time makes fools of us.”

Harry’s insides turned cold at this. “Is this about Sirius?” he blurted out. Has he been caught? Is he all right? Is he alive?

“Yes, exactly what has my great-great-grandson been up to after his escape?” asked a sly voice from above. “I have seen him at Grimmauld Place not once.”

“Thank you, Phineas,” said Dumbledore dismissively without looking at the portrait, thereby missing Phineas Nigellus’ dignified but clearly affronted sniff. Dumbledore livened, his lingering, wan smile broadening. “No, Harry. I believe Sirius is quite fine at the moment. However, there are other very important issues that we need to deal with.”

Dumbledore paused, and then continued, “Harry, since the resurrection of Voldemort, there has been increasing tension amongst all. We have reason to believe that Voldemort is preparing to launch an attack very soon. He has been delighting absentmindedly in several wanton skirmishes. This may serve as a message to inform everyone that he certainly is back and is to be feared once again.”

Dumbledore gazed back at Harry with a piercing stare, as though through his eyes he wished to communicate the sheer gravity of the situation. Harry lost some colour in his face and his heart began hammering against his chest, a familiar dread encompassing him once more. Voldemort striking soon should have been expected. He forced himself to listen to Dumbledore speaking.

“We have to begin to prepare for open warfare as soon as possible, and this means primarily preparing you, Harry.”

Amongst the sharpening of ears of the portraits above them Harry found his hands getting clammy again.

“How do you mean?” he managed to croak.

Dumbledore eyed him steadily, a touch of commiseration and apology in his eyes. Then he leant back in his tall-back chair and touched his fingertips together.

“I mean, you have to be trained for war, we have to minimize your vulnerabilities and educate you on your enemy so you know how best to tackle him.”

He was going to become a soldier. He was going to be trained for war, a war that he had to lead, and to finish. This was it. He had known this would come one day after seeing Voldemort reborn, it had been a permanent cloud at the back of his head – a lingering, morbid eventuality that attacked him unawares – in his sleep, in his thoughts, everywhere. And what accompanied that knowledge was the impotent rage deriving from the fact that he was targeted by the whole of the Wizarding world for this, that his purpose was defined by others when he became the Boy Who Lived, that everyone around him expected him to do this. He could not speak through the sheer overwhelming thoughts flitting through his mind as he relived those familiar grey feelings, distinctly the thought of the moment when Voldemort rose again. He thought Dumbledore was speaking again...

“I have thus arranged for us to meet in my office twice on the weekends since you will be occupied with your schoolwork on weekdays.”

Harry nodded absently, somewhat registering the words.

Dumbledore’s eyes grew duller, their twinkle absent, and in front of Harry he seemed to assume and look every digit of his age.

“Harry, this is to prepare you for what is to come. Do you think you can make those times or should we reschedule?”

Harry slowly shook his head. “The weekend is fine, sir,” he said, wincing at how his voice broke slightly. He paused to collect himself and then said more firmly, “I can make it.”

Dumbledore gave him a small smile. “Then it’s settled.” His expression sobered, the lines of his face making it seem brittle and forced. “Furthermore, there’s one detail we should to discuss.”

Harry forced to regain control of his breathing. He gazed back steadily at the headmaster . “Yes, Professor?”

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate for a moment before he spoke. “I said you will learn more about your enemy,” he began, while Fawkes flustered about strangely on his perch. “This is not compulsory. However, I feel that it is time I repent from my mistakes, an old man’s grave mistakes, Harry… and to finally enlighten you on some of the questions you asked me in your first year here.” Dumbledore looked down, his face crestfallen and unusually contrite, and his hands spread out on the smooth oak of his desk.

“Really. I don’t understand, Dumbledore, why you have to answer to such bedraggled and clearly insolent… students.” It could not have been clearer that Phineas Nigellus Black had had a far less polite term in mind. “‘The weekend is fine,’ as if you’re entitled to a choice. Headmaster or no headmaster, I would never have allowed such--”

“That will do, Phineas,” warned Dumbledore a little more sternly.

Ignoring Black, Harry thought he had never seen Dumbledore act like this, and it scared him. It scared him more than what Dumbledore had to say. Why was Dumbledore saying things like that? What was going on? What had suddenly happened? Suddenly changed? Could he not just reverse what had just happened between the two of them and go back to the Gryffindor common room with nothing to worry about? No: Dumbledore’s words penetrated him to the bone. Surely Dumbledore did not make mistakes. He only realized now how childish the thought was. But who cared? His headmaster – the only man Voldemort feared, one of the most powerful wizards alive, if not the greatest – was talking in parables and acting strangely. It was deeply unsettling.

“Yes, sir,” was all Harry could say – his throat had suddenly turned to sawdust. Trepidation blossomed inside him for what would follow from now on, whether in here or out there where Voldemort was. He would find out exactly what the process would entail on the weekend, four days from today. He swallowed thickly and tried to calm himself.

Dumbledore smiled back at him, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which were now tainted with emotions Harry could not read.

“Very well, Harry.” Dumbledore then cleared his throat delicately. “Now, I have homework for you.” Seeing the suddenly bemused expression on Harry’s face, he continued, “I would like for you to start meditating, every night, before you sleep. Clear your mind of all thought and concentrate on nothing. Sit still, do not move, but leave your mind blank. You will need this for some of our lessons to come.”

This caught Harry off guard. He said shortly, “Yes, Professor.”

He could not fully dwell on the peculiarity of Dumbledore’s latest request – his mind was still reeling from Dumbledore’s odd behaviour and being told about the lessons, preparing for war, and especially about ‘mistakes’ that Dumbledore had made in the past. Of all that Dumbledore had told him, what threw him off the most was these ‘mistakes’ and his strange demeanour when he confessed this. For it was hard to attribute anything unsavoury to Dumbledore; Harry loved his man and trusted him absolutely. He thought the world of him.

He vaguely registered Fawkes giving a brief, melodious trill.

Minutes ago he had entered this office feeling relatively peaceful, light, and content, with no problems and only paltry complaints such as overbearing homework or Professor Snape’s treatment of him. Now he would be leaving this office with a mind a few worries heavier.

Dumbledore smiled again. “Excellent. I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time. You best be off to your House. If there’s anything you wished to ask me...?”

Harry thought about it for a moment, restraining himself just barely before automatically uttering, ‘No, sir’. He had so many questions to ask, and he thought Dumbledore knew this. Perhaps the man had asked him this just to be polite, as he always was. Or perhaps he was manipulatively relying on Harry to answer instinctively ‘No, sir’ so that he would not have to answer anything. Perhaps that could partly explain that brief brittle aura about him that Harry saw a few moments earlier. Nevertheless he did not want to find that out, not just yet, if there was anything to find out.

“No, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I will see you on Saturday at eight o’clock in the morning for our first lesson. Have a good night, Harry. You’re welcome to some more Mint Toffees...” Again, he held out the bowl to Harry with an amused smile on his face, which somehow did not fit his face as well as it always did... Harry smiled back as he stood up and took more of the proffered sweets, never wanting to disappoint his mentor – and curiously – especially tonight.

“Thanks, sir. Goodnight.”

Harry stepped out of the office, his mind dancing with thoughts competing for attention as he made his way into the corridor and up to Gryffindor Tower, all along trying, and failing, to keep them at bay. This explained why he did not notice Dumbledore slipping out of from behind the gargoyle guarding his office and turning to go down a separate hallway.

What was that all about? What would these new lessons entail? What would he be learning? How would he be “prepared”? Harry idly hugged himself tighter as he passed a shadow he thought to be the moon blocked by a statue, and continued hurriedly to the portrait of the Fat Lady in Gryffindor Tower as the chilly breeze still persisted.

Before Harry could even set a foot down into the common room, two blurs of hair came flying at him.

“So? What did Dumbledore say?” Hermione whispered frantically, eyes widened in anticipation whizzing back and forth between his own. Ron nodded vigorously beside her.

“Can I at least sit down first?” Harry said warily, a little amusement creeping into his voice, which he welcomed after being clouded by his depressing musings after leaving Dumbledore’s office.

Initially Ron and Hermione looked bewildered as though Harry had just spoken Gobbledegook, but then they flustered about and pushed him towards the couches around the fireplace. Harry settled himself into the plush, scarlet couch and attempted to compose his words and thoughts as he stared into the cackling fire.

His two friends sat expectantly opposite him, leaning forward so far out of their seats they were providing irresistible temptation to gravity. Evidently a letter bearing a superior Script-Concealment Charm had piqued Hermione immensely, and that it had ignited upon Luna Lovegood also fixated Ron. Harry could not help but notice they were sitting rather closely to each other.

Before starting Harry exhaled slowly. “Dumbledore said that...” he began, but he could not help a grin touching his lips when Ron’s hand shot out to an adjacent couch to brace himself before falling off his seat after both he and Hermione had leant further forward out of their seats as soon as he started speaking. However, his amusement was short-lived. “I have to prepare for the war that’s coming.”

It was clearly it was not what his friends had expected to hear from him: Ron looked comically confused, and Hermione similarly flummoxed.

“‘Prepare for war?’” Hermione asked, her voice bearing an undercurrent of polite scepticism betraying her disbelief that Dumbledore found it proper for Harry, a mere peer of her own, to be trained for war.

Harry nodded solemnly before he lowered his voice so the surrounding students could not hear. “Since Voldemort--” Ron and Hermione flinched. “--has come back to life I have to start to prepare for when I meet him again. And judging by the current trend, I think that meeting might not be that far off.”

Both of his friends looked visibly shaken: Ron’s eyes were bulged impossibly out of their sockets, and Hermione’s face had gone a few shades paler. There was silence for a moment in which they absorbed what he was saying. Harry thought it was remarkable that they had not even met Voldemort and yet such fear emanated from them. But he had, he had seen him three times thus far, seen the horrors of which the man was capable, and he could not react like them, not with so much fear.

If Harry were truly honest with himself he would admit that if he thought too long on it, he knew he secretly feared Voldemort, and he did fear to die; it was only human to do so. But this fear was vastly eclipsed by the intense hatred and fury he had for that pale face with the red slit eyes. How he seethed upon thinking about him. A fierce culmination of vengeance, unmitigated rage, and overwhelming fury seemed to smother that fear he harboured for the man, but not vanquish it completely.

In the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew he was looking forward to meeting with Voldemort again face to face to do what he wanted to ever since he learnt that it was he who was responsible for his parents’ death, and especially – he was ashamed to admit – after he killed Cedric as well, right in front of him. He hated Voldemort for making him an orphan, hated him for tainting his innocence by making him bear witness to death, and hated him for threatening the lives of everyone he loved. Only Merlin knew how desperately he wanted to rip his reincarnated flesh from piece to piece with his bare hands and…

“Harry?” came a tentative query.

Harry snapped out of his raging thoughts to see the tongues of the fire in the hearth and the candles in the common room flickering and their fiery tips leaning towards him, Hermione’s quill and parchments vibrating on the round desk, his own robes fluttering as though there was a breeze, and finally, his friends’ bewildered and worried faces.

One of them turned awed and impressed.

“Merlin’s toenails!” Ron exclaimed, wonder evident in his voice and glittering in his eyes as he gaped at Harry.

“Ron!” Hermione admonished sharply with a stern glare, as though communicating through her eyes, whereupon Ron seemed to understand and accordingly contained himself. Harry wondered when this had started to happen as he watched a doleful Ron sulking but with a trace of admiration still lingering in his face.

What just happened to him? Perhaps it was that raw magic thing he accidentally used to do when he was young, throwing tantrums.

“Harry,” Hermione chastised softly, “you need to control yourself.” She looked around at the common room indicatively at the curious glances coming their way.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured.

Hermione nodded sympathetically. Then she asked, “So Dumbledore told you you’re going to be prepared for war? How so?”

“I don’t know,” Harry confessed, and petted Crookshanks after she jumped onto his lap, whereupon Ron’s face made a complete turnaround, morphing from amazed-looking to a haunted scowl. “He’s going to start teaching me on Saturdays and Sundays from now on.” He failed to tell them of Dumbledore’s strangeness in that meeting.

Hermione’s and Ron’s eyes widened to the size of their elfish counterparts.

“Dumbledore is going to teach you himself?” Ron asked loudly, as though it was a huge honour to be taught by Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. Harry, belatedly, had an inkling it was, and a trifle of pride sprouted within him. Hermione’s face now looked tinged with a little green instead of the stark pallor it had previously worn; Harry observed that jealousy did not look good on her.

“What is he going to teach you?” asked Hermione, and Harry could swear she almost spat out her words.

“He wasn’t specific,” he answered her cautiously. “He just said that I need to be trained for war, minimize my vulnerabilities, and be educated on my enemy.”

Ron sat back in his chair with a mixed expression. Hermione, on the other hand, had a calculating, thoughtful frown on her face and stayed silent for a while. Harry studied the fire as it cackled and licked the air, a few sparks falling into the logs. He idly wondered when Sirius would fire-call him...

“‘Trained for war’ – that could mean you’ll be taught advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, possibly. ‘Minimize your vulnerabilities’ – maybe shutting down the connection Voldemort has to your mind or something else. Perhaps improve your eyesight?”

Harry tried to remain not affronted while Ron disguised a snicker under a cough.

“And ‘educate you on your enemy,’” Hermione went on. “Perhaps he’ll teach you about You-Know-Who’s own weaknesses, if he has any, so you can capitalize on them.”

Harry once again found himself awed by Hermione’s shrewdness and thought how lucky he was to be her friend.

“I think you’re right about the shutting off my connection with him: Dumbledore said I should try every night to clear my mind before I go to sleep – meditate, sort of.”

Hermione’s eyes went round again and understanding dawned on her face. “He’s going to be teaching you Occlumency, Harry!”

“Oh yeah,” Ron said, wearing a sheepish expression, as though he had been thinking of it.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

Hermione’s features morphed into an expression by which Harry knew he was going to receive a lecture. He braced himself.

Hermione explained Occlumency and Legilimency to him. At the end of it his jaw was resting at the bottom of the fireplace: he was amazed at this. You could read people’s minds? There was so much he did not know about magic. Curse the Dursleys, he thought.

Ron, doing his utmost best to ignore Crookshanks, was nodding at him knowingly as though he had said all of this.

“Occlumency – occlude – block,” said Hermione. “Legilimency – legible – read.” Her smile broadened as Harry’s eyes swelled even further in comprehension. In a darker voice Hermione went on, “Dumbledore’s probably going to teach you Occlumency so you can block out You-Know-Who from your mind.”

Harry was puzzled by this. “But why block him out if I can see what he does through the connection so that I can tell again who else Voldemort captured or killed or whatever he’s planning?” he asked. Crookshanks jumped off his lap and whizzed away with his bottlebrush tail erect in salutation. Ron looked relieved.

“Maybe…” she began slowly, thinking as she said it, it seemed. Harry had an inkling she was remembering the time he told her and Ron about the vision he had in which Voldemort and Wormtail kill a Muggle in an abandoned house. “…maybe Dumbledore suspects that You-Know-Who can somehow manipulate the connection he has with you, so that what you see isn’t real and tricks you into going somewhere to save someone like how you would normally tend to do, and get yourself killed in the process,” she finished, in a chastising tone.

Harry rustled at the reference to his apparent ‘hero-complex,’ as Hermione dubbed it.

“Probably,” he said meekly.

Ron shuddered deeply at the thought of having to share a mind with You-Know-Who. “That’s good an’ all, mates, but... blimey, Harry, how did you do that?” It seemed Ron was still taken by Harry’s burst of raw magic a few threads of dialogue back.

Hermione looked offended she was referred to as a ‘mate,’ judging by the slight pursing of her lips and the disapproving sideway glance she shot at Ron.

“I was just angry, thinking about Voldemort and what he has done,” he replied flatly. He was also secretly amazed he could still do that at his age, and it left him feeling distinctly less mature.

Ron’s look of awe remained. He made to say something but held himself after one look from Hermione.

“Well, Harry, at least you’ll be in good hands with Dumbledore. I mean, who else would you rather be taught by?” she said.

The tinge of green flickered back in her face for a few seconds but went away again, replaced by anxiety and worry.

“This means that the war is about to start in earnest. He’s back.”

She jumped up and started pacing a trench in front of the fire, the golden light making her hair glow and giving her a fierce look.

“Harry, we also have to start preparing ourselves,” she whispered finally, after Harry counted her pacing eight steps. He looked up at her uncertainly as did Ron. She continued her silent pacing.

“What do you mean ‘preparing ourselves’?” asked Ron warily, never one desiring to be acquainted with work.

“I mean, Ron--” She glared at him finally, her blazing mane and the fireplace backdrop accentuating her fierce aura. “--we have to start some sort of club or something where we can come together and practice defence. Harry,” she said, turning to him with a pleading look, “maybe you can teach us what Dumbledore teaches you in his lessons.”

“Er—er—of course, yeah, sure,” Harry agreed uncertainly, wanting to reassure her. But what if he was not going to be taught advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts? These were only assumptions, albeit astute ones but assumptions nonetheless.

Hermione nodded and started pacing as she worried her lower lip and tapped her fingers on her shoulder. “Yes, we assemble some people who care about fighting this war and defending themselves and the people they care about, meet in an abandoned classroom – maybe once a week – and train there so that we also can be prepared for this war.” She looked like she was trying to be strong, but Harry suspected she, too, was scared under that determined veneer. The darkest wizard of the century had returned to full power and was looming in the unknown but would soon present himself openly. It was only a matter of time.

“We’ll do it, Hermione,” he said firmly, wanting to brace his friend and be strong for all of them; he felt like he owed them that.

Ron nodded alongside him. “Yeah, Hermione, let’s do this... defence club thing, now that everyone knows that You-Know-Who’s back.”

Hermione nodded as well. “We’ll get through this, we have to.” Her eyes lost focus for a few seconds. “I need to work out the logistics of this meeting thing and get things started and organized,” she said quietly, almost as an aside. “Excuse me.” She returned to her place on the couch and started finishing off her homework.

Harry remembered that he had not even started on his work yet. Suddenly, he felt exhausted and miserable. He grabbed on a lifesaver. “Hermione, you said I could use your notes...” Before he even finished his sentence, she slid a few pieces of parchment from under her work towards him without stopping on the sentence she was writing. Harry grinned. “Thanks,” he said, but he was given a dismissive wave of her hand.

Ron grumbled indignantly under his breath as he watched Harry claim the footnoted notes and went to do his own homework. But he was immediately distracted – and a look of tremendous relief crossed his face – by Seamus and Dean after they came over to them. They started an animated conversation about the toys they enjoyed over their summer from his twin brothers’ joke shop, Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes.

Seamus shared, “Me batty aunt came over to visit and this time around it was a good thing she brought that funny cat of hers. It found one of me Explosive Éclairs in the sofa and they both left the house the same day with half the fur they came in with! Aunt Mavis looks loads younger now! And she’s engaged now, if you can believe it!”

The topic then invariably drew to Quidditch, which Harry dredged up the courage to join after shooting a wary glance at Hermione, whose eyebrows were tightly knitted together in disapproval while her quill skated so feverishly over her parchment that her table trembled.

It soon became apparent that it was not only Harry, love Quidditch though he may, who had a few complaints about the gruelling training sessions which had started in earnest even though the Quidditch season was a comfortably long way off. Angelina Johnson, it seemed, was taking no chances and looked to follow in the footsteps of her predecessor, or at least attempt to (Oliver Wood’s merciless training regime and enthusiasm was a force to be reckoned with and by no means easily matched or, more ambitiously, surmounted).

“You’d think we were vying for the World Cup,” Seamus said, casting a mixed glance of irritation and admiration at Angelina bent over her homework, her dark, long braids flowing over the back of her chair and quivering slightly in step with her scribbling quill.

“Maybe she’s scared we’ll become the Hogwarts Chudley Cannons with her and she’ll send us to the relegation zone,” suggested Dean, who had his hand under his chin and who observed their subject with a touch of sympathy in his dark-brown eyes.

“Oliver would suffer a stroke just hearing you say that if he were still captain,” Harry warned quickly, over the angry reddening of Ron’s cheeks.

Good things come to an end, and when Dean and Seamus finally slipped off, Ron and Harry were left to return to their blanks parchments, and Harry found his concentration absent and in its place was seductive sleepiness. And seeing Hermione packing up her things loudly and pompously and sweeping off towards the girls’ dormitory to her calling bed was hugely irritating.

Eyelids droopy, Ron and Harry turned to each other blankly. They shrugged simultaneously before stuffing their incomplete homework into their bags and heading for their own beds in the boys’ dormitory after making sure Hermione was out of sight.

Before going to bed Harry tried meditation as Dumbledore had assigned him to do. He changed into his pyjamas and sat cross-legged on his bed. Trying to empty his mind as instructed, he soon found that it was much harder than it sounded, but a few minutes into it saw him being more aware of his own heartbeat and his even breathing, and a nice, thin patina of contentedness soothed him, something he had not experienced in a long time. It was only moments later that he met oblivion.

Back down in the common room, Sirius’ face flickered into the flames of the hearth, and upon seeing the room empty, the crestfallen apparition vanished once again.
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Come-Hither