Transformation: Chapter One

 

The owls had come every day.  That was the last thought in Vernon Dursley’s head when he answered the door of number four, Privet Drive, to find his son, as red-faced, sweaty, and stout as usual, lying on their front stoop with his eyes glazed.  The owls had come every day, he had not stopped them, and there was no reason for this.  It was nearing evening in the middle of sweltering July, and his ample son Dudley was gazing up at him with the stare of the dead.

Vernon Dursley stuttered, “What the devil–“ and then, louder, “P-Petunia!  Petunia!” upon which his wife came running from the kitchen and promptly began to scream.

“My Diddykins,” she shrieked, “oh, oh, Diddy,” and collapsed on his vast, motionless bulk with tears streaming from her eyes.  Her wail went on and on for what seemed like whole minutes, until she at last subsided to a keening sob, broken by hiccupped “Diddydums, my baby, my Dudders,” that were muffled by his body.

“He’s all right,” Vernon blustered over her weeping, “Petunia, he’s all right, the boy’s all right!”  His moustache twitched tremendously, his cheeks reddening and his fists clenching and unclenching with nothing to do.  “It’s a, a whatsamacallit, one of them–" Vernon lowered his voice – “spell thingers, it’s him, it’s Potter, I know it is!”  Moustache flaring out more agitatedly, he bellowed, “Boy, you come down here, you get down here right now!”

“He hurt my baby, my Diddykins,” Petunia bawled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, bring him inside,” Vernon commanded, his face growing redder by the second.  A vein pulsed madly in his temple.  “He’s not really – he can’t be – it’s some sort of thing, that boy did it, he’ll put it to right!”  Pushing Petunia out of the way, he hefted Dudley’s body inside the door and slammed it shut.  “Boy,” he shouted again, “you get down here this instant!”

But Harry wasn’t anywhere to be found at number four, Privet Drive; he’d vacated the house that morning, shortly after Dudley set out with his pals, and had spent the remainder of the day wandering Little Whinging and sitting in the park.  And, at this very moment, he was watching the last few older boys and girls tug their younger siblings home for dinner while sitting listlessly on a swing, entirely unaware that a few blocks away his cousin had just shown up at home dead.

To Harry, this day was no better or worse than any of the other days of the long, simmering summer.  It had looked promising from where he’d stood at King’s Cross, surrounded by the Weasleys and everyone who cared about him in the wizarding world, hopeful that his stay at the Dursleys would be brief.  It would be, they kept promising him, in the owls he received daily; it was only the third week of July, and soon he could come to 12 Grimmauld Place to join the rest of them.  Only Harry wasn’t sure he would find much solace there, either, haunted by Sirius in every room.  It wasn’t the absence of owls or even information that kept Harry sullen; though not much could be included in an owl, he at least received some sort of correspondence from Hermione, Ron, or Lupin every day, and occasionally a few scribbled words from Tonks or the Weasley family.  But every letter that was delivered – provoking a livid shout of “Those bloody owls!” from Uncle Vernon – only served to remind Harry of one that wasn’t.  It just made him think of Sirius.

Which was more or less the reason he had spent the summer deep in thought, all his frustration and grief pent-up inside him, made worse by the helpless, idle days he was trapped with the Dursleys. He followed the Daily Prophet’s headlines religiously, but they rarely offered anything more than a picture of Fudge gesturing wildly and several letters claiming Voldemort sightings. He found more substance reading between the lines in Lupin’s letters. And what he saw there, beyond reassurance that the Order was still hard at work, was a similar acknowledgement of absence, and that spoke volumes more than the tribute to Sirius Black that ran in the Prophet a week after his name was cleared.

Sirius. Sometimes he seemed very far away, as if Harry had scarcely known him, as if he were a memory left over from some distant life before. And sometimes, in the middle of poking at Aunt Petunia’s meager dinners or on his way home from the park in the blue-dark evening, the loss felt so immediate that he froze for a moment, stunned by his godfather’s last arcing fall.

“Harry?” The voice was familiar but strained with urgency, and it startled Harry badly. His wand was in his hand in an instant – he could think of no one in Little Whinging save Mrs. Figg who ever called him Harry – and he leapt from the swing to see Arthur Weasley standing there, looking tired and anxious, with lines of worry creasing his forehead. “Harry,” he said again, and then, “Here, put that away, we don’t want anyone to see.”

“Mr. Weasley?” Harry tucked his wand away and looked up at his best friend’s father, whose robes looked as if they’d seen much better days, and who was wiping his forehead of sweat.

“Bit warm, isn’t it?” he said distractedly. “Anyway, Harry, look, we’ve just got word – Mundungus was keeping an eye on you like he was supposed to, and then–“

Harry quickly crushed the flare of excitement that had soared inside him at the words. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of danger, of course. He didn’t want to think about anyone else getting hurt because of him. But all the same, things had been maddeningly stagnant for far too long, and the idea of something happening made a small part of him eager.

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, “the short of it is, I’m very sorry, but it seems your cousin has been, ahem, murdered. Your aunt and uncle have just found him, his body was left . . .”

But Harry heard none of that; he was stuck on the word murdered. “Dudley?” he murmured, slowly, as if he’d been mistaken. He felt as if he were in a trance. “Not Dudley. Aunt Petunia would never let anything happen to her Dudley.”

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley was saying, peering at him, “Harry, are you listening to me? You’ve got to come with us immediately, we’ll go to the Order’s Headquarters, something’s gone wrong. We don’t know how you were found, you see, it’s a very strong magic keeping you hidden here, and there’s the possibility they might come back. You see, if your aunt is killed, Dumbledore thinks your mother’s protection will no longer save you. Harry? You come with me, we’ll get it sorted out.”

Harry said, “Hedwig,” dazedly, still shocked by his cousin’s sudden death. “I need – I’ve got Hedwig at the Dursleys, and my trunk, I –“

“Oh yes,” Mr. Weasley nodded, “we’ve got to stop by anyhow, Tonks is there right now, securing the grounds and talking to your aunt and uncle. I’ve just got to make sure everything’s in order . . .” He took Harry’s elbow and steered him towards the street as he spoke. “Quite a shock, I can imagine. I’m very sorry, Harry, we’ve just got to hurry, you see.” He strode towards Privet Drive, walking faster than usual, and Harry rushed along beside him. When they neared his home, Harry spotted a woman sitting on the stoop, arms across her knees. It was only when he moved closer that he realized it was Tonks.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, giving him a quick grin. It looked, perhaps, a little strained, but he didn’t expect she’d had an easy summer either, as the Ministry had sprung into futile action and was sending the Aurors on worthless missions in a show of force. “Sorry to hear about your cousin. Your aunt and uncle are safe, though, Dung’s got ‘em inside.”

“Er,” said Harry, and then, “Your hair, it’s –“

Tonks winked. “I know, I’ve gone brunette. Just for now, you see, can’t have the neighbors suspecting and all. You can imagine the fit your relatives would have if the neighbors saw someone with blue hair step into their house?”

“That’s considerate of you,” Harry said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to think of his aunt and uncle now that Dudley was dead.

He was, however, fairly sure he knew how they thought of him.

“YOU,” Uncle Vernon bellowed, the instant Harry stepped inside the house with Mr. Weasley at his back. “YOU – YOU MURDERER, HOW DARE YOU COME IN HERE? YOU KILLED OUR DUDLEY, BOY! UNDO IT RIGHT NOW! GET OUT YOUR THINGERMAJIGGER AND BRING HIM BACK, YOU HEAR ME?”

Aunt Petunia was weeping in the corner, face buried in her hands, her hair disheveled and her skin splotchy where Harry could see it between her fingers. She sobbed out, “Oh, Diddy, my Diddykins,” when she looked up at Harry with wild eyes, but that was all. He felt a sudden crippling pang of pity for the relatives who had treated him with nothing but scorn and hatred all his life.

“I – I can’t do it, Uncle Vernon,” he said, very quietly.

“You most certainly will do it! What is it, you can’t use your, your thing, when you aren’t in the madhouse? Well you jolly well will, you’ve already done enough with it, haven’t you!” His piggy eyes were bulging at Harry, glossy and desperate. “You murdered him! Bring him back, boy, you do it right now!”

“I can’t,” Harry said again, harder this time. “I didn’t kill him and I can’t do anything about it, all right? Don’t you think I would if I could? Don’t you think my mum and dad would be here right now if I could? Don’t you think –“ But his uncle knew nothing about anyone named Cedric Diggory or Sirius Black, and the effort of saying their names was too much for Harry just then.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, and then Mr. Weasley said gently, “Go on, Harry, go upstairs and get your things. I’ll take care of this.”

Harry said nothing, but he went to the stairs, Uncle Vernon’s stare following him all the way. He heard his aunt weeping all the way from his bedroom, and he threw his books and other possessions together with more of a racket than was necessary, trying to drown her out. When he had finished, either she had stopped crying or someone had cast a Silencing Spell, and he descended the stairs to find no one there but Mr. Weasley.

“Come on, Harry,” he said, rubbing his face wearily, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Where is he?” Harry demanded. He hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth and stood there for a moment, uncertain. He’d looked about for Dudley’s portly figure when he entered the house, but his cousin was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s the body?”

“Do you really want to see him?”

Harry stood there, Hedwig’s cage in one hand and his trunk at his side, feeling suddenly, bewilderingly alone. “I – no,” he said, “no, I don’t want to see him. No.”

Mr. Weasley clapped him on the shoulder again and picked up Hedwig’s cage. “Here,” he said, sounding a bit helpless at not knowing what more to say, and levitated Harry’s things, prodding them with his wand towards the door. When Harry followed him, he was startled to see the familiar purple monstrosity of the Knight Bus idling in the street, Stanley Shunpike grinning from the driver’s seat. Tonks was waiting next to it, her hair turned purple to match.

“Go with Tonks,” Mr. Weasley instructed, “I’ve got to get back right away. Don’t worry about your relatives. You can owl them later, if you’d like.”

Harry gave him a wavery smile. “I don’t think they’d like that very much,” he said, and moved towards the bus. “Um, thanks, Mr. Weasley.”

“Take care, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, patting him on the back. “I’ll see you soon.”

With one last tired smile, he Disapparated, and Harry was left alone with Stan Shunpike’s pimply grin and Tonks’s virulently purple hair. “Better hurry,” she shouted, and he followed her up the steps while she stuffed his luggage out of the way. He settled in the first seat available, next to a dozing older woman with a hat not unlike Neville’s grandmother’s, which left Tonks to sit several rows behind him. He felt a bit cruel, avoiding her, but he was in no mood for the chatter he knew would come with the young Auror’s company.

“All set?” Stan said, winking at Harry. “Good to see you on ‘ere again.”

“Um, yes,” said Harry, whose ticket Tonks had bought, and he barely had a chance to grab at the back of the seat in front of him before Stan plopped back down at the wheel and the bus jolted off down the street, swerving alarmingly around a parked car before it went BANG and Harry was nearly thrown off his feet, knuckles white from the effort of staying upright. The woman beside him started violently, muttered, “Good heavens!” and settled back down again, her hat over her face.

Four more jolting jumps and the Knight Bus squealed to a halt on Grimmauld Place, nearly knocking Harry unconscious as he jerked dangerously close to the seat in front of him. He stood up unsteadily and disembarked, Tonks close at his heels, and then he was face to face with a street he remembered all too well. “Thanks,” he croaked out, when Tonks levitated his things, and thought as hard as he could about 12 Grimmauld Place. He wasn’t surprised when the thought made his stomach twist as wildly as the serpent doorknocker which adorned the shabby, creaky door that appeared before them.

“Here we are,” Tonks said, cheerfully, and tapped the door loudly with her wand. When it finally cracked open, she shooed him inside, and his trunk followed him into the dark. Hedwig gave one soft squawk, and then the door shut and Harry was flooded with the sickly sweet scent of rot and decay that haunted the hall. He felt he might be sick.

“Um,” Harry said, “Tonks, I’m not sure I–“ and then there were footsteps and a sudden flaring of the gloomy lights along the hall, and he was being smothered in Hermione’s hair. She smelled like dust and lilacs and sniffed a little when she pulled away from him, saying like a copy of Mrs. Weasley, “Oh, Harry, you feel thin, haven’t you been eating?” Behind her, Ron was standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, lanky and uncomfortable, and when Harry looked up at him, he flashed Harry such a familiar grin that all the knots in Harry’s stomach pooled and dissolved.

“Hermione–“

“Yes, yes, I just got here,” Hermione informed him, businesslike now, leading him further into the house. “On Thursday, actually, I meant to write you yesterday, but things have been so hectic, you know, and then today, everyone was in such a turmoil, and I can’t imagine how it must have been for you.” When they got to the staircase, as dim and creaky as Harry recalled, she turned around and smiled at him again, warm and reassuring. “Harry,” she said, “howare you?” But before he could speak, she continued on, “Mrs. Weasley’s just told us, I’m so sorry about your cousin. I know you didn’t like him much, and he seemed like a horrible, horrible boy, but it’s awful, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Harry said, overwhelmed. Tonks had disappeared somewhere behind him, and Ron was left holding on to the straps of Harry’s trunk, which bobbed in the air. Harry looked at him and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, I’ve put up with her for the past three days, don’t tell me about it.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, “even Dudley doesn’t deserve such an end. Nobody does.” He considered. “Well, maybe Malfoy, the rotter.”

Harry gave them both a weak smile. Now that Hermione had settled down and they were climbing the stairs, everything came rushing back in, and the weight of being in Sirius’s home without Sirius was just as heavy as it had been when he stood on the doorstep. “What?” he said, when he saw Ron looking at him quizzically.

“I asked if you were hungry,” Ron repeated. “Mum’s kept some leftovers for you, if you want them.”

He was starving. But he looked at his friends’ beaming faces and said, a little more coldly than he meant, “I’m a bit tired, actually,” and took his trunk from Ron with a jerk. Realizing by the startled look on Ron’s face that he may have been too harsh, he added quickly, “Been a long day, you know, and the Knight Bus, bangs you all around . . .”

“Right,” said Ron, at the same time Hermione exclaimed, “Of course, Harry, we won’t keep you!” Both of them stood around the doorway while Harry pulled his trunk in and let it settle beside the unclaimed bed. The room was exactly as he remembered it, though Phineas was not in his frame.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Hermione said after a minute, though she lingered, frown creasing the area between her eyes. “Well, and Harry, if you ever want to talk about anything, you know, if you think Sir–“

“That’s enough, Hermione,” Ron interrupted her, as abruptly as he had at the end of fifth year.

Harry was suddenly grateful for his friend’s blundering attempts to keep her from addressing the subject. He said, awkwardly, “Maybe I will come downstairs, I haven’t eaten dinner,” and was rewarded with relief from both faces. They tramped down the stairs, Harry searching desperately for a topic unrelated to Sirius, which was difficult considering their surroundings. Staring absently at the hair on the nape of Ron’s neck and the way it twisted when Ron turned around to look at him, he asked, “What have you been doing, anyway?”

“Cleaning,” Ron groaned. “Mum’s to do list keeps growing, I swear, and most of the time Fred and George are at the shop, so it’s just me and Gin. It’s just loads of fun, let me tell you.”

The subject was inescapable. Harry ran his finger along the dust on the banister, frowning. “Well, but, I thought,” he said, “you can’t just – Sirius’s house?”

“Sirius gave it to Professor Lupin to be used for Order business,” Hermione told him gently. “It’s official now. Mrs. Weasley has kindly taken over its upkeep, and we’re helping.”

“More like slaving, if you ask me,” Ron muttered darkly, but they had reached the kitchen and it, at least, had succumbed in its battle with Molly Weasley. The whole room was well-lit and warm; pots were scrubbing themselves vigorously in the sinks, while Celestina Warbeck warbled tinnily from a small radio. At Mrs. Weasley’s side was a slim girl with flaming red hair, arguing tirelessly as she dried plates. Hearing Ron’s voice, both turned and exclaimed, “Harry!”

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, “hey, Ginny.”

“Sorry about your cousin,” Ginny said matter-of-factly, right away, brandishing a dish towel in one hand and a large, dripping platter in the other. She set to work towelling it dry as she spoke. “Glad you’re here, though. You can tell Mum how safe Fred and George are with their shop. Can’t you?” This last bit was accompanied by a scowl in Hermione’s direction, and Ron poked him warningly in the side.

“Er, very safe,” Harry said, automatically, “and they’re pretty successful now, aren’t they? Why?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Gin wants to work with the twins a few days a week,” he explained. “She hasn’t shut up about it since we set foot in King’s Cross.” To Ginny, he said, “Give it a rest.”

“I’m not a little girl,” she retorted, more to her mother than her brother, whom she promptly ignored. “I mean it, Mum, when’s the last time either of them came home with singed hair? It’s been at least a year! And I’m better in Potions, I am. Aren’t I, Hermione? I do better than Ron does–“

“Oh, stuff it,” said Ron.

“–and I visit them all the time, it’s not like they’re far away, can’t I just work two days a week? One? They need help, Fred told me, he said I’d be first pick, you know how particular they are!”

“For the hundredth time, absolutely not, Ginevra.” Mrs. Weasley dried her hands briskly on Ginny’s towel and turned to Harry. “You look pale, Harry,” she fussed, “and so thin, poor boy, haven’t you been eating? Have those horrible people been forgetting to feed you? Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that, they’ve just lost their son, I’m terribly sorry . . .”

“It’s all right,” Harry said, uncomfortably. “I’ve been eating okay.”

“He’s all skin and bones,” she said to no one in particular, tsk-tsking as she pushed him towards a chair. “Sit down, Arthur’ll be home soon, and I’ll warm up some leftovers for the both of you. How have you been, Harry? You must be exhausted, and it must have been awful, leaving like that – Arthur will take care of them, you know that, in fact, I’m sure he’s just finishing up the paperwork business right now.”

“What business am I doing right now?” Mr. Weasley asked as he trudged into the kitchen and collapsed into the chair beside Harry. Rubbing his temples, he added, “If it has anything to do with your cooking, you’re probably right.”

Harry was relieved for an interruption, but when Mr. Weasley wasn’t forthcoming about further details and Mrs. Weasley was still bustling around the kitchen, he found he had nothing else to say. “How have you been, Harry?” she prompted again, handing him a tall glass of pumpkin juice. To Harry, every word she spoke was a word she didn’t, which all came down to Sirius.

“I, all right, um,” he said. “Um, it’s been hot, you know.” Remembering something and seizing on it, he exclaimed, “I’ve been thinking about my OWLs a lot.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Weasley said, looking torn between disappointment and pride. “Ron here has been very preoccupied with them, too, worried about his Transfiguration scores, haven’t you now–“

“I have not,” Ron retorted, arms folded over his lanky frame. “Anyhow, Herm’s been going spare.”

“I’m only–“ Hermione began, when Mrs. Weasley set a plate of food before Harry and he forgot about whatever it was Hermione had been saying. He thought it was about Ancient Runes, because Ron’s eyes turned immediately glassy and Ginny rolled hers, so he concentrated on his food and let the others do the talking. It was cozy there, even with the peeling wallpaper and the taps at the sink that flashed fangs at him when he got up for a glass of water. When he turned around, Mr. Weasley was looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you might want to see Remus before you go to bed,” Mr. Weasley repeated. “He’ll be in the study, I expect.” He waited a moment, but Harry’s uncertainty spurred him towards further explanation, and he said patiently, “End of term was rather hectic, you’ll remember, but there are a few things to straighten out with Sirius’s will–“

Harry turned back to the sink on the pretense of refilling his glass, something catching in his throat. There it was again, Sirius, Sirius, he couldn’t escape. Turning, he expected the routine pity and anxiety that had colored everyone’s faces since they returned from the Department of Mysteries. However, what he found was Ron beaming up at him, eyes sharp with excitement.

“Wait’ll you hear, Harry,” he exclaimed, having sat bolt upright. Ginny herself looked a bit thrilled. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”

Harry looked askance at the disapproval on Mrs. Weasley’s and Hermione’s faces, and he frowned at Mr. Weasley. “Er,” he said, with some trepidation, “tell me what?”

“You really ought to hear it from Remus,” Mr. Weasley began, “and Ron, it’s none of your business–“

“Oh, enough already,” Mrs. Weasley cut him off. “It’s this silly motorbike business again, which is quite ridiculous, as Harry won’t be riding it any time soon, and you, Ronald Weasley, will certainly never go near it, do you hear me now?” At Ginny’s laugh, quickly turned into a cough, she looked up sharply. “Nor will you, Ginevra, if you’d like to ever set foot in a Weasley house again!”

Harry was no longer listening. He looked to Mr. Weasley for confirmation, who nodded once, and tried to ignore Ron’s beaming face. Sirius had left Harry his motorbike. Dudley was dead and Sirius had left Harry his motorbike and Harry was standing in Sirius’s kitchen that was not even Sirius’s kitchen, because Sirius would never see it again. He felt something tightening inside him, making it hard to breathe. The room seemed as if it were going fuzzy around the edges.

“You can talk to him tomorrow, of course,” Mr. Weasley said, his voice sounding very far away. Harry nodded, a mechanical motion; he could not look at Hermione, whose concerned look was all too familiar, or Ginny, who was looking down at the table studiously, or Ron, whose expression of glee was swiftly morphing towards bewilderment. It was too late, however, for Mrs. Weasley, who immediately swooped down on him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she admonished, “the poor boy’s exhausted, and he’s been through quite enough today. When I think of your poor cousin . . . . Why, we’ve been just awful. Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley,” he struggled out, enduring her embrace. “I think I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Yes, yes,” she bustled, “you must be just ready to collapse. You go up with him, Ron, and Ginny, isn’t it nearly your bedtime, too?”

“I’m not ten,” Ginny said indignantly, but she stomped out of the kitchen when her mother gave her a no-nonsense look.

Harry said his goodnights and tramped up the stairs with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, but he could not focus on any of it. Something about the conversation had brought back an image of Uncle Vernon, purple with rage and denial, shaking his finger at Harry and shouting that he was a murderer. The gloom of the House of Black seemed to mock him the same way, screaming silently to him that he had done this, he was the one who had left it to Molly Weasley to redecorate, who had given it over to Muggle-lovers and werewolves. He was the one who had killed Sirius. Killed Dudley. Who was next?

“Well, goodnight,” Harry said abruptly to Ron, when they climbed into bed. He tried not to hear the hurt in Ron’s voice when he said goodnight, tried not to think about how Hermione might be talking about him right now, telling Ginny how worried she’d become.

He rolled over in the darkness, haunted by a thousand Uncle Vernons pointing at him out of the dark, and when he finally fell asleep, he was chased by Dudley’s accusing, dead-eyed stare as he reached his piggy hands through the tattered veil. It was Sirius’s voice Harry heard, however, when Dudley called out, “Harry, Harry!” Dudley had just closed his thick fingers around Harry’s arm when he called again, “Harry,” and then it was Mrs. Weasley standing above Harry, light streaming in to illuminate the dust-heavy air, and it was morning.



&*&*



The July heat waned at last and the weather endured for several days, but the warmth returned viciously just as the summer passed into August, and Harry’s sixteenth birthday dawned scorching and cloudless. It was his first birthday anywhere but Privet Drive, and the thought was conflicting – on one hand, he was finally with people who loved him, but on the other, the thought of Privet Drive made it difficult to breathe. He thought of his Aunt Petunia haunting corners for weeks, her face red and raw from so many tears. Sometimes he dreamed about her, and she always smothered him with her sobbing, beating at him uselessly with her fists.

He might be able to keep Voldemort out of his dreams with practice, but nothing kept out the nightmares.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Ron said, grinning, the moment Harry opened his eyes and yawned at the sun. He was sitting on his own bed, dressed and washed, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine. “Took you long enough, didn’t it? It’s nearly noon.”

Harry threw a pillow at him. “Well, I couldn’t sleep through your snoring,” he retorted, and crawled out of bed to tug on a spare pair of Ron’s jeans. He had to roll the cuffs several times for them to fit him at all, but he hated walking around in Dudley’s castoffs, knowing their previous owner would buy no more.

“Come on,” Ron said impatiently, “come downstairs, Mum’ll have made you a real breakfast.” He jiggled his leg anxiously while Harry rummaged about for a shirt, then dragged him to the staircase and down the steps two at a time.

Hermione was waiting at the bottom, eyebrow quirked. “Could you make any more noise, Ron,” she said scathingly, “I’m sure the whole household heard you clattering down here.” And then, sunnily, to Harry, “Good morning, Harry! I’m so glad you’re not in that awf – well, I’m just glad you’re here with us for your birthday.” The topic of the Dursleys had been treaded around carefully since he had arrived, and when they were mentioned, it was without the usual “horrible” or “awful” adjective, as if everything had changed. “Anyway,” Hermione added, looking uncomfortable, “Happy sixteenth!” and she promptly flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

“Absolutely nutters, that one,” Ron muttered to Harry, a moment later, as they followed her down the hall.

But upon reaching the kitchen, Harry could see why Hermione had been so conscious about Ron’s banging around. Gathered in the kitchen were at least a dozen witches and wizards, and Lupin and Mrs. Weasley were the only ones whom Harry recognized. Upon his entrance, several of them clapped, and one lavender-clad woman rushed forward to pump his hand. “Happy birthday, Harry Potter,” she declared, and with nothing more, quickly hurried out of the kitchen. When two others approached him just afterwards, it became clear that they were all merely there to wish him good tidings on his birthday.

Harry felt his face begin to heat up. He wished he hadn’t just grabbed the first shirt he found, a faded white t-shirt Oliver Wood had left behind in the Quidditch lockers after third year that Harry had taken by accident and forgot to return. It was well-worn by now; one of the sleeves had begun to unravel, and it was too small in the shoulders. He rubbed his forehead self-consciously, mumbling an awkward “Thank you” at the two witches who pushed a box of Honeydukes chocolates at him and scurried from the room. When all the rest had gone, he glanced at Lupin, who looked amused.

“Didn’t expect a crowd, did you?” he asked and steered Harry towards a chair. “Those in the Order who do know where you are were a bit, shall we say, eager to see you on your birthday.” He smiled. “You’ve been cheating them out of it for fifteen years, you know.”

Harry watched Ron eagerly pick through the three boxes of chocolates he had amassed, exclaiming now and then, “Caramel, brilliant,” or “Is this coconut, do you think?” Harry frowned. “But I don’t know any of them,” he said.

“I think you’ll find that quite a lot of people you don’t know want to wish you a happy birthday,” Lupin replied, still smiling. “I expect the Dursleys have been blocking the owl post every year.”

“I don’t know what –“ Harry began to say, when the first owl arrived in a flurry and dropped a very large card on his lap. He had scarcely opened it when three more were delivered, each of them bearing good wishes to Harry Potter on his sixteenth birthday. He looked up, bewildered. “What’s all this for?”

“Your fans,” Ginny said from behind him, leaning against the doorframe, just as another four letters arrived.

“But I don’t want fans,” he said, feeling altogether embarrassed. He didn’t want to be Gilderoy Lockhart, signing autographed pictures over breakfast, bowing at strangers as if it were his due when they wished him a happy birthday. He was relieved when Mrs. Weasley began to set dishes on the table, letting himself be distracted by breakfast while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all eagerly began to open the new mail. With the exception of Hagrid and a card that fizzled into tiny fireworks from the twins, Harry knew none of the senders. A few of them were enchanted to sing, and Harry was startled every time by an unfamiliar voice singing him a happy birthday. One was from a high and screechy witch named Eloise, and Ron liked her rendition of “Happy Birthday” so much that he played it four times before Mrs. Weasley confiscated it.

What Harry wanted most was a quiet birthday with the Weasleys, but after an afternoon of Exploding Snap with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, Ron nudged him eagerly on the shoulder. “Wait’ll you see where we’re going tonight,” he whispered, purposely pitching his voice low. “Mum thinks we’re visiting the twins, she’d never let us even go there ordinarily, but it’s your first wizarding birthday, you know.”

“I,” Harry began, but just then Mrs. Weasley called Ginny to help with dinner and Hermione went along. He lowered his voice too. “Where are we really going, then?”

“It’s this club,” Ron said, his eyes bright and excited, “it’s by Diagon, you’ll see. It’s brilliant. I went there once, but we didn’t stay very long.”

“You – who’d you go with?” Harry tried not to be indignant at this new revelation, from which he had been excluded.

“Ginny,” Ron said, and made a face. “She was supposed to meet Dean, and I couldn’t very well let her go to a club by herself, she’s my little sister and all.”

“I am not little,” Ginny interrupted sharply, having slipped back in without their noticing, “and you don’t know anything about it, Ron. Besides, Hermione and I are going with you.”

“You’re what?” Ron yelped. “No, you aren’t!”

Ginny put her hands on her hips. “Like we’re going to stay home and knit while you go? Don’t be ridiculous, Ron. It’s Harry’s birthday anyway, and you’d want us there, wouldn’t you, Harry?”

“Um,” Harry managed, before Ron said belligerently, “But Hermione likes to knit!”

“Mum,” Ginny yelled out, “Ron won’t let me come with him to Fred and George’s shop! And he won’t let Hermione come either!”

Mrs. Weasley appeared at the kitchen door, drying her hands on her apron. “Now, now, Ron,” she said, “that’s not nice, Hermione’s a guest here, you know. All three of you will go, and that’s final. As for you, Ginny–“

“I’m going,” Ginny said, red-faced. “If you don’t let me go I’m just going to run away and live with Fred and George and you’ll be sorry.” Mrs. Weasley looked momentarily flustered, and Ginny put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with the realization of what she had said. “Oh, Mum, I didn’t mean it that way, I won’t ever be like P – I mean, I won’t ever leave like that, I promise! But please, Mum?”

“Percy,” Ron mouthed to Harry, who nodded in understanding. If the Weasleys had thought Fudge’s admittance of Voldemort’s return would shame Percy into remembering his family, it had done nothing of the sort. Harry had seen him in the background of a picture in the Prophet, and he had been straightening his glasses nervously, paging through his notebook as dutifully as ever.

“All right, Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley said, “if you’ll give up this nonsense about a job.”

“But I want tohelp,” Ginny began, and then clamped her mouth shut and sighed. “All right! If I can go!”

“Very well,” Mrs. Weasley conceded, “then it’s nearly time to eat. Ron, Harry, go wash up.”

And that was how they ended up just inside the smoky entrance of a tiny club in London, Harry straining to hear anything Ron was shouting over the music. Ginny suddenly caught sight of someone and waved wildly until they could all make out Dean Thomas threading his way towards them through the crowd, giving them a wide grin in the pulsing lights. “Hey, Harry,” he yelled, and took Ginny’s hand, bending down to kiss her briefly on the mouth.

Ron looked scandalized. “Ginny,” he hissed, glaring at Dean, but the music was too loud for her to hear him, and they disappeared into the crowd. He turned to Harry, gesturing furiously. “Did you see her? She’s only–“

“Fifteen, Ron,” Hermione said. “Which is plenty old to be seeing someone.”

“Not for Ginny!” Ron exclaimed, and then narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, it’s not like you’re going out with anybody,” he said dismissively and prodded Harry on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s not stand around!” Harry thought Hermione might have sniffed loudly at Ron’s comment, but he couldn’t be sure.

By the time they’d reached the bar, Hermione had disappeared somewhere behind them. Harry looked around for her, but Ron only shook his head. “Probably gone off to knit in the loo,” he scoffed. “I told them not to come, didn’t I tell them?” Harry admitted that Ron had indeed told them and took the Butterbeer that Ron handed him, though he wasn’t feeling particularly thirsty. Ron shouted in his ear, very loudly, “Isn’t this great, Harry?”

“Great,” Harry said, who didn’t care if Ron couldn’t hear him. When Ron looked confused, he shouted flatly, “GREAT, I SAID,” and Ron gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Harry looked around him. Further down on the bar, a group of witches were laughing uproariously and drinking from a tray of drinks, which spun wildly. The bartender winked at them and flicked his wand towards their glasses, which roared with flame. One of the witches caught Harry looking and gave him a saucy wink.

The whole thing was quite chaotic. It was overwhelming for Harry, who had limited experience with the real wizarding world, even if he was starting his sixth year at Hogwarts. On the walls, posters for other bands glowed neon and moved wildly, gesturing to guests and dancing up a storm, which gave the strange impression of being surrounded by glowing, gyrating shapes. There was a band playing on a stage, though Harry couldn’t see them very well; all he could make out was the drummer, who seemed to be using enchanted drumsticks, which fizzed out colorful sparks every time he used them. From the way the crowd was reacting, they seemed to be quite popular.

“Hey,” Ron shouted at him, causing Harry to start in surprise and slop Butterbeer all over his hand. “Dean’s dancing with my little sister! Harry, look! He can’t put his hand there! They’re – I’ve got to go straighten him out–“

“Maybe you should just let them alone,” Harry suggested, but Ron wasn’t listening. Aiming to distract him, Harry glanced desperately around the club and was shocked to see a familiar face materializing in the crowd. Grabbing Ron’s elbow, he said urgently, “Hey, isn’t that Tonks?”

Her hair was blue and spiked and she was wearing considerably less than her usual outrageous robes, but there was no mistaking the stocky Auror for anyone else. Ron’s jaw dropped. “But she’s – she knows my dad, nobody who knows my dad should be dressed like–“

For once, Harry was inclined to agree. With the exception of Seamus’s dirty magazines, he’d never seen quite so much skin, especially not on someone he’d seen flinging spells with the best of them. She was dancing with somebody with a shaved head, shimmying in his arms, and something about it seemed so obscene that Harry had to tear his eyes away. When he looked back to Ron, he saw an unfamiliar girl leaning against the bar taking a sip from Ron’s Butterbeer, and Ron making frantic eyes at him that said, in no uncertain terms, Go away now.

Harry sighed and moved away from Ron, who was nodding enthusiastically to something the girl had said. This was supposed to be fun? He wondered where Hermione had gone and was about to finish his Butterbeer and go find her when he felt a touch on his arm. He spun around, Hermione’s name on his lips, and came face to face with someone decidedly more unpleasant.

“If it isn’t Harry Potter,” Draco Malfoy spat at him, looking as if Christmas had come early. “Aren’t you a little far from home, Potter?”

Harry clenched his jaw. They’d all checked their wands at the door, but there was nothing to prevent him from punching Malfoy if he wanted. Just the minor fact that it would probably get him kicked out at best or, at worst, a lot of publicity. “Malfoy,” he said, tightly. “Why is it that everywhere I go, you seem to follow me? Can’t get enough, can you?”

“I heard about your fat cousin,” Malfoy snarled back. “It seems you just kill everybody, doesn’t it?”

Harry said dangerously, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“On the contrary,” Malfoy hissed. “What is it now, Potter, one a month?”

It took effort not to slam his fist into Malfoy’s pointy face right then and there. Harry settled for demanding, “Keeping a tally, Malfoy? Better hope your dad doesn’t rot in Azkaban before Voldemort comes for him, or that’d make three, wouldn’t it?”

Malfoy looked murderous, but before he could speak, a girl slipped up behind him to put her arms around his shoulders. Harry recognized her as Pansy Parkinson.

“You think quite a lot of yourself, don’t you, Potter?” She glared at him from over Malfoy’s shoulder, dark hair hanging lank around her face. “It’s only a matter of time and you’re dead. Pity you don’t have any family left to cry over your body when it shows up on their doorstep.”

Harry moved closer to them, fists clenched. “Be careful what you say, Parkinson.”

Malfoy, whose eyes were still sharp with fury, sniggered loudly. “Look, Pansy, I think we touched a nerve. What’s the matter, Potter, were you expecting someone else on your stoop? Lost pet, perhaps? Pity he wasn’t wearing a collar.”

“You shut your mouth,” it was Harry’s turn to hiss, breathing hard, “I’ll–“

“I don’t think you will, actually.” Malfoy gave him one last glare before he slid his arm around Pansy’s waist and raised a delicate eyebrow at Harry. “We’re going to dance. It’s a shame you’re so ugly no one will go near you.”

Harry opened his mouth to make some scathing remark about Pansy when someone moved up against him and said, very pointedly, “Oh, Harry, sorry to take so long, but I’m back now. Let’s go dance, shall we?” He turned and got a shocking eyeful of Tonks’s cleavage, but Malfoy and Pansy were both gaping beside him, so he took her offered hand, dazed, and let her pull him into the crowd.

“Tonks,” he managed to say, after a moment, “uh, thanks, but I really don’t think this is a good idea–“

“It’s just a little fun,” she said, eyes twinkling, sliding up to him and putting her arms around his neck.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Yeah, but, see–”

“Come on, don’t you want to show that prat you’re better than he is?”

“Tonks,” Harry said urgently, “I don’t know how to dance, I’m awful, I just, I can’t.” Beside them, Malfoy and Pansy were moving against each other, both of them watching Harry closely.

Tonks laughed. “Oh, that. It’s okay, I’ll show you. Just follow my lead, okay? Do what everybody else is doing. I mean, watch them.” She was pressed up against him and he could see the beads of sweat on her forehead, the flush in her cheeks. “Put your hands on my hips. No, lower. There you go. Now move. Feel the music? Okay, no, like this.” Harry was crimson with embarrassment, but he let her guide him into some sort of motion, keeping his eyes on how Malfoy was bumping up against Pansy. “Yeah,” Tonks said, low in his ear, “relax a little, there you go. You can move closer . . . Harry, I’m not made of glass, come here.”

Pansy was rolling her hips in Malfoy’s hands and sliding up against him, whatever scanty scrap of fabric she was wearing slipping upwards to bare her stomach. Malfoy had his head tilted back, hair damp with sweat and falling in his face, and he was staring right at Harry, as if there were no one else in the club but the two of them.

Harry stared right back, determined somehow to best him. He let Tonks grind up against his leg, one hand clutching at the small of her back, and thought, a little dazedly, that her shirt had no back on it. He could feel the slippery heat of her skin against his palm.

“Good,” Tonks said, in his ear, and she was watching Malfoy and Pansy too. Pansy was running her hands up Malfoy’s chest and twining her arms around Malfoy’s neck, and then she leaned up and kissed him, lewd and open-mouthed, still pressing up against him. “Harry,” Tonks whispered, and he had a moment of bewilderment before they were kissing too, her lips soft, her thumbs tucked in the belt loops of his jeans and pulling him closer. It was different than kissing Cho, which was mostly her crying with her lips pressed on his. Tonks was twining her tongue in his mouth and she pulled back to bite softly at his lower lip, his fingers bruising her back, her body small and eager against him.

When Harry pulled away, Malfoy was still staring at him, eyes sharp and dark and furious. Harry felt a little stirring of triumph and, for perhaps the first time that night, smiled.

It was at that moment that he spotted Hermione across the room, lit for a brief second by the lights, looking severely annoyed. “I,” he said, “Tonks, thanks, but I think my friends are–“

Tonks smiled at him, pretty in the darkness, and pulled him closer. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, breath tickling his earlobe, and then snaked off without another word into the crowd. Without a backwards look at Malfoy or his partner, Harry made his way to Hermione, who was now standing with Ginny and Dean. She was tapping her foot and said, when he came up to them,

“Where’s Ron gone off to now?”

Flustered, Harry tried to manage an excuse, but at that moment, Ron bounded up to them. “Harry!” he exclaimed, latching onto Harry’s shoulder and leaning into him heavily. “Harry, there’s this girl, you’ve got to meet her, she really wants to – Harry, is that lipstick all over your face?”

“No,” Harry said guiltily, wiping furiously at his mouth. “Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m not drunk,” Ron exclaimed, wavering a bit. “I’ve only had a little bit, you know, I’m very respin – respensi – I’m fine.”

Ginny was stifling laughter and Hermione was frowning sharply. “I think that’s about enough,” Harry said, propping Ron more upright. “Come on, let’s go get our wands, okay?”

“You know,” Ron said to him, leaning on him as they made their way to the door behind two older, lanky wizards, both of whom were wearing leather jackets and wore their hair as long as Ginny’s, “I thought I saw Malfoy here awhile ago. Malfoy!” He laughed and his breath smelled of alcohol. “Funny, huh?”

“Um,” Harry said, “yeah. Funny.”

Ginny kissed Dean goodbye on the corner and they Flooed back to Grimmauld Place from Fred and George’s, Harry hushing Ron all the way from the fireplace up the creaky stairs and into their room. Hermione was ignoring them on purpose and Ginny was trying not to giggle at Ron’s repeated attempts to whisper loudly, “Harry, you have something on your mouth. Harry, were you kissing a girl? Harry, tell me!”

The girls left them on the second landing and Harry practically dragged Ron inside and dumped him on his bed before collapsing exhaustedly on his own and kicking off his trainers. He scarcely had time to process the night before he lay down in his clothes – just for a minute, he’d get up in a minute – and the next thing he knew, he woke up stiff and exhausted. It was still early, by the clock, and he sat up to see what had woken him just as Mrs. Weasley threw open the door.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY,” she screeched, brandishing a newspaper, “I AM SO ASHAMED OF YOU! SNEAKING OUT OF THIS HOUSE, LYING TO YOUR MOTHER, GOING TO DISREPUTABLE PLACES, WHY I OUGHT TO TAKE AWAY YOUR WAND! AND YOU, HARRY POTTER! YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER! I WILL TOLERATE NO SUCH BEHAVIOR IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!”

“Mum,” Ron groaned, hands shielding his face from the light, “what’s going on,” and she threw the newspaper at his head.

“YOU MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT SET FOOT OUTSIDE THIS HOUSE WITHOUT YOUR MOTHER FOR THE REST OF THIS SUMMER! AND YOU EITHER, GINNY!” she added, at Ginny’s footfall on the stairs, creeping down to see what the commotion was. “IT WILL BE CLEANING EVERY DAY UNTIL SEPTEMBER, AND THIS HOUSE HAD BETTER BE SPOTLESS!”

She disappeared downstairs in a huff and Ginny crept in, hair in a tangle, her nightgown on. “What’s going on?” she asked, sleepily, taking the newspaper from Ron and squinting at it in the faint light. “Oh, for – Harry, look at this.”

He caught it, rubbing his eyes, and peered down at the picture in the corner. A grainy, miniature him was enthusiastically snogging Tonks in the midst of a crowded dance floor. Whoever had printed the picture had circled his forehead with a thick black marker. The caption read enthusiastically: “BOY WHO LIVED: LIVING IT UP? Harry Potter celebrates his sixteenth birthday at a wizarding club in London with unknown witch seen here.” Harry groaned and threw the paper on the ground.

“I think,” Ron said carefully, “I’ve got a hangover.”



&*&*



"Watch out," Ron managed, between a mouthful of sausage, and Harry ducked just before an owl swooped by his head. It dropped an officially sealed scroll of parchment in the middle of his porridge and landed beside Hermione's plate, flapping its wings agitatedly.

"Ministry owls!" Mrs. Weasley muttered, as Harry gingerly pulled the letter from his breakfast. "I keep telling Arthur, they need to do something about this! It's horrendous, the way they come in dropping things every which way, like regular old pets, they are! The Ministry, of all things! Official business!" She continued muttering as she stalked back to the sink and waved her wand imperiously. The scrubbing brush, which had been leisurely sloshing around the pan, began to spin so vigorously that Harry saw only a soapy blur.

"I reckon she's still a bit upset over last night," Ron muttered to Harry. "Go on, what'd the Ministry send you now? Hope it's not another memo calling you batty, had quite enough of that last year."

Harry unrolled it, attempting to wipe off the worst spots of porridge. "It's from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes,” he said. He scanned the contents, then frowned. "They're just telling me that Dudley died of a heart attack, officially, something about being obese. 'Please refer to page 1669 of the Ministry Handbook for other further explanation?' Page 1669? How'm I supposed to know what that says?"

"Percy'd be all over that," Ginny said conversationally, as she strolled into the kitchen and sat down next to Hermione. "Oh, sorry, Mum."

"Don't 'sorry, Mum' me!" Mrs. Weasley shrilled. "I know just where you were last night, young lady, and I won't be forgetting it!" Her voice turned gentle, for a moment, and she said, "Harry, dear, I'm sorry about your cousin. You'll have to ask Arthur about that when he gets home, I'm sure he can straighten things out." And with that, she continued indignantly, "Now all four of you finish up your breakfast, and we can start to work on the china cabinets. I know for certain there's some silver that needs polishing, Ron, and that wood could use a good dusting!"

"Mum," Ron groaned, "we did the upstairs silver last week!"

"Well, today we're doing the downstairs set! And no magic for you four, either, you are all underage! I'll give you some of Priscilla's Paradise Polish, and that's it. Come along!"

Though he soon sided with Ron in his views of housework, Harry was partially grateful. Mrs. Weasley ordered them about like house elves ("Now you know how it feels, Ron," Hermione said several times, archly), but with no time to sit and mope, he had no time to think about Dudley's untimely fate. In fact, he was so preoccupied with taps that grew fangs to snap at him and mirrors that pulled grotesque faces at him that he almost forgot it was Sirius's house they were cleaning.

"I swear this house is evil," Ron muttered darkly, when a doorknob bit him for the third time in a row. "Maybe Mum has a point in cleaning it out. I'm half afraid the carpet will run off with me the next time I take a step."

"You know, Ron, you're the only one who’s been attacked," Ginny said, though she repented half an hour later, when her hair was caught in a drawer that had shut and then refused to open again. She spent the rest of the afternoon rubbing her scalp after she had finally escaped and, though no apology to Ron was forthcoming, admitted, "I can't blame it, it had to live with all those horrible people for so long. Or maybe they turned out so rotten because they lived here."

"Sirius wasn't rotten," Ron said fiercely. Harry had been in a daze, polishing the silver, and looked up with sudden gratitude. In his concentration, he'd forgot who they were talking about.

"No, but Bellatrix was horrible," Ginny said. "But then, I can't imagine growing up here was very much fun. Sirius was lucky."

"Tonks's mum got out, too," Ron pointed out. "Isn't she married to a Muggleborn wizard? Harry, didn't Sirius tell you that?"

But Harry was too busy flushing at the mention of Tonks to answer properly, and he busied himself in the silver. Ron appealed to Hermione.

"Come on, Herm, you read enough history that you've got to know every family lineage from here to the fourteen hundreds. Isn't she?"

"Look it up yourself," Hermione snapped. "I'm not speaking to you."

Ron looked flustered. "But – why?"

Hermione refused to answer him, nor would she look at Harry, though later she was whispering furiously with Ginny. Ron was nonplussed, though Harry thought he had an idea what it was all about.

"You were rather rotten, last night," Ginny confided to both of them, under the guise of helping them clean the cobwebs from the corners of the room. A spider scuttled across the wall, and Ron had to suppress a squeak of terror. "Oh, don't be a baby. Anyway, you did just leave her there, you know. Luckily she–"

"I told her not to come," Ron said, indignantly, interrupting his sister.

"As if you can tell me what I should or should not do, Ron Weasley," Hermione said from across the room, having heard him. "I had a fine time, for your information, though it was no thanks to you."

"I was going to look for you," Harry offered uncomfortably. All this talk of the previous night was making him uneasy.

Hermione scrubbed furiously at the mirror she was cleaning. Her reflection rippled as the surface bucked under her rag. "Oh, well, that's all right, Harry," she said distractedly, and glared at Ron again before turning back to her work.

"Nutters," Ron muttered to Harry. Just then, another spider crawled down the wall, and he leapt back.

"Serves you right," Ginny said, tossing her rag at him. "I'm going to help Hermione."

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry. "Girls," he said. Harry tried with great difficulty not to flush at the memory of what exactly had happened to him last night, and the way Tonks had slid up against him, fluid as water. Her skin had felt so hot against his palm, and the way she'd looked up at him, eyes glittering . . .

"You all right there, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry swallowed. "Just um, Sirius," he muttered, at which a wave of guilt overwhelmed him. Here he was getting red in the face over Tonks, and what's more, using Sirius as an excuse to cover up his embarrassment, and he was forgetting why they were cleaning the room in the first place. If not for the events in June, Sirius might be there with them, telling them wicked stories about his own encounters with girls while Hermione looked scandalized.

"Oh," Ron said uncomfortably. "Yeah, I forgot."

Harry hated himself, then, for throwing it in Ron's face, when he hadn’t remembered either. I'm sorry, Sirius, he thought fiercely, and spent the next ten minutes meditating so determinedly on Sirius's absence that a telltale lump formed in his throat. What was it Malfoy had said to him? What is it now, one a month? He swallowed hard. How dare he? Who was Malfoy to say? There he was, distracting Harry, making him focus on dancing and Tonks and the way he'd looked in the pulsing lights, pale and thin and glistening with a sheen of sweat, his gazed fixed furiously on Harry . . .

It wasn't right, Harry thought angrily, for him to get so preoccupied. First Sirius, and then Dudley. Before he knew it, it would be Ron, or Ginny, or Hermione . . .

"Hey," Ron said, tentatively, nudging Harry in the shoulder. He looked almost afraid to disturb him. "Mum says it's nearly dinnertime, if you're, uh, done with that fork there."

Harry realized he'd been polishing the same fork over and over, until its tines sparkled. "Thanks," he said, setting it back in its case. He gave one last look at the silver, and then followed Ron into the hall.

The remainder of the summer passed without further excitement, the greatest agitation being the flurry of Doxies that had re-colonized the curtains, and the heat wave slowly subsided into hints of autumn coming, crickets all night during their weekend at the Burrow, some night breezes propelling the windows shut. Hermione managed to ignore Ron for five days, during which she furiously knitted eleven hats, and then for no visible reason gave him a sudden embarrassed hug after he got his OWLs and began talking to him again.

“She’s crazy, Harry,” Ron told him, on the side, “just crazy,” and Harry professed not to understand it either. He still had not told Ron about Tonks.

It was a bit like a secret – except one that Malfoy and Pansy also kept – and he carried it around with him like some sort of comfort, something of his own. He thought about it late at night, hands folded behind his head, and recalled the hot smoothness of Tonks’s skin against his palm, the shimmy of Pansy’s hips up against her partner. He drew the line at wanking over the memory, because of Malfoy’s involvement, and that was too close to wanking over Malfoy, which he refused to think about. This meant that most of his fantasies involved faceless, featureless girls who morphed inevitably into Tonks, but if her eyes were usually unsettlingly gray, Harry never acknowledged the fact.

On the first of September, Harry boarded the train at King’s Cross with Ginny, waving as Hermione and Ron disappeared off – with much grumbling on Ron’s part – to the Prefects’ car. Harry had all but forgotten Dudley’s death. The month filled with housework had pushed blocks of time between him and his aunt and uncle, and his thoughts were more likely to settle on Sirius than his deceased cousin. Even that had dulled, however, by the time he bid farewell to his room at 12 Grimmauld Place; he had cried, a few nights running, after dusting Sirius’s former room for Mrs. Weasley, and he still felt sudden pangs that stopped his lungs from working when he thought about his godfather’s arcing fall, but Sirius’s name on his lips was routine enough, now, and he stopped taking the long way to the kitchen so as to avoid the tapestry of Black lineage.

Lupin had taken him to see Sirius’s motorbike, one stifling afternoon during which Ginny and Ron bickered for three hours straight, and he had run a finger across the seat, blowing at the dust he picked up. “Molly won’t want you riding it for a few years anyway,” Lupin said, his smile slipping around the edges, loose. “But you should know it’s yours.”

“Sirius always said he would take me for a ride when his name was cleared.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin had told him, looking gray and faded in the dusty shadows. Quiet. “He would have loved that.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and it hurt a little, but he swallowed and didn’t cry. “Yeah.”

Now, listening to the last whistle of the train as he bumped his way into a compartment, he wished Professor Lupin were coming with them back to Hogwarts. He would have felt safer, and he’d grown used to Lupin’s often silent presence at the House of Black, reading a book in the corner of the kitchen over tea or distracting Ginny before her temper could escalate into a full-blown snapping match with her brother. He was like the antithesis of Molly Weasley, and a welcome change. Harry’d even begun to think Hermione had a secret crush on him.

“Oh, come on, Crookshanks,” Ginny was muttering. “Pig! Stop twittering, Crookshanks is not going to eat you! Oh!” It was with relief she stumbled into the compartment and nearly crashed into her boyfriend. “Dean, take him, will you?”

“What?” said Dean, but couldn’t protest further, as he found himself with an armful of annoyed cat. Crookshanks scrambled to escape and left one long red welt on his arm. It oozed a couple drops of blood just as Crookshanks leapt across the compartment and curled up by the window, sulking.

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry,” Ginny exclaimed, dropping Pig’s cage and sinking onto the seat beside him. “Let me see. Ouch. Here, come to the loo, I’ve got some salve.”

Dean followed her out, leaving Harry to the empty compartment and Ron’s squawking owl. He had scarcely shut his eyes when the door flew open again. He knew before he looked up that it wasn’t Ginny or Dean returning, nor was it Ron or Hermione.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, resigned. “What do you want?”

The blonde was grinning wickedly. “Why, haven’t you heard about the new Dark Arts professor, Potter? Pity you haven’t got connections on the board.”

“Yeah, well, my dad’s not in Azkaban, either,” Harry retorted.

Immediately, Malfoy reddened with rage. “At least my father’s not feeding worms!”

“My father was ten times the wizard yours ever could be,” Harry said, fast, and it was only then that he realized that he’d leapt to his feet, forgetting his vow to not let Malfoy provoke him. “Worms wouldn’t touch your dad.”

“You watch it, Potter, just you wait–“

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a breath, “wait for what, your goons to catch up to you? Give me a real pounding, won’t they? I don’t have to remind you just how you arrived to King’s Cross at the end of the year last year, do I?”

“I’ll show you,” Malfoy hissed, his face red and sharp. “You’ll get yours, Potter.” And turning away, he added venomously, “Say hello to the new professor for me, won’t you?”

Harry had scarcely dared to hope it was Lupin when Ron came barging through the door, panting. “Harry,” he exclaimed, pausing for breath, “would you believe it? Herm’s staying in the Prefects Car so she can talk about her bloody OWLs with Goldstein! Says she met him when we were at that sodding club. I didn’t see her with anybody, did you?”

“Ron, no offense, but neither of us were really paying much attention.”

As if in response, Ron flung himself on the seat. “Next thing you know she’ll be turning into a Ravenclaw,” he muttered. “Hey, did I just see Malfoy leaving?”

“Same old stuff,” Harry said, evasive.

“Did you hex him?”

“Did he look hexed?”

“Well, no. But you should have,” Ron concluded judiciously. “Anyway, Dad says the Malfoys are getting a bad deal of it, with Mr. Malfoy in Azkaban. Says the Ministry froze most of his bank accounts on suspicions and they’ve already searched Malfoy’s house at least twice.” He was looking gleeful. “Serves him right, I say.”

Ginny and Dean came back then, and Ron’s full attention was absorbed by watching Dean with suspicion, so Harry didn’t think of it again until he stepped into the Great Hall and saw Malfoy at the Slytherin table, reclined like a king. From the way he was smirking and carrying on, he certainly didn’t look like somebody who’d been having a “bad deal of it.” In fact, apart from his grossly exaggerated injuries, Harry had never seen him suffering in his life.

“Hiya, Harry,” Colin Creevey said just then and dragged Harry back to the present. He half-smiled at Colin and his brother Dennis and sat down in the nearest chair next to Ron, who was trading completely made up stories with Seamus about his summer exploits. Harry felt a twinge of guilt at keeping the Tonks experience to himself, but before he could dwell on it, Hermione slid into the seat beside him.

“Harry,” she exclaimed, a bit breathless. “Did you know there’s a library in the Ravenclaw Tower? Of course, it’s not anything in comparison to the real library, but they’ve a whole room of books, and there’s this one I’ve been looking for on Artemisia Lufkin, I’ve been looking for ages. It’s fantastic. Anthony was just showing me.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He tried to sound cold out of loyalty to Ron. “That’s nice.”

“Isn’t it?” Hermione continued on. She didn’t seem to notice his tone. “Anthony got eleven OWLs. Nearly twelve, but he studied the wrong chapters in Ancient Runes. He told me we ought to study together sometime.”

“So you won’t go out with anyone who’s got less than eleven OWLs, is that it?”

“Of course I’d never think a thing like that,” Hermione said sharply. “Harry, why would you say that? Anthony and I are just friends. He’s very smart. Don’t you like him? He was in the DA, you know, he really thinks a lot of you.”

“That’s–“ Harry began, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, and do you know what else Anthony told me? He was talking to Padma about the new Dark Arts professor, and can you believe it? It’s Tonks!”

“That’s nice,” Harry said, as flatly as he had before, and then it dawned on him. “Wait, what did you say?”

“Tonks,” Hermione told him patiently, “is the new Dark Arts professor. Aren’t you relieved? After Umbridge, I was so worried! But Dumbledore knows what he’s doing. Now we won’t have to have the DA in secret and the Ministry won’t be issuing all these horrible edicts and we’ll . . .” She continued on, heedless of the fact that he had half-turned to look at the Slytherin table. From there, his eyes slipped to the table of professors and, sure enough, Tonks was perched on her chair, attempting to look interested in whatever Professor Flitwick was saying. Her hair was a shocking shade of pink and hung straight down from beneath her hat, curling a little behind her ears.

Say hello to the new professor for me.

Harry swallowed.

“Hey,” Ron said, from the other side of him, suddenly, “Harry, hey, isn’t that Tonks up there? What’s she doing here?”

“Professor Tonks is going to be the new Dark Arts professor,” Hermione answered. “I’ve just been telling Harry about it. Anthony said–“

Ron looked scornful at the mention of Anthony. “Did Harry tell you, we saw her on Harry’s birthday, she was dancing with–“

“I don’t know,” Harry said quickly. At least the picture in the paper had been grainy and Tonks had had her back to the camera; it was difficult even for Harry to recognize her, and he was fairly sure no one else had. No one but Malfoy, that is. “It could have been somebody else, Ron.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Hermione sniffed. “I shouldn’t think any professor at Hogwarts should be seen at such a place.”

“Well, your precious Anthony was there, wasn’t he now?” Ron began to say, but Dumbledore stood at that moment, and he quieted rapidly before his voice could carry to the Ravenclaws.

Harry studied Tonks all through the Sorting and Dumbledore’s brief welcome. He watched her smile secretly at something Professor Sprout said, touch her hair thoughtfully, clap dutifully at every new first year. She was quite possibly the youngest professor Hogwarts had seen in decades, and – with the exception of Professor Trelawney – certainly the most eccentric. And at that moment, just as Dumbledore clapped his hands for the food and the Great Hall filled with hubbub and the chaos of passing dishes, she looked directly at Harry and smiled.

“The Slytherins are really in for something, I reckon,” Ron said with a mouthful of food. Several crumbs flew at Harry as he spoke, and Hermione made a face beside him. “Tonks likes us all right, I bet she’ll really favor us! Serves ‘em right, they’ve got Snape on their side.”

“You can’t really be advocating professors playing favorites!” Hermione said, appalled. She tore a bit of roll off and ate it primly. “We’re Gryffindors, Ron!”

“Yeah, and old McGonagall’s done nothing for us,” Ron argued back. Across the table, Seamus nodded emphatically, mouth too full to speak up. “At least Tonks won’t call Harry a liar and a fake or report us for trying to learn!”

Hermione had to agree with this, though she added cautiously, “Do you think Tonks is really qualified, though? I know she’s an Auror, but she does seem a bit . . . messy, doesn’t she?”

“Hermione,” Ron said, actually putting down his fork for a moment, “who’d you rather have, Tonks or Umbridge? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

For Harry’s part, he concentrated wholly on his plate, unable to look up to his left and meet Tonks’s eyes. He could not forget her presence, however; down the table, he heard some fourth years discussing her eagerly. Apparently rumors had already begun circulating, and her status as a Metamorphmagus was the least of it. When he heard one boy loudly claim he’d seen herBARED, the porn magazine that catered largely to werewolves, Harry choked and had to be thumped enthusiastically on the back by Ron.

“Got to pace yourself, mate,” Ron advised.

“Right,” Harry said. His eyes were watering.

To Harry’s discomfort, Tonks wasn’t the only subject of the rumors fiercely circulating. More than one first year pointed at him and whispered as the night wore on, and he distinctly heard the words “You-Know-Who” passed dramatically along the benches. By the time students began streaming for the entrances, he was more than tired of the fearful awe their gazes all carried. And, to his acute embarrassment, this fearful awe changed to awe and jealousy when Tonks happened to pass him on their way to the exit.

“Wotcher, Harry!” She grinned over at him and, probably noting the redness in his cheeks, winked at him. Instantly, the fifth-year boys behind him began to whisper. Ron prodded him in the side with his elbow. Harry felt his face burning inexplicably. If he was this miserable now, how could he possibly sit through Defense Against the Dark Arts every day? He’d likely go mad.

It was then that Harry chanced to look up and saw that someone else had noticed Tonks’s attention as well. Across the crowd, Malfoy’s eyes were sharp and slitted, and he looked furious.

Harry turned away smiling. Perhaps it would not be such a bad year after all.

 

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