Year 5-03: Orders within Orders

It took Lily a couple of days to recompose herself and face her children again, where she apologized for losing her temper. No apology was needed, of course – Harry could only imagine the burden she'd been carrying for the past fourteen years. To know that your own parents were suffering such an awful fate, and there was nothing to be done about it, must have been hell to reckon with.

Learning the truth about his Evans grandparents reawakened some unpleasant feelings and memories for Harry as well. It had taken him time to get over his hatred of Bellatrix Lestrange, for what she'd done – what she'd taken from him. Sirius falling through the Veil had plagued his dreams for much of his first and second years, with Bellatrix's cackling laughter ringing ominously in his ears. Now, her treachery hit that much closer to home, and he yearned to see her pay for it all.

Still, family was family, and Harry had just learned that he had two living grandparents he'd never gotten to meet before. He insisted on accompanying his mother and Aunt Petunia to see them the following weekend, and when Dahlia learned of this plan, she wanted to go too. Ultimately James decided to provide moral support for his family as well, and it became a full family outing.

Lily Apparated them to a small hospice clinic out in the countryside. "This was the only place that could take them," she muttered sadly. "St. Mungo's doesn't treat Muggles, and we couldn't explain what really happened to non-magical doctors. They believe it was an electrical accident that gave them lasting nerve damage."

"Are the Muggle doctors able to treat them?" asked Dahlia.

"They can only provide comfort measures at this point," Lily sighed. "There's a Healer from St. Mungo's who comes once a month, who pretends to be a nerve specialist. But there isn't much she can do either, unfortunately."

A lone car pulled into the parking lot, and Petunia Dursley stepped out, eyeing them warily. "Is the witch-doctor here yet?" she asked Lily tersely.

"The Healer should be here shortly," Lily gently corrected her sister. Sure enough, a minute later there was a soft pop as a woman in plain white scrubs appeared out of thin air, looking nervous at being spotted using magic but relaxing when she recognized them.

"Ah, Mrs. Potter, Mrs. Dursley," the woman greeted them. "Ready to go in and see them?"

"We are," Lily nodded. "These are my two children and my husband."

"A pleasure," said the woman, shaking each of their hands. "Healer Brown, nice to meet you."

"Any relation to Lavender Brown?" Harry asked.

"My niece," smiled the Healer. "Are you Harry Potter? She's said kind things about you as a classmate."

Wish someone would tell the Daily Prophet that, Harry thought bitterly as he followed Healer Brown into the building.

The hospice center was full of aging Muggles, most of whom were at the end of their long lives. An atmosphere of death and decay lingered in this place, and it made Harry supremely uncomfortable. He was not the only one; he could feel Dahlia trembling beside him, and took her hand to comfort her.

A clinic worker showed them to a room near the back of the center. When they entered, Harry saw a man and woman, perhaps in their sixties or seventies, each sitting in a wheelchair. The woman had gray hair with hints of auburn in it – undoubtedly the source of Lily's own strawberry mane – while the man was blonde and balding. When his eyes opened at the disturbance, Harry was startled by the piercing gaze, surveying them with the same trademark green eyes that he and his sister had inherited.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Evans," said Healer Brown, closing the door behind her as she drew her wand. "How are we feeling today?"

Neither of the Evans spoke, staring blankly straight ahead as Healer Brown began her diagnosis. Dahlia leaned forward to analyze the runes that popped up, and let out a shuddering sigh of despair at whatever they told her.

"Hello, Mum," said Lily softly, dropping to one knee in front of her mother. "How have you been? I told you about my potions mastery the last time I was here – well, I've started my own business now! I'm working to secure funding for my new potion that could change thousands of lives."

Mrs. Evans appeared to have not heard a word of what her daughter said. She stared unblinkingly at the wall, as though not a single other person was there in the room with her.

"Mum, do you remember my family?" Lily said, motioning to the other Potters behind her. "That's my husband James, and my two wonderful children, Harry and Dahlia. Do you remember your grandchildren? Do you remember holding them when they were little?"

Still her mother did not respond. If she wasn't upright and breathing, Harry might have thought her to be dead.

"They seem to be doing better than normal today," Healer Brown remarked. "No recent episodes, and no signs of self-harming."

Self-harming? Harry thought with mild alarm. He had no idea what kind of effects the Cruciatus Curse could have on Muggles, but if this was considered a good day, he didn't want to imagine what a bad one might look like.

"Petunia, why don't you tell Mum and Dad about Damian?" Lily urged her sister. "You haven't talked about him in years."

"Oh, no, I don't think that would be—" Petunia muttered dismissively.

"C'mon, Tuney, they can hear you!" Lily insisted. "They'll want to know how their youngest grandson is faring at his new school!"

"Very well," Petunia eventually sighed, shuffling forward to address her parents. "Damian is entering his third year at...that school. The one Lily went to. He seems to be doing well. Making friends. Playing sports."

"Tell them more!" Lily insisted, turning to Harry and Dahlia. "Maybe you two can fill in the blanks about your cousin?"

"Erm…" Harry said, wondering what he should say. He realized it was as much for Petunia's benefit as his grandparents, and without Vernon there to blow his lid, perhaps he could make a positive impression. "Damian's been doing better lately. Had some trouble fitting in at first, but he made some good friends last year. He's an excellent athlete, and he cares deeply about animals. Always hanging out in the pastures helping the gamekeeper care for them."

Petunia turned away from him, and Harry thought he heard a sniffle. Was he getting through to his hardened aunt? Was having a wizard for a son finally softening her stance on magic?

Just then, there was a low, guttural moan from their right; everyone turned to see Mr. Evans slumped over in his wheelchair, rocking slowly back and forth. "Oh, no," Healer Brown muttered. "Stand back, everyone. There might be an episode coming on."

That certainly sounded ominous. Harry backed away from his grandfather, wondering what that could mean. But he didn't have to wait long to find out.

Mr. Evans suddenly lurched forward, toppling out of his wheelchair and falling to the floor. He began convulsing violently on the carpet, limbs flailing stiffly all about. James shuffled forward to help him up— "No! Give him space," Healer Brown barked. "There's nothing to be done until the episode has passed."

The Potters were helpless as they watched Mr. Evans spasm uncontrollably at their feet, emitting pitiful moans of excruciating pain all the while. Dahlia whimpered and buried her face in her father's chest, who stroked her hair gently. Lily continued to kneel beside her mother, silent tears streaming down her face, and Petunia went stark white, turning to leave the room in a hurry.

For some reason, Harry felt the urge to follow her. He too exited the room and found his aunt frantically pacing the halls, wringing her hands together and attempting to compose herself.

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry called out. She looked up at him, a look of such anguish and despair that gave him pause. Never in either timeline had he been able to muster up much sympathy for his aunt, the source of so much misery in his childhood. But right now, she looked like a frightened child in need of comfort. So he closed the distance between them and wrapped her in a gentle hug.

Petunia stiffened at first, but relaxed slightly at his touch. After a moment, Harry pulled away in time to see his aunt wiping away tears. "You're a good boy," she muttered tersely – about as glowing a compliment he could expect from the uptight woman.

"I'm very sorry about your parents, Aunt Petunia," said Harry sincerely. "They didn't deserve this."

"Those evil people who did this..." Petunia trembled. "Monsters...ought to rot forever in hell...despicable, just despicable…"

"I know the woman who did this to them," Harry said solemnly. "And I swear to you, if I ever cross paths with her again, I will make her pay."

Petunia regarded him warily at this statement. For a moment, Harry wondered if he'd offended her sensibilities by threatening violence against another woman.

"Make the bitch suffer," she spat instead. And Petunia turned to march towards the exit, leaving a stunned Harry behind in her wake.

A somber atmosphere pervaded the Potter household for days after the hospice visit. James and Lily dove back into their respective workloads, and the normally-rambunctious and energetic Dahlia kept to her room most of the day, clearly affected by what she had seen. Harry set his sights on his upcoming outing with Saul and Bill at the end of the summer, where he hoped to explore at least one of the potential horcrux hiding places they'd discovered thus far.

However, an unexpected event popped up in mid-August, as Harry was listlessly flipping through his new textbooks on a muggy Friday afternoon. The fireplace flared green, and James stepped through the Floo, home early from work.

"Get dressed," James ordered his son as he headed upstairs. "We have a meeting tonight."

Another Order meeting already? Harry thought. He wondered if anything substantial had actually changed, or if Dumbledore simply wanted to touch base regularly with everybody. Either way, he quickly changed into a nice set of robes and joined his parents for departure.

The first clue that something was awry was that Lily ordered Dahlia to stay behind. The second came when they stepped through the fireplace and emerged not at Grimmauld Place, but in Remus and Alessia's new home in the countryside. Harry had only been on one occasion, to visit his mother and tour her new potions lab in the basement.

"I thought all the Order meetings would be at headquarters," Harry remarked as he looked around.

"This isn't an Order meeting," James muttered under his breath. "And I expect you to keep quiet about this one." That certainly piqued Harry's interest, as he followed his parents into the main dining hall.

Sirius, Remus and Alessia were already present, greeting the Potters as they arrived. Also present was Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, and Dale Greengrass, a prominent Wizengamot member. Harry greeted each of them in turn before taking his seat beside Lily, as James took the head of the table.

"Thank you all for coming," James said to the gathered crowd. "I know this was last-minute, and we have a rather small party today, but I wanted to meet at least once before the summer is over. I only invited people I know we can trust."

"What exactly is this about, James?" asked Amelia, frowning.

"We all know that Voldemort has returned," James said, causing Amelia and Dale to flinch mildly. "And none of us believes the hogwash that he's on the continent. So I want to establish this as a place where we can discuss strategy and plan political maneuvers in the months to come."

"Sorry, but shouldn't we wait for Dumbledore to talk about this?" asked Remus.

"Dumbledore isn't invited," James said flatly. "I respect the man, but I don't know if he's the right person to lead us through this war. We will be meeting separate from the Order of the Phoenix, to discuss the things we don't want Dumbledore to know about."

"We're hiding secrets from Dumbledore?" Sirius asked, looking astonished. Then, a devilish grin broke out across his face. "It'll be just like the ol' Hogwarts days. I love it."

"Ugh, not this again," Amelia muttered with a sigh. "I thought my days of wrangling you boys as a prefect were over."

"Ah, but you never turned us in back then, either," Sirius pointed out with a wink. "Because you secretly loved us, Lia. And the feeling is mutual." Amelia rolled her eyes at this obvious flirt, though her cheeks did flash pink at the remark.

"What kind of things are we keeping from Dumbledore?" asked Dale.

"Just a few things here and there," James said cryptically. Just then, there was a whoosh of flames from the other room as the Floo activated. "Ah, that must be our last arrival."

Everyone turned as another man walked into the dining room. Harry's eyes went wide, not expecting him to make an appearance in Britain ever again. Clearly Amelia Bones was of the same mind.

"B-Barty Crouch?" she gasped. "But James, he's a fugitive! There's been a warrant for his arrest for a year now!"

"I'm well aware," James sighed. "But this is war, Amelia, and we need all the help we can get. Perhaps Barty here can work off some of his debt to society by joining the cause."

"Not that I have much bloody choice in the matter," sighed Crouch Senior, who looked thinner and paler than the last time Harry had seen him. "Considering you threatened to turn me in if I didn't join."

"I'm not entirely comfortable with this," Amelia muttered nervously as Crouch took an empty seat.

"Neither am I," James shrugged. "Technically, we could be found guilty of harboring a fugitive if word of this meeting got out. So if anyone has cold feet, now is the time to get out."

Harry glanced around the room. Everyone looked a bit nervous by Crouch's presence, but nobody moved or said a word.

"Good," James nodded. "Now, Barty, what's the word you've been hearing on the street in France? What has been the Ministry's stance on this Voldemort news?"

"You've been hiding in France?" Amelia gasped. "And their Ministry knows you're there?"

"The French Ministry has long distrusted Britain, ever since the Grindelwald War," said Crouch. "They resent the Brits for taking credit for Grindelwald's defeat, even though more French fighters died than any other nationality and Dumbledore waited until the last possible moment to enter the fray. I sought asylum in Paris through my contacts, and it was granted discreetly."

"Of course it was," Amelia grumbled. Harry didn't understand all the nuances of international wizarding relations, but it seemed that Crouch was a master at manipulating the system, much to Amelia Bones' distaste.

"As for You-Know-Who," Crouch continued, addressing James now, "the French have adopted a tentative policy of neutrality on the matter. They do not wish to interfere in British matters, so long as the Dark Lord does not extend his influence beyond his own borders."

"Surely they can't be that naive," Harry scoffed. "Voldemort will just move on to the continent as soon as he has Britain under his control. And by then, it'll be far too late to stop him."

"A point that I would urge you to relay to your French colleagues," James told Crouch. "Harry is right...Britain doesn't have the means to combat Voldemort on its own, and if we could get support from abroad, perhaps ICW forces—"

"No nation will agree to send their own people to another war abroad," Crouch sighed. "Not as long as they feel they aren't threatened on their home turf."

"Then we have to make them believe they are threatened at home," Harry chimed in. "Voldemort is recruiting giants and werewolves from the continent as we speak. Hagrid isn't going to be able to sway them otherwise."

"How did you know about that?" James asked, arching his eyebrows. "Nobody knew about Hagrid's mission except a handful of us within the Order—"

"I stopped asking questions about Harry's knowledge years ago, James," Remus smirked. "Your boy's a damn genius – best to take what he has to say seriously."

"We've finally got permission to test our potion on live subjects," Lily added. "Remus has been putting out word to the British werewolf community, looking for volunteers. There are plenty of people desperate enough to accept an experimental treatment that could kill them."

"And once word of a successful treatment reaches the rest of the world, we should have the werewolves firmly on our side," James nodded. "There's nothing Voldemort could offer them that would be better than a permanent cure for their affliction." He gave his wife a look of such admiration and pride that made Harry's heart swell with warmth.

"Mr. Crouch, do you know Sebastian Delacour?" Harry asked, turning to the man.

"Not personally, but by reputation," Crouch grumbled. "Delacour isn't on the French Wizengamot, but he might as well be. He has a lot of votes in his pocket and has tremendous influence over affairs."

"You should speak to him, then," said Harry. "He owes me a favor or two...I bet he could help rally support for our cause."

Crouch's eyebrows raised at this. "Having a man like Delacour in your debt is a powerful weapon, Mr. Potter," he said. "You could amass a lot of power for yourself with his help."

"I don't want power," Harry said flatly. "I want Voldemort dead. And if he can help achieve that goal, that's good enough for me."

"If you say so," Crouch shrugged. "I'll owl him and try to set up a meeting...he's not the easiest man to gain an audience with."

"I'll let him know you're coming, then," said Harry. "I saved both of his daughters' lives...he owes us a damn audience." Crouch inclined his head at this, as James and Lily both looked upon their son with pride.

"Dale, what about our own Wizengamot members?" James asked Dale Greengrass. "How many of them could we convince to accept foreign help, if it was offered to us?"

"Not many at the moment," Dale sighed. "Few people want to piss off Fudge, and fewer still want to acknowledge that You-Know-Who remains a threat to Britain. Right now we can barely muster the votes to expand the Auror Office, much less work proactively to fight the Dark Lord's growing influence."

"Sirius, have you spoken to any of the other pure-blood houses?" asked James. "The House of Black was a powerful force not that long ago, under your grandfather. Surely you could call in some family favors?"

Sirius shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Clearly he found politics distasteful, as he'd never intended to become the Lord Black in the first place. "Grandfather Arcturus did business with many of the darker families, like the Yaxleys and the Carrows. But I doubt any of them would honor any handshake agreements at this point."

"But surely you have some leverage over them?" James pressed. "Don't the Blacks own controlling stakes in businesses operated by the other families? You could use that to get folks into line."

"Come off it, Prongs, you know I don't like using the Black name for fear tactics," Sirius groaned. "It's part of the reason why I disowned my family all those years ago."

"I know that, Padfoot," James commiserated. "But this is wartime, and right now, we're losing. We need to take advantage of any leverage we can get."

Sirius grumbled for a moment longer, then sighed. "Very well," he said grumpily. "I'll schedule a meeting with the goblins at Gringotts and have a look at the family affairs."

"I can help if you need legal guidance in that department," Amelia Bones chimed in. "The Ministry usually looks the other way when it comes to pure-blood family politics, but there are some old laws intact from the old days you could use to your advantage." Sirius nodded gratefully at her offer.

"Now, about this Neville Longbottom business," said James, turning to Amelia. "Do we have any idea how this could have happened?"

"You suspect foul play?" asked Amelia, looking surprised. "I was under the impression that it was an isolated incident."

"No chance," James shook his head. "Someone did this deliberately, and we have to figure out who it was. Severus claims ignorance, but it has to be one of Voldemort's people—"

"What are you talking about, Dad?" Harry asked. "What happened to Neville?"

"He was attacked by two dementors at his home last week," answered Remus grimly. "Luckily, he was able to fend them off with a Patronus Charm."

"Yes, but that has also earned him a disciplinary hearing before the Wizengamot for underage magic," James muttered. "Which is almost certainly a retaliation for his harsh words in the Prophet earlier this summer."

"Well, there's not much to be done without a culprit to point to," Amelia sighed. "The boy will simply have to appear before the court, and Fudge will do his damnedest to smear his name or blackmail him into saying nice things about him—"

"What if you caught the person responsible before the trial?" asked Harry. "Would Neville's name be cleared?"

"In theory, perhaps," said James. "But we have no leads, so that doesn't matter—"

"I know who it was," Harry said at once, heart pounding. He'd nearly forgotten all about it, given all the excitement at the end of his last timeline: the perpetrator had admitted it straight to his face.

"Who?" asked Amelia, frowning.

"Dolores Umbridge," said Harry. "She did it to try to silence Neville from saying bad things against Fudge." It made perfect sense to him now: Neville had disrupted the Prophet's goal of playing the Boy-Who-Lived and the Potters against one another, and she wanted retribution for his refusal to play by her rules.

"That is a very serious accusation, Harry," said James. "How can you know this?"

"A vision," Harry shrugged. "Can't you give her Veritaserum to make her admit to it?"

"Dolores does seem the type," Amelia muttered darkly. "She would technically have access to the dementors, given her administrative position. Are you certain of this, Harry?"

"As certain as I can be," Harry shrugged. He of course couldn't know for sure if the timeline would be different here once more, but given the stark similarities between the two incidents, it just had to be connected.

James and Amelia shared a look. "There is protocol for situations such as these," James sighed. "As Head Auror, I can compel any Ministry employee short of the Minister himself to submit to Veritaserum for questioning at any time. Of course, if I am wrong, I may be called before the Wizengamot myself and sacked for abuse of power."

"That's a big risk to take," Lily muttered worriedly.

James took a good, long hard at his son, mulling things over. "Eh, to hell with it," he shrugged. "I'll probably be sacked soon anyway. Umbridge is a vile woman either way...I'll call her in on Monday and see what she knows."

"I'll act as witness," Amelia offered. James nodded his thanks. Harry said a silent prayer that he had not just doomed his father to losing his job based on yet another wrong guess about the timeline…

"I think that's all for now," said James. "We won't be able to meet frequently, but I hope we can confide in one another on matters related to this coming war."

"We should have a proper name," Sirius chimed in. "If we're going to do this thing right."

"How about 'Potter's Army'?" Remus suggested with a mirthful grin. "Fudge would have a heart attack if he learned such an organization existed."

"I don't want to name anything after myself," James groaned. "Too gaudy."

"How about the Order of the Stag?" Harry suggested. "Dumbledore named his own Order after his Patronus and familiar."

"Sounds good to me," Sirius nodded. "All in favor?"

"Aye," came a chorus from around the room, causing James to give a belabored sigh.

The meeting dispersed, as the various members went off on their way. Harry felt a touch of excitement at the prospect of a secret Order within the Order, far from Dumbledore's purview. Of course, the concept wasn't entirely new to him, as he was already meeting secretly with Saul and Bill outside of his parents' knowledge. Having multiple concentric circles all working towards the same goal made him feel better about their chances of success.

And speaking of the Order of the Phoenix, there was another meeting scheduled for the middle of August. Harry learned that Neville was finally allowed to join his friends at Grimmauld Place, and he was eager to talk to the boy about everything that was going on. Dahlia also hoped to spend time with Ginny, so on the morning of the scheduled meeting, both Harry and Dahlia were allowed to Floo over and spend the day with their friends.

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione when he walked into the kitchen, jumping up to give him a hug. Neville and Ron also stood to greet him, as Dahlia immediately grabbed Ginny by the hand and dragged her into the next room, both already giggling at whatever gossip they clearly wanted to discuss.

"Hey, everyone," Harry greeted the room. "What's been going on here?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that, mate," Ron said in an undertone, eyeing his mother across the room warily. "Nobody will tell us a damn thing."

"I'll share what I can," Harry shrugged. He hadn't learned much of note in the past few weeks, nor could he betray the existence of the Order of the Stag, but he could tell how desperate the other teens were for information, and would do his best to satiate them.

Unfortunately, Molly Weasley was determined not to let the kids have luxurious free time to themselves, and put them to work as soon as breakfast was over. "Sirius has asked us for help cleaning out the house, to get rid of any illegal artifacts that might be lying around," she instructed them, herding everyone into the library. "You'll be sorting through all the various trinkets in the house and separating them into different piles, to be sold or thrown out."

"And be careful how you handle them," Sirius said warningly as he passed through. "Merlin only knows what kind of nasty enchantments and curses have been placed on some of the toys my ancestors have passed down over the years."

Harry privately questioned the logic of allowing inexperienced teenagers to sort through possibly deadly cursed objects. But he figured it would be a good learning experience for the future...he intended to study more about curse recognition and disenchanting objects anyway. Sure, he was unlikely to encounter any of Voldemort's horcruxes lying around Grimmauld Place, but it would be good training for the real thing.

The teens began the arduous task of sorting through objects, which proved to be a much easier task now that Harry was more attuned to magic thanks to his blood ritual. He was able to quickly identify which objects had questionable dark enchantments applied to them and which were benign. This allowed them to clear each room of dangerous objects within minutes, leaving them with small pockets of time to sit around and chat unsupervised. But the adults were never too far away…

"KREACHER!" Sirius barked, causing all of them to jump; Harry turned to see the diminutive elf lurking in the doorway, clutching a gaudy pearl necklace. "What have I told you about hiding valuables from us?"

"Kreacher is only preserving the family heirlooms, Master," Kreacher croaked, bowing low. "Mistress Walburga insisted on passing along the Black heritage through the belongings that have been—"

"I don't care what that old bint told you," Sirius groaned, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "We have to get rid of anything potentially incriminating, or else you could be compelled to testify against me."

Kreacher frowned in confusion. "Kreacher can betray Master's orders?" he asked. "Even if he was told to stay silent?"

"Now you're getting it," Sirius nodded. "House-elves can't be ordered to hide illegal activity anymore. So quit hiding dark artifacts from us, or I'll have to wring your neck."

"Sirius, that's wrong!" Hermione insisted. "You can't threaten him with violence like that!"

"Lay off him, Uncle Sirius," Harry said warningly. "He's only doing what he was told by his previous masters. Give him a chance to redeem himself."

"Hmph," Sirius sniffed. "You get off easy this time, Kreacher. But I have my eye on you, understood?"

"Kreacher understands," said the elf with another low bow. Kreacher lingered for a moment longer, eyeing Harry strangely. Then, before Harry could wonder what that was about, the elf disappeared, no doubt to mope in his hiding space with the valuables Sirius requested.

"Sirius ought to be more careful," Hermione sighed. "If he continues to abuse Kreacher, he could turn against him and compromise the Order."

"And he's only continuing to push Kreacher towards bigotry in the meantime," Harry muttered. He couldn't prove it, but he was starting to suspect that Kreacher was complicit in the plot to lure Harry to the Department of Mysteries in his previous timeline. Would he have still done so if shown grace and compassion by his master, instead of resentment and scorn?

The teens resumed their deep clean, moving from room to room clearing every nook and cranny of its hidden treasures. At one point Harry found himself alone with Neville in the drawing room, and knew it was a perfect opportunity to speak to him privately.

"I've been meaning to thank you properly, Neville," said Harry. "For saying what you said in the Prophet. You really shouldn't have involved yourself, but it meant a lot to me and my dad."

"They shouldn't have been saying that rubbish in the first place," Neville shrugged. "It only felt right. Besides, I still owe you two more favors."

"Why two?" Harry frowned.

"Well, this one was for telling me what's going on in that letter," said Neville. "But I still owe you for watching my back in the Tournament last year, and also for teaching me the Patronus Charm in our third year."

"That was a long time ago," Harry said dismissively.

"But it saved my life last week," Neville said adamantly. "I would've been Kissed for sure when those Dementors showed up at my house. Even Gran didn't know how to produce a Patronus – she wants to thank you herself the next time she sees you."

"Don't mention it," Harry muttered guiltily. He knew that Neville's decision to write into the Prophet had likely prompted Umbridge to send those dementors after him in the first place. As usual, associating with the Potters tended to be a dangerous proposition these days.

Neville leaned in close to Harry, checking over his shoulder to ensure they were not being overheard. "I've been having strange dreams lately, Harry," he whispered. "I don't understand them, but maybe you can. Considering you're a Seer and all."

"I can try," Harry shrugged. "What are you dreaming about?"

"I keep seeing a door," said Neville. "Down a long hallway, made of black marble. I want to go through the door so badly, but every time I get close, I wake up. What do you think that means?"

"Neville, that's the door to the Department of Mysteries, inside the Ministry," said Harry. "It's where the prophecy is hidden. Remember what I told you about it?"

"Voldemort wants to get it," Neville nodded. "But why am I dreaming about it?"

"You're dreaming about it because Voldemort is dreaming about it," said Harry. "Your scar gives you a connection to his mind, so you sometimes get glimpses of his thoughts and emotions. Do you ever feel flashes of anger, or happiness, that you can't explain? Like they are emotions that belong to somebody else?"

"Yeah...yeah, I do!" said Neville, nodding rapidly as the realization dawned on him. "That makes a lot of sense. And I saw other things, too...snippets of conversation here and there."

"Like what?"

"I saw Peter Pettigrew again," said Neville. "Voldemort gave him a job to do...something to look for. He said to tell no one else of his mission. What d'you reckon that means?"

Harry frowned. He couldn't remember any such mission given to Pettigrew in his last timeline...but then again, he had no idea what the man had been up to in his original fifth year. "I'm not sure, Neville," said Harry. "Listen, I think it's best that you start practicing Occlumency. It will help you deal with your erratic visions and flashes of emotion."

"You think so?" Neville frowned. "But couldn't this be a good thing? This... connection lets me see what Voldemort is up to, doesn't it? So I could use it to spy on him!"

"And what do you think happens when Voldemort becomes aware of that connection himself?" Harry retorted. "Dumbledore is worried that he might use it to start spying on us, or to access your memories and steal secrets."

Neville paled at this thought. "Do you know Occlumency?" he asked.

"I'm no master at it, but I can teach you the basics," Harry offered. "I've been practicing it since my first year."

Neville shook his head in amazement. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised," he chuckled. "You've always been light-years ahead of the rest of us at this sort of thing."

"Not because I wanted to," Harry reminded him. "I've known this war was coming for a long time, and I'm just doing my best to prepare for it." Neville nodded soberly at this reminder.

"Good afternoon, boys."

Both teens wheeled around; Albus Dumbledore had walked into the room.

"H-hello, Headmaster," Neville said nervously.

Dumbledore stood and regarded the two boys for a moment in silence. Then, he turned to Harry. "You told him," he said simply. It was not a question or an accusation – merely a statement of fact.

"I did," Harry said defiantly, keeping his face and voice neutral.

"Despite the risks that I shared with you in confidence—"

"The benefits outweigh the risks, sir. Neville deserves to know the truth."

Dumbledore did not reprimand him; he merely sighed, looking supremely disappointed in the teen. "There's nothing to be done for it now, I suppose," he muttered. "We will have to begin training Mr. Longbottom in the art of Occlumency at once. I will speak with Professor Snape about weekly lessons once the school year resumes."

"P-Professor Snape?" Neville said weakly. The boy was no fan of the strict professor, who often berated Neville for every tiny mistake he made in Potions class (easily his worst subject).

"With respect, Headmaster, perhaps I could train with Neville myself before Snape gets involved," Harry offered. "He's not very good at explaining complex concepts to people who have never studied a subject before."

"Professor Snape is one of the best Occlumens practitioners in the world—" said Dumbledore.

"And he's rubbish at teaching others what he knows," said Harry flatly. "Let me give Neville the basics first. It might make it easier for him to learn."

"Harry taught me the Patronus Charm, Headmaster," Neville added eagerly. "I wouldn't mind learning from him again."

"This is far too important of a subject to leave to chance—" Dumbledore protested.

"Try me, sir," said Harry, turning to face the man fully. He made deliberate eye contact with Dumbledore, inviting him to test his defenses. Dumbledore eyed Harry warily for a moment before complying.

Harry felt Dumbledore's foreign presence tickling his brain, probing for information. He invited him in, feeding him only surface-level thoughts he didn't care to protect. Then, as Dumbledore began to dig deeper into his memories, Harry began to fight back. He put up his mental barriers, blocking Dumbledore from his most guarded thoughts and redirecting him to others he cared less about revealing.

After being forced to relive every History of Magic lecture Harry had endured from Professor Binns, Dumbledore eventually relented and pulled back from the teen's mind. "You have progressed remarkably well in the Mind Arts, Harry," he said begrudgingly.

"I've been practicing for years, sir," Harry nodded.

"But there are still flaws that a wizard of Voldemort's caliber can exploit," Dumbledore continued. "I will consent for you to teach Neville the basics, but once he has learned them, he will need to study with an actual master to refine his skills."

"Fine," Harry nodded, figuring that was the best they could hope for. He turned to Neville, who also nodded in agreement.

"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Come, Harry, the Order meeting is about to begin." And he left the two boys alone once more.

"Thanks," Neville muttered once he was out of earshot. "Having Snape digging around in my head sounds like a right nightmare."

"You have no idea," Harry chuckled, having experienced that very fate in his last timeline. "Anyway, I'll see you after the meeting and fill you in."

Unfortunately, the Order of the Phoenix meeting was not as eventful or informative as Harry had hoped. They mostly rehashed everything they'd gone over in the previous meeting, with Dumbledore probing various people for information who were unable to provide anything new of substance. By the end of the session, everyone was visibly frustrated, even moreso when Kingsley stood to assign everyone present (minus Harry) to their new guard rotation outside the Department of Mysteries.

Thank Merlin Dad had the foresight to organize a separate Order, Harry thought as the meeting was adjourned. If this was the only force acting against Voldemort's schemes, Britain would surely be lost.

After chatting briefly with several of the other Order members, Harry made his way towards the stairs. He knew the other teens were eagerly waiting for him to return and share the news with them, and wasn't looking forward to disappointing them. He reached the third floor and headed down the hall to join them—

"Mister Harry Potter."

Harry turned; Kreacher the house-elf was standing by the stairwell, looking timid and nervous.

"Hello, Kreacher," Harry greeted the elf. "Did you need something?"

"Kreacher would like a word," the elf muttered. "In private."

Harry frowned. Was this some kind of trick? He knew Kreacher was sympathetic to a darker ideology, which the Black family had once been known for before Sirius took over. But Sirius was still his master, and he wouldn't dare harm his master's godson, so Harry followed Kreacher up to the next landing.

"Young Mister Potter has always been kind to Kreacher," said the elf, wringing his hands together. "Even when he did not need to be."

"Everyone deserves kindness," Harry shrugged. "Think nothing of it."

"Not many are kind to Kreacher," the elf continued. "Even Mistress Walburga was cruel and hurtful to Kreacher. Only young Master Regulus showed kindness such as yours."

"Yes, so you've told me," Harry sighed. He was still uncomfortable being compared to Sirius' Death Eater brother, who had died serving Voldemort in the last war.

"Kreacher was given strict orders by Master Regulus to never tell," Kreacher continued. "To never reveal his great failure."

"Failure?" Harry repeated.

"Kreacher promised Master Regulus, to complete his mission after his death!" the elf sniffled, hot tears spilling down his long nose now. "But Kreacher could not! Kreacher has brought shame to the Black family name!"

"Erm...don't beat yourself up over it, Kreacher," Harry said awkwardly, unsure how to console the elf. "I'm sure whatever it is can be forgiven. Why don't you talk to Sirius about it?"

"Kreacher mustn't," cried the elf. "Master Sirius will be most displeased that Kreacher failed his brother. But perhaps you, Mister Potter...you could help Kreacher."

Harry groaned at this. How do I get myself into these messes? he thought glumly. This is what he got for showing a morsel of kindness to the wizened elf: he was now a shoulder to cry on.

"I'm flattered you would think that of me, Kreacher, but I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment," said Harry. "I'll be back to school soon, and I have lots of other things to worry about—"

"Please, sir!" Kreacher wailed. "Let Kreacher show you. Perhaps Mister Harry Potter will be able to tell Kreacher how to complete his mission for Master Regulus."

Harry groaned and sighed heavily. "Fine," he muttered. "As long as it doesn't take too long."

"You are most kind, young sir," Kreacher bowed.

Kreacher led the way all the way up to the top floor, where only Sirius' bedroom lay. The elf snapped his fingers, and the trapdoor leading to the attic sprang open, a wooden ladder descending to allow them access. Where the hell is he taking me? Harry wondered, watching the elf scramble nimbly up the ladder into the darkened space. He hesitated for a moment before following.

Harry emerged in a dark and dusty space, unable to see more than a few inches in front of him. He drew his wand and quickly sent an orb of light ahead of him, briefly wondering if Kreacher had lured him into some kind of trap. The attic was cramped with limited headroom, filled to the brim with various boxes and piles of junk.

"One moment, while Kreacher retrieves it for you," said the house-elf, before disappearing behind a nearby stack of objects.

Harry took the opportunity to examine the small space. He recognized various objects of apparent value: silverware, fine china, and other trinkets bearing the Black family crest. This must've been Kreacher's hiding place for all the heirlooms he wanted to preserve. Harry waited impatiently as he heard the elf rummaging through the detritus, wishing he had never agreed to this little field trip in the first place.

Then, quite suddenly, the hairs on Harry's neck and arms stood on end. He snapped to full alert, feeling instinctively that something was very wrong. A pervasive sense of evil was creeping towards him, and Harry's heart hammered faster. He pointed his wand forward into the darkness, now fully convinced that he had been lured into danger.

Kreacher reappeared from behind the nearest stack, and Harry felt the evil presence intensify further, but the elf didn't seem to pose any imminent threat. He meekly shuffled forward, holding a small object in his hands.

"Kreacher was ordered to destroy it by Master Regulus, but he could not," the elf admitted glumly. "Perhaps Mister Harry Potter could help Kreacher be rid of the terrible thing?"

Kreacher thrust his hands forward, and Harry got a good look at the object for the first time: a large, golden locket on a matching chain, engraved with a silver serpent in the form of an 'S'.