Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Deceptions	By : GypsyRaeyven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1778 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this story are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Story Notes:

There are four things you really need to know before reading.

1. This is going to be LONG!

2. Each chapter so far is roughly between 10,000 and 16,000 words.

3. It has a plot.

4. Harry/Draco is only hinted at for the first few chapters. By chapter four those hints become more apparent - at least from Harry's pov. However, it will take quite a few more chapters before things start to develop. If you are expecting the boys to jump into bed together right away, you will be disappointed. I want this story to develop their relationship at a sensible pace while staying in character. Therefore, they have a LOT of issues to deal with!

Mainly canon up to, and including, Order of the Phoenix. Roughly follows certain events from Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. Ignores epilogue completely.

Deceptions is my take on year six, and will be followed by a year seven sequel, From Within.

Expect copious amounts of angst, lashings of humour, some violence, and a healthy amount of dark!Harry. Character deaths (but I can safely say not Harry or Draco because that is something I will never write!), Quidditch, and top!Draco (although top!Harry is demanding that he has his moment and I might just have to give in!). There's even a 'songfic' in one of the chapters - not sure how that happened!

Chapter One

The Calm Before A Storm

The summer of Harry Potter's sixteenth year elapsed, by his usual standards, rather peacefully. There were no boa constrictors to set free from the zoo, nor unexpected visits from well-meaning house-elves or midnight rides in flying Muggle cars. None of Vernon Dursley's obnoxious relatives came to stay; Aunt Marge herself had vowed never to set foot in Little Whinging again, although she couldn't quite remember why after her memory had been altered. And as for the Dementors, they hadn't been seen or heard of since deserting Azkaban several months earlier. Even the troubled dreams that had been plaguing Harry of late since the death of his godfather, Sirius, had ceased. Yet Harry couldn't relax, no matter how hard he tried. It was all far too quiet... like the calm before a storm.

Much of the time was spent whiling away the long hours in his bedroom with Hedwig his sole companion, scrutinising copies of the Daily Prophet from cover to cover for anything of significance or trying to catch up on essays for school. Perhaps not surprisingly, Dudley was doing his level best to avoid him. The only times Harry so much as glimpsed his cousin was from his bedroom window as he came and went with Piers Polkiss and the rest of his gang of bullies. There was no doubt in his mind that his aunt and uncle had warned their son to stay away from him to prevent any of the usual friction between the two, something Harry felt was unnecessary as he suspected that having a Dementor sucking at his face last year was probably the real reason for Dudley's reluctance to be anywhere near him.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were barely speaking to him themselves following their encounter with Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley at King's Cross station at the end of term. The very thought of Mad-Eye Moody – or indeed anyone from the Ministry of Magic – turning up on their doorstep or down their chimney to check on his well-being was almost certainly giving them sleepless nights. However, Aunt Petunia had made it clear to Harry upon his return – likely through fear of receiving another Howler from Albus Dumbledore – that under no circumstances would anyone try to force him to leave this time. This was followed by a pointed look at her husband, who mumbled something unintelligible and disappeared behind his newspaper. It was also made quite clear, nevertheless, that his presence was something which they would tolerate so long as he stayed out of their way in his room; even his meals were brought up on a tray and left outside his door.

Normally, Harry would have welcomed this enforced isolation. But without any household chores to keep him busy or the verbal sparring with Dudley, which he had to admit he rather enjoyed, he found he had more time alone with his thoughts. And right now that was the last thing he needed. Finding a way to cope with the loss of the only father figure he had ever known was difficult enough. He didn't think he would ever forget the twisted look of horror on Sirius Black's face as he had fallen through the strange veiled arch in the Department of Mysteries. But the events of that fateful night last term had also revealed to Harry something that he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face. Something that he wasn't ashamed to admit, to himself at least, frightened him. He was, after all, only sixteen. He should be enjoying his teenage years, not worrying about some crackpot wizard who wanted him dead.

Harry reached up and ran his fingers over the scar on his forehead. He had no choice though, that had been taken away from him before he was even born. There was nothing he could do to change things. And so, along with everyone else, he found himself playing a waiting game. Exactly what they were all waiting for he wasn't entirely sure, but he knew it wouldn't pass unnoticed. The beginning of the Second War was imminent, and Voldemort would make certain that when it happened the whole world would know about it.

There were those who thought it had already started, but Harry believed differently. Yes, Voldemort was back, a fact that was at last being acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic. And yes, it appeared he had already set his twisted plans in motion with the mass breakout of his followers from Azkaban, and their recent infiltration of Ministry headquarters. But the worst was yet to come and Harry couldn't help feeling torn. Part of him was relieved that nothing had happened since the end of term, but the more realistic part of him knew it was just a matter of time and he almost wished Voldemort would do something to put an end to the interminable wait.

Harry threw his quill aside with an agitated grunt. Not even his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, his favourite subject at school, could keep his mind off what wasn't happening elsewhere. He pushed himself off his rumpled bed and padded barefoot to the window, absently ruffling Hedwig's snowy feathers as he passed her cage and receiving a soft peck in return. Outside, Privet Drive lay cloaked in darkness. A thick blanket of clouds hid the stars overhead from view and the only sign of the moon in the night sky was a faint silvery glow to the east. Harry stifled a yawn and peered down at Dudley's old watch which he had rescued from the bin last year.

Almost two in the morning.

He dragged himself up onto the window sill and sat looking out over the quiet street, hugging his knees to his chest. The nightmares may have stopped but he wasn't finding sleeping any easier. It didn't seem to matter how tired he was; the moment his head touched the pillow he was wide awake, so many things running through his mind: Ron, Hermione and the rest of Dumbledore's Army; the incident at the Ministry, when they had come face to face with Voldemort and his Death Eaters; Draco Malfoy's father, Lucius, being arrested by Ministry officials; a tiny revolving Sybill Trelawney making her prophecy; his own parents smiling at him from within the confines of the Mirror of Erised...

Following Harry's discovery of the prophecy deep within the annals of the Ministry last term, Professor Dumbledore had opened up to him in a way he never had before. He had learned a lot of things that brought certain areas of his life into clarity, such as why he had been left with relatives who didn't want him after the deaths of his parents, the reason behind Snape's hatred for him, and not least of all why Voldemort wanted him dead. But Harry had a feeling he still didn't know everything, that there was a lot more the Hogwarts headmaster was withholding. Exactly what else was to come? Having found out that he must one day face Voldemort in what would be – for both of them – a life or death confrontation, how could it possibly get any worse?

Harry's musings were interrupted by the soft creak of a door on the landing. A sliver of light illuminated the gap under his own door and he could hear his aunt's soft footsteps descending the stairs. He managed a wry grin; Moody really had given them sleepless nights. But then the grin fell from his face. Was it that? Or was it something else keeping her awake? Aunt Petunia knew enough about the wizarding world from having had a witch as a sister to know who Voldemort was and the threat that his return posed. Maybe it was weighing on her mind just as heavily as it was his.

For the briefest of moments, Harry had never felt so close to his aunt. He could hear her in the kitchen, filling the kettle, and was suddenly struck by an overwhelming need to reach out to her. It was ridiculous really, he disliked her as much as she did him. But she understood, and he would give anything to talk to someone – anyone – who did. Ron and Hermione sent letters, but it wasn't the same as when they were together. Besides which, they were all under instruction from Dumbledore to be extra careful what they wrote about. They hinted at various things, but never in a way that would reveal anything important if the letters were intercepted.

He really wished he could see them again before term started, but this year that wouldn't be possible. Hermione was on holiday in Italy with her family, whilst Ron and his sister, Ginny, had been packed off to Romania with their brother, Charlie. 'So that we won't mess in Order business,' Ron had complained in one of his letters. Harry smiled as he remembered their attempts to listen in on the Order of the Phoenix's meetings during their stay at number twelve, Grimmauld Place a year ago. But thinking about the ancestral home of the Black family brought Sirius to the forefront of his thoughts again. At that precise moment, Harry missed his two best friends more than he ever had before.

He was about to leave the window and head downstairs when a sudden movement in the street below caught his eye. Harry instantly tensed, his eyes scanning the pavement at the bottom of the Dursleys' drive. He saw nothing at first, and was ready to put it down to his overwrought imagination when a shadow at the back of Uncle Vernon's car shifted. This time there was no mistaking it. Harry squinted into the darkness, straining his eyes to catch another glimpse. Something was definitely out there. He waited for what felt like an eternity, until a slight breeze shook the leaves of the bushy rhododendron in the middle of the lawn, drawing his attention. When he looked back at the car it was just in time to see a black shape shoot out from beneath and dart across the road. As it headed for the gate of the house opposite, a security light lit up and bathed it in a pool of golden light. It paused, turned its vivid green eyes to Harry and gazed at him for a moment, its mouth opening in a silent 'miaow', white fangs gleaming. Then it was gone; over the gate and down the path in one swift dash.

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding and tried to laugh it off. It was only a cat, one of Mrs Figg's if he wasn't mistaken. Nothing to get spooked over. But the frown didn't leave his brow as he slithered off the sill, and the goose bumps on his arms had nothing to do with the night-time chill on the landing as he left his bedroom. There was something about the way the cat had stopped and looked at him which bothered him. He knew it was silly, but then he also knew that Mrs Figg's cats weren't quite as ordinary as they appeared. Dudley snorted in his sleep as Harry passed his bedroom door. And then something that had been nudging at the edge of Harry's thoughts finally butted in. Why was Privet Drive so dark? What had happened to the street lamps? Not one of them was lit. This dawning realisation wasn't what brought him to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs, however, his hand gripping the bannister so hard that his knuckles turned white. It was the ear piercing scream that suddenly split the silence of the night in two, accompanied by a flash of green light from the kitchen that lit up the hallway and turned his blood to ice.

Aunt Petunia!

But before Harry had time to react, Uncle Vernon came stumbling out onto the landing in his green-checked underpants and white vest, shaking a chintz duvet to the floor. "Petunia!" he bellowed, his face ashen. He didn't acknowledge his nephew's presence other than to push him aside in his hurry to get down the stairs. Still half-entangled in the duvet, however, he tripped and missed several steps, falling with a grunt onto his backside in the hall where he remained, winded. Harry, who was right behind him, managed to avoid him with a well-timed leap. He turned in the direction of the kitchen and pulled up short at the sight that greeted him. The conservatory doors were wide open and a hunched figure was crouched over the lifeless body of Aunt Petunia, dragging her awkwardly by the shoulders into the garden. The figure lifted his head as Harry appeared, and Harry's heart sank into his stomach. Ever since the Dementor attack last year, what he had feared most had happened. Voldemort had brought the fight to the Dursleys.

Huffing and puffing somewhat, Uncle Vernon was struggling to his feet behind him. Harry wasted no time. He turned to him, grabbing him by the arms. "Upstairs," he hissed. "Get Dudley, and get out of the house!" His uncle blinked at him as if he had never seen Harry before. "Now!" Harry urged desperately, trying to turn him back towards the stairs. It didn't matter that these people had made his childhood years hell; at that precise moment in time it was irrelevant. Their lives were in danger, and Harry would do all he could to help them. Despite everything, they didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

But it was too late. A bewildered Vernon Dursley had looked over Harry's shoulder to see the limp body of his wife disappearing down the garden path. "Petunia!" he bellowed again, shoving Harry out of the way. Harry followed after him as he blundered through the kitchen, bits of a broken mug crunching beneath his feet. "Uncle Vernon!" he yelled. "It's no use. There's nothing you can do." He was oblivious to the front door banging open behind him. "You need to get out of here," he continued helplessly, his words falling on deaf ears. All his uncle was concerned about was his wife, he didn't understand the danger that he was putting himself in.

Harry hesitated, unsure what to do, and in that split second of indecision someone shouted his name from the hallway. Harry looked back and for the first time in his life actually found himself wishing that this was one of his nightmares. Arabella Figg was advancing towards him in a flowery dressing gown and slippers, a lurid pink hairnet covering her rollered hair and, to Harry's utter astonishment, brandishing a wand. "Get down, boy," she demanded, and Harry promptly dropped to his knees just in time to see a flash of yellow light shoot over him and strike Uncle Vernon on the back of the head.

The effect was immediate. Just like the characters in the Saturday morning cartoons that Dudley still watched, Vernon Dursley froze in mid-step, his feet not even touching the ground. Then, almost in slow motion, he toppled forward like a felled tree, coming to rest face down on the gravel path with a heavy crunch. Harry winced and turned to gape questioningly at Mrs Figg as she reached his side and extended a wrinkled hand to him.

"Stunned him," she said by way of an explanation, then peered at the body and added faintly, "I hope..." Harry noticed the old lady was shaking as she helped him to his feet.

"But..." Harry stared at her. "How?" He looked at the wand that she was gripping tightly in a manner that did little to instil confidence. "I thought you were a Squib?"

Mrs Figg shushed him with her hands. "Let's get you out of here," she whispered, nodding her head at the stooped figure now stood at the end of the garden. Petunia Dursley lay in a crumpled heap at his feet.

Harry looked from the wand to Mrs Figg, and then to his uncle. "But how did you–?" he began.

"That's not important," his elderly neighbour interrupted, a nervous edge to her voice. "What is important is getting you to safety while we still can." She took Harry by the arm and attempted to usher him towards the front door, but he shook free and turned back. The figure was watching him from beneath his hooded cloak. "Come on, boy," the old lady warned in a low voice. "There may be more of them, and a simple stun won't be much use if there is."

Harry shook his head. The shock and disbelief at what had happened was subsiding, overtaken by a seething anger which left no room for common sense. He had recognised Aunt Petunia's killer and was incensed by the gall that the man had shown in coming here. He gritted his teeth. "I don't care how many Death Eaters might be out there," he stated firmly, "he's not getting away again." A faint whisper in the back of his mind urged him on.

"This isn't the time or the place," Mrs Figg replied in exasperation, but seeing the stubborn look on his face, she pressed the wand she was clutching into his hand without another word and hobbled through the conservatory after him, her small beady eyes peering all around as they reached the doors.

Harry paused. "Wait here," he said softly.

"I don't like this..." Mrs Figg hissed.

Harry's reply was swallowed up in a muted curse as he trod on something that screeched loudly, almost making him jump out of his skin.

"Twinkle!" Mrs Figg gasped, bending clumsily to extract the large black feline's claws from where it had embedded them in Harry's ankle. Harry's eyes watered as she pulled them free. From the look of rebuke she gave him as she straightened with the offending creature cradled in her arms, he felt sure she had been less than gentle on purpose. He shook his head in irritation. "Just... wait here." Harry's fingers tightened on the unfamiliar wand as he stepped cautiously outside and scanned the shadowed garden. Nothing moved. Steeling his resolve, he slowly made his way down the path, stepping carefully over the prostrate form of Vernon Dursley.

The figure at the end of the garden shuffled his feet warily as Harry approached. He had the air of someone who wanted to be anywhere other than here, which wasn't at all surprising given his history with the Potter family. They stood facing each other a short distance apart, Harry trying as hard as he could not to look down into the horror-stricken, wide-eyed face of his dead aunt. Images of Cedric Diggory's face, also struck down by the killing curse, filled his head instead and it was all Harry could do to focus on the scruffy, smelly little rodent-faced man in front of him.

Peter Pettigrew, betrayer of Harry's parents, snuffled and looked up at him, a sly smile revealing his prominent yellow front teeth. "Harry Potter..."

Harry fixed him with a hard, steady gaze but remained silent.

Nonplussed, Pettigrew lifted his right arm out in front of him and slowly clenched and unclenched the solid silver hand attached to it, admiring it as he had done when Voldemort first bestowed it upon him. "Do you remember the last time we met?" he snivelled. "I hope the wound to your arm healed as well as mine..."

Harry's shoulders tensed. The last time he'd had the misfortune of being in his company, Pettigrew had sliced a deep cut into Harry's arm for a few drops of blood before slicing off his own hand and proceeding to resurrect Voldemort with some form of archaic magic. The cut itself had healed well thanks to the skill of Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts school nurse, although there was a resulting scar which irritated Harry more than he ever let on. It was a constant reminder of the part he had been forced to play in Voldemort's return; something that conflicted sharply with the scar he was renowned for – the lightning bolt on his forehead. The scar that had formed from the very strike that had destroyed Voldemort in the first place. What angered Harry even more was that both of these scars were tied to deaths that he in some way blamed himself for. He often wondered how many more of these scars he would have to bear before it was all over.

Pettigrew was leering up at him from the hooded cowl of his cloak, awaiting Harry's reaction. Harry fought back the anger inside and said simply, "Why?"

Pettigrew immediately glanced down to the body at his feet and gave a wheezy chuckle. "Not as pretty as her sister," he said slyly, poking Petunia Dursley with a grubby foot.

"Why?" Harry repeated in a tight voice, trying to hold back the urge to wrestle this foul creature head first into the compost bin behind him and leave him there for the Ministry to find.

Pettigrew looked up at him, his eyes narrowed quizzically. "What's this, Harry Potter, upset at your aunt's death?" He pushed her more forcibly, his eyes glued to Harry's face. "After the way they treated you, you should be on your knees thanking me." He broke into raspy laughter.

"Never mind her," Harry forced out through gritted teeth. He took a step forward, clenching Mrs Figg's gnarled wand in his fist. "I'm talking about you. Why did you do this? Wasn't murdering my parents enough for you?"

The laughter died abruptly. Pettigrew opened his mouth, seemingly to protest, but Harry ploughed on regardless. "Oh, you may not have done it with your own hands," he said, struggling to keep his voice under control, "but you are as much responsible for their deaths as Voldemort is."

Pettigrew shuffled backwards, his eyes darting between the wand and Harry's face. Harry took another step forward, the faint whisper in his mind goading him as he slowly raised the wand. 'Do it, do it!' When he spoke again his voice didn't sound like his own. "I should have let Sirius kill you when he had the chance."

Pettigrew chuckled nervously and shook his head. "You wouldn't," he stated, but there was a waver of uncertainty which belied his words.

"Wouldn't I?" Harry replied. But before he had finished speaking he was on the ground, breathing in dirt, his head throbbing. He coughed and spluttered, but when he tried to lift himself up he was pushed down again by a foot on the back of his neck. He twisted his head to one side with difficulty.

Pettigrew had slumped to his knees, his body shaking with renewed laughter. "I have a message for you," he wheezed, "from the Dark Lord." He grabbed hold of Petunia's colourless hand in his equally colourless silver one and promptly Disapparated with a loud crack, his final words echoing after him. "You're running out of places to hide, Harry Potter..."

The pressure holding him down lifted. Harry's fingers dug into the dry soil of the flower bed as he scrambled to his feet. The wand was missing. He opened his mouth to Summon it back to him, but before he could utter a word someone shouted 'Crucio!' and he collapsed in agony, writhing on the ground as intense pain exploded throughout his body. He had suffered identical pain once before, at the hands of Voldemort, but it was no easier to bear for the experience. Everything else was forgotten as the white-hot stabbing sensation of hundreds of phantom blades took over, leaving Harry crippled and gasping for air. He vaguely wondered where Mrs Figg was before another Cruciatus Curse gripped his body, forcing him to curl into a ball, screaming in agony. Every muscle in his body contracted into cramp-like spasms; not one part of him was spared. His screams dissolved into huge gulping sobs as the curse subsided, but the respite was brief as another racked his body, twisting him horribly, almost lifting him from the ground. When it was over he was barely conscious.

"You couldn't, Harry." His name was spat at him. He fought against the blanket of fog clouding his head. The voice was muffled, yet it sounded vaguely familiar. "You don't have it in you to use the Killing Curse. That's your weakness."

This time, as a final curse struck him and he slipped into the darkness that opened up before him, he was certain. He had heard that voice before.

And it shocked him to his very core when he realised exactly whose voice it was.

* * *

Harry had been sitting on Mrs Figg's back doorstep for what seemed like hours when the door opened and a shaft of light lit up the backyard. A fox, which had been nuzzling in a bag of rubbish beside the bin, apparently oblivious to Harry's presence, shot through a hole in the fence and disappeared into the night. Albus Dumbledore pulled the door closed behind him and sat down on the step beside Harry without so much as a word or even a glance.

Harry had regained consciousness in Arabella Figg's living room, stretched out on a threadbare sofa that bore the rather pungent aroma of cat. A knitted blanket covered his legs, and his head rested on a very flat, uncomfortable pillow. He had no recollection of how he had gotten there, or even why he was there until he tried to sit up and received a sharp stabbing pain in the head for his effort. It was then that the night's events came flooding back to him in a sudden rush, leaving him dizzy and weak. He collapsed back on the sofa, staring up at the moonlit ceiling, watching the long shadows of a tree's branches swaying above him. Aunt Petunia's deathly white face popped unbidden into his head and a heavy feeling of guilt settled upon his shoulders. Harry had felt the same unbearable guilt following Cedric Diggory's murder the year before, but this threatened to be much worse.

He thought back to that night in June, eight long weeks ago. The night that Sirius had died. Upon their return from the Ministry, Dumbledore had sat Harry down in his office and they had shared a lengthy and at times difficult conversation, during which Dumbledore had explained his reasoning for leaving Harry with his aunt all those years ago. But Harry realised now that he still didn't know why Petunia had agreed to it. She must have known the danger in which she was placing herself and her family, yet she had taken him in anyway. And now she was dead. She had wanted no part in his or his parents' lives, so what had driven her to give him her protection despite all of that? Was it really through fear of Dumbledore as he had been led to believe?

These thoughts played over and over in his head until they became so muddled that it was Pettigrew who was telling a Harry-who-looked-like-Dudley why he had been left with his aunt, while Dumbledore was standing in the Dursleys' back garden with a dead Lily at his feet. Eventually, the loud crack of someone Apparating jolted Harry from his troubled reverie and forced his mind back to the present.

The Ministry would be crawling all over Privet Drive by now, making sure that the residents were aware of nothing that had happened that night. If that wasn't one of them arriving here at Mrs Figg's, then it would only be a matter of time. The longer he could avoid having to answer their questions, the better. Harry struggled up off the settee, trying in vain to set his glasses straight on his nose. The reason they were askew, he soon discovered, was due to a large cotton pad on the side of his head, held in place by a tightly wound bandage which he immediately ripped off and threw onto the pillow. The room was cold and unlit except for a small fringed lamp in one corner that barely illuminated the little round table upon which it stood. Harry wrapped the blanket around him and headed for the door. He could hear muted voices coming from the other side. Cracking the door open slightly, he peered out. The hallway was in darkness, but he could make out three shadowy figures silhouetted in the open front doorway. The kitchen door opposite stood ajar, the room beyond also in darkness. As the front door closed, one of the figures muttered 'Lumos' and the tip of his wand flared into light. It was Remus Lupin.

His was the first friendly face Harry had seen in months, and he had to fight back the urge to call out to him. As he had feared upon hearing the Apparate, the two men with the former Hogwarts teacher were very clearly Ministry officials. Remus showed them into the front room, but before he could shut the door there was a loud wail and the sound of smashing china. Harry jumped in shock, all his nerves on edge. The sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably reached his ears, together with more than one soothing voice doing their best to calm the situation. But whatever the reason for the minor disruption, it gave him the opportunity to flee unnoticed into the kitchen.

Harry wished that he had his wand with him as he fumbled blindly along the wall. Eventually his fingers brushed over the plastic light switch and he flicked it on, bathing the kitchen in a harsh white glare. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard behind the door, he filled it with water at the sink and downed it in one go, the cool liquid a welcome relief to his dry, gritty throat. He reached for another, pausing to feel his head where the bandage had been. It was swollen and sore to the touch, and his fingers came back sticky from partially dried blood. He rinsed them under the tap, but as he watched the red droplets trickle down the plughole he was hit by another wave of dizziness and was forced to clutch at the work surface to steady himself. The walls seemed to loom in on him from either side and the air in the room suddenly felt thick and heavy, making breathing difficult. Tight bands of panic constricted around his chest, adding to the feeling of suffocation. He desperately needed some fresh air before he collapsed again.

The slabbed backyard was small compared to the neighbouring houses, something that wasn't helped by a large dilapidated shed in one corner. The mismatched fencing was missing in places and there wasn't a blade of grass to be seen, just a handful of plant tubs dotted here and there. Harry knew from his occasional stays in the past that Mrs Figg rarely set foot out here. He shut the back door quietly behind him and slid down it, sinking onto the cold step. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door.

It was here that Dumbledore found him some time later. Harry had no idea how long the Hogwarts headmaster had been at the house, but he was certain no one else had Apparated in. Neither of them spoke for a while; Harry because he didn't know where to start, and Dumbledore just content to wait. It was Harry who eventually broke the silence. "The Ministry officials..?"

"Have left," Dumbledore replied.

There was another silence. "I didn't hear them go..."

"That would be because they left via the Floo Network, taking Arabella with them." Dumbledore appeared less than happy with the situation. He clasped his hands together in his lap and finally looked at Harry, who was staring off into the darkness. "It was Arabella they were here for, Harry, not you. They felt putting her through a Side-Along Apparition would be too much for her tonight." Dumbledore patted Harry's arm. "However," he added, "I daresay that someone from the Ministry will wish to speak with you at some point today."

Harry chose not to think about that. "Mrs Figg..." He turned to look at Dumbledore. "She can use magic?"

Dumbledore smiled a secret smile. "So it would appear. That was quite a Stun she performed on Vernon Dursley, I fear it will take him a while to recover."

"But–" Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Professor, I don't understand. Does this mean she's a witch?"

"Of sorts." Dumbledore sighed heavily. He knew Harry's interest in Arabella Figg was his way of trying to avoid talking about the night's other events, so he would indulge him for as long as was necessary. "When I arrived here tonight, Arabella was in quite a state," he explained. "I managed to have a reasonably lucid talk with her before Adlow and Hunt from the Improper Use of Magic Office arrived, and from what I could gather she has been taking a Kwikspell course to learn how to perform magic."

Harry was instantly reminded of the Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, another Squib who in the past had used a Kwikspell course for the same purpose with no apparent success. "There's no law against that though, is there?" Harry asked. "The use of Kwikspell courses?"

"No, Harry, there's no law against using them. They are certainly not illegal; deceptive perhaps, but not illegal. For Squibs who believe what these courses claim to offer, the end result is usually nothing more than a financial loss."

"So what do the Ministry want with her?"

"Well, I'm afraid that Arabella is a rare exception." Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably on the step. "She is, as I think you saw for yourself, not a Squib after all but simply one whose magic has remained dormant. What the Kwikspell course has done is stimulate it just enough for her to be able to use it, albeit to a much lesser extent than is considered normal. I doubt it would have been quite the issue at any other time, but given the present situation that we all find ourselves in, the Ministry has introduced new laws concerning use of magic. Unfortunately for Arabella, she was unaware that her new-found talent – however small – meant she would have to register as a witch, and the Ministry is not impressed."

Harry glanced up at Mrs Figg's house. For the Ministry to be tightening up on something it would normally consider a trivial matter was a sign of just how serious things were becoming. "What will happen to her?" he asked.

"Nothing," Dumbledore replied. "I have spoken with Mafalda Hopkirk at the Improper Use of Magic Office, and she has assured me that given the circumstances, all Arabella will be required to do is complete registration papers and then she will be free to return home."

Harry nodded and lapsed back into silence. Dumbledore waited patiently. Finally, Harry whispered, "Why did they kill her, Professor?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

"To break the protection charm." That was the one thing that had been clear to Harry all along. "But why now, Professor? Why not fifteen years ago? Or five years ago? If it was as easy as someone walking into the house and killing my aunt, why hasn't Voldemort done it before now?"

"Fifteen years ago," Dumbledore reminded him, "Voldemort was nothing more than a shadow of his former self, survival his sole concern. Even as recently as eighteen months ago he was powerless to do anything about you. It was only with his resurrection that you became the focus of his attention once again."

"So, why not then?"

"The truth is, Harry, that the Dursley house has been protected by more than just the charm placed upon it by myself. Its location was a closely guarded secret with only a trusted few being privy to that information – initially just myself, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid. And, of course, Arabella. More recently, upon its reformation, the Order of the Phoenix members." Harry opened his mouth, but Dumbledore pre-empted what he was about to say. "With the exception of Severus Snape," he emphasised, looking pointedly at the young man sitting beside him, "who had no desire to know." Harry closed his mouth again and listened on in silence.

"Following your re-emergence into the wizarding world and subsequent arrival at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "those in the most senior positions at the Ministry also had to be informed. It was then that added measures were put in place to protect Privet Drive, namely an Occultus Charm. Similar to the charm placed on Hogwarts," Dumbledore supplied at Harry's questioning look, "except it works in reverse in that only Muggles may see through it. In your case, unless they knew the exact address of the Dursley house, anyone other than a Muggle would have been unable to find it. And you alone have been the one to decide who, in addition to those I've mentioned, it was given to." Seeing Harry's surprised expression, Dumbledore leaned in and said with a conspiratorial smile, "I didn't think for one moment you would give your home address to someone you didn't absolutely trust."

Harry returned the smile faintly. "Still, Professor, it would have been nice to have known."

Dumbledore gave a slight apologetic nod, and then his face grew serious as he peered at Harry intently. He would get no pleasure from admitting what he was about to. "As you well know, the only time its security was compromised was when Dolores Umbridge herself sent Dementors here." Dumbledore paused. It was vital that Harry should realise the importance of this. "Her memory was subsequently altered, and she has no recollection of any Privet Drive."

Harry met Dumbledore's solemn gaze with a feeling of growing apprehension as he read between the man's words. "What are you saying, Professor?"

"What I'm saying, Harry, is that it appears we have a leak amongst the people we trust most."

The words hung in the air between them, their meaning settling heavily on Harry's shoulders as he struggled with the fact that someone they both knew, and had placed their trust in, had betrayed them. The first person that came to mind had unwittingly ruled himself out long ago. With Snape not an option, Harry focused on those he distrusted almost as much. "The Ministry," he muttered. "It has to be someone in the Ministry."

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "That would be the more favourable outcome, given the alternatives. But I'm afraid, Harry, that the truth may be something neither of us wish to face."

Harry stared down at the ground. Aunt Petunia's face was no longer haunting him. Now it was the faces of those closest to him. Lupin, Tonks, the Weasleys, Mad-Eye... all the Order members who had become like a second family to him in many ways. He didn't want to think of any of them doing such a thing. It just wasn't possible.

"Anyway, Harry..." Dumbledore's voice seemed to come from afar. Harry was barely able to hear him amidst the inner turmoil he was experiencing. "I think the attack tonight is Tom Riddle's way of saying enough is enough." When there was no response, Dumbledore carried on. "I must say, he has made a quite brilliant move in sending one of his lowest-ranked Death Eaters to carry out such an attack. He's shown his strength to his supporters but, more importantly, to those who stand against him."

Still no response.

"I think we can fully expect the war to start within the next few weeks," Dumbledore finished solemnly, attempting to impart the nature of the situation in the tone of his voice. But Harry only nodded distantly, and Dumbledore quickly realised he was in danger of overloading him. He had been put through a tremendous amount for one night and it wasn't over yet. The threat of war would have to be addressed another day, when it could be given the attention it rightfully warranted. Dumbledore smiled to himself. He had to admire Harry's inability to be fazed by something which would have struck fear into the hearts of most people. It was that, if nothing else, which was going to see him through what lay ahead.

"There was somebody else there..." Harry announced suddenly, the memory popping into his head from nowhere. "With Wormtail."

Dumbledore nodded. That was the next matter he had wanted to address. He touched a finger to the throbbing wound on Harry's head. "We had surmised that already. Physical violence is hardly Peter Pettigrew's style." He peered closely at Harry. "Do you remember who it was?"

Harry frowned, desperately searching his memory for the identity of his attacker. "I didn't see their face," he said instinctively, "it was only their voice I heard. But it was someone I knew." He rubbed his forehead. "I just can't remember who..." Harry's voice trailed off as he probed at the edges of a ragged hole within his mind. His eyes met Dumbledore's as he began to realise what had happened to him. "It's like it's been ripped out of my memory..." he whispered.

Dumbledore's brow creased and he nodded his confirmation. "It would seem that someone has erased part of your memory. Unfortunately there's no easy way to retrieve it, and the after-effects can be horrific. However, the fact that you remember that there is something to remember in the first place is hopeful. It indicates a less than successful Obliviate, perhaps due to inexperience or haste. Let us hope that in time something will prompt the memory to return."

"Isn't there any other way we can identify who it was?" Harry asked in frustration. He knew he was clutching at straws because he already knew what the answer would be, but he had a feeling that the identity of his mystery assailant was something they needed to find out. The sooner, the better.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Had it been someone underage, then yes." His blue eyes twinkled. "You know that better than most."

Harry smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

"We've detected traces of several spells tonight in the immediate vicinity of the Dursley house," continued Dumbledore, "all of which can be accounted for, including the use of an Obliviate. But that tells us little as your uncle required one. We can't distinguish how many were cast, and without the wand used we cannot begin to trace by who."

"What about Mrs Figg? She was there, didn't she see anything?"

What sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter escaped Dumbledore. "It would appear that Arabella, fearing for the safety of her cat, had popped inside to shut it in the house. Which is where Remus found her; she had been locked in."

Harry grinned and shook his head, and Dumbledore chuckled in response. But the moment of lightheartedness was short-lived.

"You were both very lucky tonight," Dumbledore said suddenly. "Confronting a Death Eater with an unknown wand could have had a disastrous outcome, Harry. Not to mention the fact that it was so obviously a trap you walked into. You allowed your judgement to be clouded by your desire to see Peter Pettigrew pay and in the process put your own life, as well as that of Arabella's, in danger."

Harry's face had grown solemn as Dumbledore spoke. He could not deny the truth of his words. He had been so focused on Pettigrew that he had not looked at the bigger picture.

"Do not make the mistake of underestimating any of Voldemort's Death Eaters," Dumbledore added, gazing into the night. "Whilst it may be true that they are under orders not to kill you, those orders will not stretch to torture, be it mental or physical. I know that you were subjected to the Cruciatus Curse tonight."

"Several times," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore glanced sideways at him briefly, then resumed his study of the shadows. "I doubt very much that I need to remind you of what happened to the Longbottoms. Voldemort only wants you alive; in what condition he gets you is irrelevant to him."

Harry nodded mutely.

"Keep in mind, too, that they could have taken you with them tonight even if that was not their initial intention. You gave them the perfect opportunity. Fortunately, Arabella's warning reached Remus just in time." Dumbledore fell quiet, giving Harry time to dwell on his words.

"Are they okay?" Harry asked after a while. "Uncle Vernon and Dudley..."

"Your uncle is fine," Dumbledore replied, "if a little the worse for wear when we found him. Arabella's Stun really was quite a powerful one for someone of her inexperience. Your cousin, I am surprised to say, managed to sleep through it all."

Harry wasn't at all surprised. Nothing woke a sleeping Dudley. "What will happen to them now?"

"Your uncle has had his memory of tonight erased, and both have had their memories altered." Dumbledore hesitated and gave Harry a searching gaze, unsure what the reaction would be to his next words. "We felt it wise for them to retain as little memory of you as possible."

Harry blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected that. "How little is 'little'?"

"Only that you are Petunia's nephew, who lived with them here in Surrey for a time. Nothing more. As for what will happen to them now, they will be moved to the safe house we had intended to evacuate them to on the eve of your seventeenth birthday..." Dumbledore faltered as Harry bowed his head deep into his chest. "I assure you," he promised, "they will be taken care of."

Harry shook his head. "It's not that, Professor. I know this is the best thing for everyone. It's just that..."

Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I know they never wanted me, but Aunt Petunia was the closest thing I had left to my mum. In a way it's as if Voldemort has succeeded in taking away what little family I had left."

Dumbledore squeezed Harry's shoulder gently. "You have more family than anyone could ever wish for, Harry."

Harry smiled and bowed his head again. Talking of the Dursleys had brought him back to the reason for why his aunt had taken him in all those years ago. He almost felt that he owed it to her to learn the truth. "Aunt Petunia," he continued. "She hated me, yet she gave me somewhere to live where she knew I would be protected." Harry was visibly confused, trying to reconcile the conflicting facts. "I've never thought about it much before tonight, but why? I mean, I know you had something to do with it. But she didn't have to take me in." He looked questioningly at Dumbledore. "Did she?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, she was under no compulsion to look after you other than the one she placed upon herself." He looked at the young man sitting beside him, the young man who he had seen grow so much over the last few years, and decided that Petunia Dursley owed him the truth. "Your aunt never hated you, Harry. Not truly. She was, however, a very stubborn woman who buried her emotions deep inside. She harboured a bitter resentment of your mother which, upon her passing, she transferred to you. In Petunia's eyes, Lily had everything that she wanted but could never have: an aptitude for magic, a new life at Hogwarts, and eventually the love of the man she herself cared for."

Harry was visibly shocked at this revelation. "My father?' he whispered in disbelief.

"No, Harry, not James." Dumbledore had said as much as he was prepared to. The elderly wizard rose to his feet and turned to look down at Harry. "Petunia turned her back on a world that it was clear she could never be a part of. What she became is the woman you knew. But there was a time when she and your mother were inseparable." And he slipped through the back door leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

* * *

The dark sky was slowly being washed a deep shade of blue when Harry entered Mrs Figg's kitchen to find Dumbledore sitting at the table, stroking a large ginger cat which had curled up on his lap and was purring loudly. It reminded him of Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, a big ball of fluff with a squashed face. Dumbledore looked up at him expectantly, his face tired and strained.

"What happens now?" Harry asked him.

Dumbledore picked up the cat as he stood and placed it on the floor where it rubbed itself happily against the headmaster's robes, twisting and turning and eventually rolling over onto its back. "Well, suffice it to say that you are no longer safe here."

"Am I safe anywhere?" Harry couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice.

"At this precise moment, there is only one place I would consider safe for you."

"The Burrow?" Harry asked hopefully.

"No, not The Burrow this time, I'm afraid." Dumbledore suddenly looked every bit as old as he was rumoured to be. "It was targeted earlier tonight in a Death Eater attack, possibly to divert attention away from you."

Harry was aghast at this news. He gazed at Dumbledore, a knot of fear and dread in his stomach making it impossible to voice the question that hovered on his lips.

"The Weasleys are fine," Dumbledore reassured him. "Their home, however, was destroyed. They have been moved to Grimmauld Place until we can make other arrangements." Dumbledore beckoned Harry to him and gripped him firmly by the shoulders. "Harry, there's something you need to be aware of. Sirius has left Grimmauld Place to you."

Harry's initial reaction was to push Dumbledore away but the man held him steadfast. "I don't want it, Professor." Harry was vehement. It had never been a proper home to Sirius, and he saw no reason to hold on to it. "I never want to go back there. It belongs to the Blacks, not me. Let them have it."

Dumbledore's grip tightened and he shook Harry slightly. "I understand how you feel, but there are other things you must take into consideration."

Harry heard the urgent undertone to Dumbledore's voice. He studied his face, saw the keenness in his eyes and realised what he was intimating at. Harry's temper flared up instantly. "Let me guess... The Order. That's what it's always about, isn't it? Your precious bloody Order of the Phoenix, made up of Death Eaters and now, it seems, traitors too." Harry's eyes flashed with anger as weeks of being forced to cope alone with the suppressed hurt over the loss of Sirius, and with no contact from anyone besides the occasional short letter from Ron and Hermione, rushed through him. "The Order, who couldn't stop my parents from dying. Or Cedric Diggory. Or my aunt. The Order, who has to hide away and work in secrecy because the Ministry of Magic refuses to listen to it, who has to rely on a Death Eater as its source of information; a Death Eater you can't even be sure is loyal to you. The Order, that keeps me in the dark about everything, yet hides behind me whenever Voldemort is around. That wants me to risk my life, but gives me nothing in return. The Order, that–"

"That your parents were members of, and believed in," Dumbledore cut in quietly. He had anticipated Harry's emotion-fuelled outburst and knew it was something he had to allow him to express. He released Harry as he felt the tension drain abruptly from his shoulders. Harry turned and slumped against the table, leaning on it heavily, his hands balled into fists. After a short while, he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Dumbledore weighed the delicacy of the situation and chose his next words carefully. "Sirius left Grimmauld Place to you for a reason. Not because it's the headquarters of the Order, although that may have been a factor. He trusted you, his godson, with it because he knew you would prevent it from returning to his family and allowing it to be used for the purposes of ill intent like before."

Harry was silent.

"However, I cannot deny that in accepting ownership of Grimmauld Place you would be ensuring the continued security of the Order." When there was no response, Dumbledore added softly, "Whatever you may think, we are working in your best interests."

Harry nodded wearily. "I know."

"There's also the small matter of Kreacher."

Harry grimaced at the mention of the treacherous house-elf.

"As long as the house is without an owner, it's only a matter of time before he uses his freedom to seek out another of the Black family. We cannot risk him falling into the hands of either the Malfoys or the Lestranges with the information that he has been privy to. Should that happen not only will the Order be compromised, but also Grimmauld Place itself."

Harry's thoughts returned to the Weasleys, who had already lost one home that night, and suddenly he understood why it was so important for the Black house to remain in the hands of the Order. It really was the only place where they were all assured of complete safety. He sighed in resignation. "What do I need to do?"

"Travel with me now to Grimmauld Place. Your arrival there will signify acceptance of ownership, and Kreacher will be bound into serving you. The rest I shall leave in your hands; I am confident you will find a way to ensure his loyalty to you."

Harry's irrational half was putting up a desperate fight, yet he knew deep down that come the cold light of day he would regret not doing everything he could to help the Order. What he had said was unfair; he knew how much they were doing for him. But he couldn't help feeling like a pawn in their much larger game, a game which he had little control over. He needed Dumbledore to understand that he was no longer a child who needed protecting from the truth, something he felt was imperative if he was to stand any chance of defeating Voldemort. Eventually he straightened from the table. He didn't need to say anything, he knew Dumbledore had never doubted what his decision would be. "There's something I need to do first."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I would hope that involves changing into something more appropriate?"

Harry glanced down and realised with a start that he was still barefoot and in his pyjamas. He smiled and nodded. "That, too." He met Dumbledore's eyes. "I want to go back to the Dursleys'. Just for a moment."

Dumbledore didn't question why. He simply nodded. "There are some of your clothes in the front room for you to change into, along with your wand. I shall be waiting here when you're ready."

* * *

Harry spent several long minutes in the Dursleys' house, walking from room to room. He felt oddly detached and empty, almost as if he was seeing it through the eyes of someone else. The house seemed different. It had never felt like home to him, just somewhere he stayed during the school holidays. But now it wasn't even that. His room had been cleared of what few possessions he owned, the majority of which had already been sent on to Hogwarts in preparation for the new term in a little over two weeks. There was nothing belonging to him left anywhere in the entire house, no evidence that he had ever lived there.

His aunt and uncle's room remained as they had left it, although the rumpled duvet had been returned to the bed. The Ministry would arrange to have the rest of the house emptied later that day and everything moved to storage until his uncle and cousin were rehoused. Harry looked at all the toys and games that were crammed into Dudley's room and wondered how long his cousin could survive without them. It was a fleeting thought, but one he regretted immediately. It was unfair on Dudley who, after all, had just lost his mother. He knew better than most how that felt.

Harry headed slowly downstairs. The broken mug had been cleared from the kitchen floor and the conservatory doors closed and locked. He peered out into the garden, not quite sure what he was expecting to see. It all seemed remarkably quiet and normal, with nothing to give away what had happened only a few hours ago. He retraced his steps into the hall, pausing as he passed the cupboard under the stairs, his hand resting on the doorknob. It had been his home for so much of his sixteen years. For a moment Harry was a ten-year-old again, on the morning that he had received a cream envelope in the mail bearing the crest of Hogwarts. His life had changed beyond recognition since that day. Even with Voldemort casting his shadow over him from the moment he had found out he was a wizard, even with all the tragedy and heartache that had followed, he knew he wouldn't have wanted to miss out on any of it.

Harry's fingers slipped from the doorknob as he moved towards the living room. He smiled wryly at the boarded up fireplace, remembering when Arthur Weasley had blasted his way through it much to the horror of the Dursleys. His gaze swept over the family photographs on the mantelpiece, none of which included him. He walked across and picked up the largest one, studying the faces of his cousin, uncle and aunt as they smiled back at him in frozen ignorance. It was difficult to imagine that this would be the last time he would see them. He gently traced a finger over Petunia Dursley's face, recognising for the first time the faintest semblance of his mother in her features. He would never understand how she could have turned her back on her sister, yet a part of him was beginning to appreciate how she must have felt. If she had been as close to Lily as Dumbledore had implied, the wizarding world would have quickly driven a wedge between them. It certainly explained why she wanted to pretend it didn't exist and was so hateful of anything that reminded her of it. Dumbledore hadn't said who the man was that Petunia had been in love with, and Harry wished now that he had pressed him on the matter. He was intrigued to know more and made a promise to himself that he would bring it up with Dumbledore again when he had the chance.

A strange feeling of peace unexpectedly settled over Harry, and he realised with surprise that he had somehow found it within himself to forgive Petunia Dursley. He flipped over the silver frame, his intention to remove the photo and take it with him, but something inside him made him stop. Instead, he returned the frame to its place on the mantelpiece. This part of his life was over, it was time to leave it in the past. He took one last look around the room before closing the door behind him.

Dumbledore was waiting for him on the doorstep. Harry pulled shut the front door of number four, Privet Drive and took the headmaster's offered arm. "I'm ready, Professor."

Dumbledore nodded, and with a sharp crack they Disapparated
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Deceptions