Harry stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror of his room in Gryffindor Tower.  It stared back at him, silent for once.  Turning first to his left, then to his right, he straightened his robes.  The hem wasn’t entirely even, but that was due to the fact he had shot up four inches since last wearing his dress robes.  He winced in remembrance of the most recent Yule Ball – yet another in which the infamous Harry Potter was a wallflower.

But no more, he grinned cheerfully.  No more Yule Balls.  All in all, he thought them better than a Christmas with the Dursleys.  Then again, nearly anything but an encounter with Voldemort was better than spending time with the aunt and uncle who raised him and their son – his cousin – Dudley.  All of them alternated their contempt for him with outright ignoring him.  That is, when he wasn’t made to act as their slave in an effort to exorcise magic out of him.

With a slight shake of his head as if to erase the unpleasant memories, Harry stood straight in front of the mirror again.  He saw nothing remarkable in his appearance save the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, one he usually kept hidden with his hair.

The Boy Who Lived saw himself – no longer a boy but not yet fully a man.  In experience, he felt he was nearly as old as Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts’ brilliant headmaster.  Having faced the most evil Dark wizard of all, or his henchmen, in each of his previous six years at Hogwarts had aged him, no matter how youthful his seventeen-year-old exterior was.

But only the scar – a remnant from Voldemort’s attempt to kill him as a baby after murdering his parents – reflected his encounters.  The rest of the world saw a handsome, poised teenager, black hair unruly, emerald eyes bright.  With his surprising growth spurt since Christmas, he now stood six feet tall and was lanky with it, as if the rest of his body hadn’t caught up yet.  Nothing remarkable, he thought.

The door burst open with a bang.

“Harry!” yelled Ron Weasley.  Ron had been one of his best friends since their meeting on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of their first year.  His Weasley-red hair was nearly as unruly as Harry’s, indicating Ron had been running his fingers through it.

“What?” Harry asked, facing Ron.

Pausing a moment to catch his breath, Ron gasped, “We’re going to be late.”  And, sure enough, a quick glance at the clock confirmed there were only five minutes before the feast was to start.

With a last glance at the mirror, Harry asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The wizard’s mirror, which had been silent to this point, replied, “You were nervous.”

After seven years, now the damned mirror develops a conscience, Harry thought, racing out the dormitory door behind Ron.

The two of them made it to their seats in the Great Hall next to Hermione Granger, their mutual best friend and Ron’s girlfriend.  They slammed themselves into their seats, breathing heavily, trying to ignore Hermione’s glare.

“Where have you two been?” she hissed, just as Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stood to begin the end of year feast.

Ron leaned over and brushed her lips with his, whispering, “Hush, Mione.  Harry couldn’t tear himself away from the mirror.”  When Harry smacked the back of his head, he just grinned.

At Hermione’s questioning glance, Harry spat, “I overslept.”  He nearly groaned when her eyes filled with worry.  He hadn’t been sleeping well for months, his nights interrupted either by nightmares or pain screaming through his scar, sometimes both.  The unwanted connection to Voldemort tended to burn when the Dark Lord was feeling especially venomous or was nearby.  A nap before the feast had seemed like the best thing, considering the party afterward would last until the wee hours, but the two hours he’d allotted himself had turned into five, making him late.

The clinking of silverware on glass drew their attention to the head table.  Dumbledore cleared his throat and began, “Welcome all of you.  Today we celebrate the completion of school for another group of young wizards and witches.”

His gaze scanned the Hall, stopping briefly on various students before resting upon Harry, Hermione and Ron.  “Unfortunately, in times such as these, none have been able to stay young.  Most of those receiving full credentials today have seen more, done more, than some of the adults in this room.  It was that way during Voldemort’s first reign, and it has become that way again.”  There were a few gasps at Dumbledore’s use of Voldemort’s name, rather than calling him You-Know-Who, Harry noticed.  Since fifth year, Dumbledore had openly refused to use the “silly moniker,” as he termed it, thereby denying Voldemort even that small amount of control and fear.  He had always used “Voldemort” in private, but usually respected the wishes of those who feared the name.

Harry looked over at Ron.  No longer was he the boy who had so hesitantly asked to share his compartment on the Hogwarts Express that September day nearly seven years ago.  He had shot up to six-feet-four and, while still thin, had a solid torso from lifting weights.  While they both had been on the Quidditch team since fifth year – he as Seeker since his first year, Ron as Keeper – the sport had made Ron solid while giving Harry a muscular, but deceptively thin frame.  Harry had always been small and skinny, more from starvation at the hands of the Dursleys than anything else, but it was now all muscle from both Quidditch and running, which he had taken up in the spring of fifth year.

As vivid red as the Weasley hair was, the streak of ice-white hair at Ron’s left temple was a shocking reminder of their most recent battle with Voldemort, and was nearly as distinctive as Harry’s scar.  Harry closed his eyes against the memories of that day, hearing Dumbledore’s words of the past and the future wash over him.  Knowing his friend had come that close to the Killing Curse for him was still hard to think about.

“Some of you will choose paths that will take you into danger, some into peace.  But none will be easy, none will be untouched.”  Dumbledore raised his goblet.  “Let us toast these young men and women who bravely go into the world this day.”  A small cheer went up from the students as they gleefully toasted themselves.

Setting his goblet back on the table, Dumbledore then continued, “And let us have a moment of silence for those from the past who never made it to this day and, unfortunately, those who will not live for their own leaving ceremony.”  The cheering abruptly stopped.

While Harry’s first thoughts always went to Cedric Diggory when dead students were discussed, most in the Great Hall thought of the previous spring and stared at the empty space where Dean Thomas should have been.  Cedric was what Harry thought of as the first casualty in this war; Dean was only the most recent.  The experiences of both deaths were just a few of the nightmares that had particularly disrupted his sleep the past few months.

“And with that, I now give you Hogwarts’ Class of 1998,” Dumbledore concluded, raising his goblet and drinking deeply.  Applause sounded throughout the Hall.

Before he could prepare himself, Harry was surrounded in a sea of arms as practically everyone he knew hugged each other.  Even after years of receiving hugs from the multitude of Weasleys, he had never gotten used to the easy affection.

After exuberant congratulations from Colin Creevey, the sixth-year student photographer who had dogged Harry throughout his school years like either a faithful puppy or pesky annoyance depending upon Harry’s mood, Harry scanned the Hall.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but the dull ache centered in his scar told him something was coming.  As if at the end of a tunnel, Harry heard someone congratulate him at a distance, accompanied by a thump on the back.

Then he saw it.  A small rat not five feet in front of him, between Hermione and Ron.  A small rat with a silver paw.  Pain shot through his head like glass shards in his brain.

Involuntarily, his hand shot to his forehead and pressed against the scar in a useless effort to stem the throbbing.  “Are you okay?” Hermione asked, studying him carefully.

Before Harry could reply, the Animagus rat transformed.

Hermione screamed and Ron jumped back.  “Wormtail,” Ron spat once he recovered himself and pulled his wand.

Harry reached over and held Ron’s arm, whispering, “Wait.”

Peter Pettigrew, currently known as Wormtail and one of Voldemort’s closest lackeys, had been close friends of Harry’s parents until he betrayed them in an act that led to their murders when Harry was only fifteen months old.  He then faked his own death, framing another of their friends – Harry’s godfather – Sirius Black, and lived for twelve years as the Weasley family rat named Scabbers.  Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit until escaping four years earlier.  The general belief was that the only way to clear his name was to present Peter Pettigrew, alive, to the Ministry of Magic and demand a pardon.

That was the only thing keeping Wormtail alive at the moment, in Harry’s opinion.

Wormtail, his beady eyes full of fear, shivered under Harry, Hermione and Ron’s scrutiny.  “I have something for you,” he began, his voice shaking nearly as much as he was.

“We don’t want it,” Ron scowled, his voice rising in volume.  Ignoring Ron, Wormtail reached into his robes.  Hermione and Harry both drew their wands on him.

“It’s an envelope.”  Trembling, Wormtail pulled a parchment envelope, its edges crisp and pristine, from his robes and handed it to Harry.  “That should do it.”

Before anyone could ask what he meant, he pulled his wand and held it to his temple.  Giving Harry a long look, he whispered, “Avada Kedavra,” then crumpled to the floor, dead.

Harry fell to his knees, the pain now blinding in its intensity.  He tried to ignore the high, mocking laugh that seemed to pulse through his scar and echo in his head.  He felt arms around his shoulders and a female voice, then nothing as he surrendered to the pain.

When Harry awoke, it was in the Hospital Wing.  Having been there more times than he cared to remember in the last seven years, he knew the smell of it well and could identify his location without opening his eyes.  He didn’t want anyone to know he was awake, not yet ready to be fawned over like a fragile bauble.

“We should leave him be,” Harry heard Mrs. Weasley say from somewhere to his right, but nearby.  “Let him rest.”

“I’m not leaving,” said another female voice to his left.  He thought it was Ginny, but he had never heard her sound quite so fierce, like a mother tiger guarding her cubs.

“He doesn’t even know you’re here, Ginny.”

“I know I’m here.  Ron and Hermione are busy.  I’m staying.”

There was a sigh, a rustle of robes, then a light kiss on his forehead he could have done without.  “Very well, dear.  Have Madam Pomfrey let us know when he wakes up.”  Receding footsteps and a closing door marked Mrs. Weasley’s exit.

After what felt like ten minutes, but was probably less than one, Harry felt Ginny take his left hand in both of hers.  Desire ran through him when she brought his hand to her lips.  He hoped the bedcoverings weren’t too closely fit over his body.

“Harry,” she whispered.  “I wish I could take the pain away.”  He felt her press the back of his hand into her cheek, which, to his horror, was wet.  He was torn between letting her know he was awake and continuing the charade of sleeping.

He and Ginny had become friends – and more – as Ron and Hermione had grown closer.  For Harry, it helped fill the gap created when the other two parts of himself suddenly became one.  Though they had been dating for six months, they hadn’t moved beyond kissing – though not for lack of trying on Harry’s part.

Deciding to end his charade, he stirred, as if restlessly waking, then sat up and opened his eyes.  Ginny still held his hand to her cheek and was staring into his eyes.  Blinking, he cleared his throat.  “Ginny?”

“Yes?” she replied hoarsely, her voice roughened by tears.

She sounds sexy that way, Harry thought.  A faint blush crept up his cheeks.  “How long have you been there?”

“You’ve been here all night,” she answered, “and so have I.”  Her words were punctuated by a sniffle and a watery smile.

Harry lay back on the pillow, uncertain about what to do next.  She was still skittish around him, not yet ready to deepen their relationship.  If he made a move to hold her and seek the reassurance he needed, he wasn’t sure she’d welcome it.  He retreated into himself.

She took a shuddering breath, then brought her eyes up again.  There was a determination smoldering in them he wasn’t sure he understood.

“I am not losing you, Harry,” she began just as fiercely as when she had spoken to her mother.  Squaring her shoulders, she continued, “When you collapsed, I thought Wormtail had done something to you.  Dumbledore said it was just from the shock – that your system shut down –  but you didn’t have a pulse at first.”  Tears streamed down her face again, unheeded.  Harry just stared.  He had no idea that she felt this deeply for him and he didn’t know what to do or say.  It was well beyond his realm of experience.

“I am not losing you,” she repeated, enunciating each word like a mantra.  Then she stood and, leaning over the hospital bed, grasped his face between her hands.  “I love you,” she whispered and pressed her lips to his demandingly.

After shock, fire burned through his veins and tingled in his fingertips.  He brought both hands up and tangled them in her hair, returning her kiss.  She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips, coaxing them to open.  He complied and was stunned when her tongue dove into his mouth, tasting him.  He heard someone moan, but didn’t know if it was Ginny or himself.  This was what he had wanted – to lose himself in someone else and know it was okay because the feeling was returned.

At the edge of his awareness, he heard someone clear their throat for attention.  He ignored it, meeting Ginny’s tongue with his own, tasting her.  His fingers flexed convulsively, scratching at her scalp, in reaction.

“Harry?”

Ginny moaned softly, moving one hand to the back of his neck.

“Ginny?”

Harry teased her tongue with his, drowning in sensation.

“HARRY!”

Ginny broke away, startled and gasping for breath.  Harry swallowed, hard, and rested his forehead on Ginny’s.  I wasn’t expecting that reaction.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back.

“What are you doing kissing my sister like that?” Ron demanded.  Even without looking at him, Harry knew his stance was belligerent and challenging.  Though Ron knew they had been dating, he was like an ostrich around Harry and Ginny and just buried his head.  Until now.

“I didn’t kiss her,” Harry began, suddenly amused.  Ginny chuckled.

“What?” Ron sputtered.  “You had your tongue shoved in her mouth and you say you didn’t kiss her?”

“Ron,” Hermione began, the tone of her voice a verbal restraining hand.

Ginny reached up and pulled Harry’s hands out of her hair, gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, then turned to face her brother.  With her hands on her hips and the light of battle in her eyes, Harry could see what Mrs. Weasley probably looked like when she was younger.  It was intimidating.  Grinning broadly, he turned to Ron.  The stances of the Weasley siblings nearly mirrored each other.  He leaned back against the pillow to watch the sparks fly.

Ginny stalked up to her brother, glaring at him.  Despite the fact she was nearly a foot shorter, she stood toe-to-toe with him.  “That’s right, ickle Ronniekins, he didn’t kiss me.  I kissed him!”  When Ron’s mouth gaped open like a landed fish, she continued, “I love him.  I was terrified I was going to lose him and finally decided to tell him.”  Cocking her head to one side, she asked, “So what are you going to do about it?”

Ron glowered at Ginny for another moment, then seemed to collapse like a deck of cards.  He threw his arms around Ginny and muttered, “Sorry.”

Hermione sniffled, then walked to Harry’s bedside to sit.  “Are you okay?” she asked after sitting.  Harry noticed her eyes were red-rimmed, but her face was hard.  “And don’t you dare answer that you’re fine, Harry.”

Some of his amusement fled under Hermione’s scrutiny, but he still flashed a grin.  Gesturing to Ginny with a nod of his head, he replied, “Getting better.”

She followed his nod with her eyes and grinned as well.  Ron kissed the top of Ginny’s head before letting her go.  Ron then moved behind Hermione, resting a hand on her shoulder.  Ginny returned to her seat and took Harry’s hand in hers once more, daring Ron to comment.

Professor Dumbledore chose that moment to enter the Hospital Wing.  Professor McGonagall followed closely behind, trailed by the rest of the Weasley family.  Bill and Percy seemed to be arguing, hand gestures and glares marking their words.  Fred and George had their heads close, holding a quiet conversation, and glanced up at Ron with identical grins once they reached Harry’s bedside.  Charlie and Mr. Weasley followed last.

“Well little brother,” Fred began.

“What’s this week’s adventure?” George continued.

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked, confused, as he looked at each of his brothers.  The whole family, save Ginny and himself, seemed to know something, though they weren’t as amused as the twins.  He turned to Dumbledore.  “Professor?”

“Maybe we should have Mr. Potter read the letter he was given,” Dumbledore replied, handing Harry the envelope Wormtail had given him.  Harry figured he must have dropped it when he passed out in the Great Hall.

Harry started.  With everything else – namely waking up with Ginny at his side – he’d forgotten about the envelope.  With dread causing a tremor in his fingers, Harry broke the seal on the envelope and removed the letter.

Harry shifted the pages and the second letter read simply:

He stared at the letters for a long while before he noticed the tears on his cheeks.  Ginny gently plucked the letters from Harry’s hands and gave them to Dumbledore, who read them both aloud to the small group.

“That’s wonderful, Harry,” Hermione said softly, breaking the uneasy quiet.  Harry watched the Weasleys.  Given Percy’s mulish expression, he guessed that Dumbledore had told the story of Sirius’ innocence before they entered the Hospital Wing.  Since believing that Sirius was innocent went against the Ministry mantra, Percy seemed to be having a hard time of it.

When no one else said anything, Fred asked, “So that was Wormtail?”  Harry gave the twins a sideways glance, as did Hermione.  Despite the somber overtones of the morning, mischief lit their eyes.

“Yes,” Harry replied.  Anticipating the next question, he continued, “Sirius is Padfoot and Professor Lupin is Moony.”

Fred grinned, leaving George to ask, “Who was Prongs?”

“My dad,” Harry answered quietly.  Half the Marauders were now dead by Peter’s hand.  His fingers flexed, wanting to hit something, and he found himself clutching Ginny’s hand tightly.  He swallowed back tears and held on.

“I have contacted the Ministry,” Dumbledore began, breaking the awkward silence.  “Aurors should be here this morning to collect Peter’s body.  I’m sure you will want to present those letters to Minister Fudge personally, Harry.”

With a grim and determined smile, Harry nodded.

Dumbledore and the Weasleys left after that, allowing Harry to sleep until the early afternoon.  When he awoke, Madam Pomfrey clucked over him until he harassed her enough to let him go.  He made his way toward Dumbledore’s office, noting how quiet the castle seemed.

When he remembered, it was like a Bludger to the head.  Of course it’s quiet.  Everyone has gone – even Ginny.  He paused, leaning against the stone wall of the entry hall.  I’m no longer a student.  What the hell am I going to do?  Having no answer to that, he heaved himself off the wall and continued to the Headmaster’s office.

At the stone gargoyle, he gave the password (“Kit Kats”) and rode the staircase upward.  He approached the doors to Dumbledore’s office with more dread than if he were arriving for punishment – even more nervous than the time he and Ron had flown Mr. Weasley’s enchanted car into the school’s Whomping Willow prior to their second year.

Before Harry could knock, Dumbledore called, “Come in, Harry.”

Harry entered the Headmaster’s office apprehensively.  Fawkes, Dumbledore’s pet phoenix, was asleep on his perch with his head tucked under one wing.  His red-gold plumage shone brightly in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows.

“Please have a seat, Harry,” Dumbledore said as he gestured to one of two chairs in front of his desk.  “We’re awaiting another guest before we begin.”  Walking to one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls of his office, Dumbledore began picking things off the shelves and placing them on his desk – a Pensieve, a battered book, and a small stack of photographs.

Harry was about to ask about the items when the office door burst open to admit Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.  Harry groaned to himself.  Fudge wasn’t exactly known for being the sharpest quill in the box and Harry already had a headache pounding dully behind his eyes.

“I say, what are you up to now, Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded without preface.  “First you go on and on about how You-Know-Who is back, then you tell me a dead man walks into the school and says Sirius Black is innocent?”  He threw himself ungracefully in the chair beside Harry.

Dumbledore sat in the comfortable chair behind his desk and regarded Fudge over the tops of his half-moon spectacles.  “Which would you prefer first, Minister:  a trip down memory lane or proof in writing?”

Fudge sat rigidly in his chair, one hand clenching the arm so tightly his knuckles were white.  Gesturing to the desktop with the other hand, he said, “I take it ‘memory lane’ means that Pensieve?”  At Dumbledore’s nod, Fudge continued, “And ‘in writing’ would be some sort of letter?”  Dumbledore nodded again.

The Minister turned suddenly to glare at Harry.  “And what are you doing here, Mr. Potter?”  His eyes flicked to Harry’s forehead and he sneered, “Your scar been bothering you?”

Harry felt anger well up inside him, the kind he hadn’t felt since the night in the graveyard with Voldemort.  Wordlessly, Harry took the letters out of his robes, thrust them at Fudge, and leapt from his chair to pace the length of the office.

Huffing, Fudge took the parchments and read them silently.  Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and studied the two of them, the twinkling in his eyes only slightly dimmed by the circumstances of the meeting.  At Fudge’s gasp, Harry turned back and glowered at him.

“This can’t be,” Fudge whispered.  “This has to be a forgery.”

“It isn’t,” Harry spat.  Uncaring that this was the Minister of Magic, ostensibly the most politically powerful wizard in England, Harry stalked up to his chair.  With a hand resting on each armrest, Harry leaned forward until the Minister was pressed fully against the back.  In a low voice laced with power, Harry rasped, “Every word on that page is true.  Peter Pettigrew sold out my parents so he could advance himself in the Dark Lord’s army.  He framed Sirius Black – an innocent man whom Barty Crouch imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years without a trial – for murder.”  Narrowing his eyes, practically resting his nose against Fudge’s, Harry continued, “And Voldemort is alive.”

The two stared into each other’s eyes a long while before Fudge blinked.  He then brought his hands up and shoved Harry away.  Harry fell back against Dumbledore’s desk, but then righted himself.

“Harry, sit,” Professor Dumbledore said with quiet authority.  Apparently he felt he’d given Harry enough rope, but now Harry needed to be reeled in before he hanged himself.  Frowning at Dumbledore briefly, Harry complied with the not-so-polite request and flung himself into his chair the same way Fudge had done.

“Minister,” Dumbledore began, watching Fudge with disdain.  “Everything you demanded at the beginning of this meeting is true.  Those letters you hold are real, not forgeries.  What Mr. Potter told you is true.”  Dumbledore bent his head so he could peer over his glasses.  “Whether or not you will finally believe them is entirely up to you.”

A fine tremor ran through Fudge, causing the hand clutching the letters to crumple the parchment.  “And the Pensieve?” he asked warily.

A ghost of a smile crossed Dumbledore’s face before he leaned back in his chair to answer the question.  Harry turned from the Headmaster to Fudge, wanting to see his reaction.  Dumbledore answered, “In the fall of his fifth year, I asked Mr. Potter to place his memories of the night of the Third Task into this Pensieve.  He has agreed to allow you to view it, if you wish.”

Color drained from Fudge’s face.  Since that night three years prior, he had denied Voldemort’s rebirth.  Because of it, all Death Eater attacks were summarily dismissed by the Ministry as coincidentally similar to Death Eater attacks, but were not investigated and instead were all but forgotten except by the victims and survivors.  It had allowed Voldemort to strengthen his toehold on British soil to the point that even some in the Ministry had secretly begun asking about a resistance movement to fend off and ultimately defeat Voldemort.

On the night of the Third Task, Dumbledore had begun reconstructing his Order of the Phoenix – the resistance movement.  Originally formed during Voldemort’s first reign of terror, it had been disbanded after Halloween 1981 when a baby Harry Potter presumably defeated Voldemort by surviving the Killing Curse and reflecting it back upon its caster.  The summer before Harry’s fifth year, the Order of the Phoenix rose from its ashes and was thriving behind the scenes in Dumbledore’s hands.

Without a word, Fudge stood and, with a whirl of his robes, strode out the door.

A long moment of silence stretched between Harry and the Headmaster before Dumbledore smiled.  “That went better than I would have thought.”

Frowning, Harry asked, “Professor, what do you mean?”  Harry was never quite sure what was going on in Professor Dumbledore’s mind, especially when he was wearing such a sly expression.

Dumbledore looked at Harry over his spectacles.  “I might as well share it with you, Harry, as you are involved.  Since the night of the Third Task, the Minister and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye.”  Harry nodded.  He knew this already.  “With Peter’s suicide and note, I now have leverage to prove exactly what I have been saying for three years.”

“You’re able to force his hand,” Harry said.  Dumbledore nodded.  “And Fudge doesn’t much appreciate the effort you’ve gone to to prove him wrong,” Harry laughed.

“Yes,” Dumbledore began.  “I suppose it was too much to expect him to do an about-face when presented with incontrovertible evidence, but he at least looked at it.

“I haven’t yet figured out if we will need the Ministry to aid the Order or the other way around.  I thought I would try one more time to sway the Minister.  At least he’s now aware proof exists and Peter’s appearance won’t be hushed up for long.”

Harry nodded, bringing his eyes down to the top of Dumbledore’s desk while he thought about the conversation.  “If I may ask, what is the book on your desk?”

“Tom Riddle’s diary,” Dumbledore replied soberly.

Confusion wrinkled Harry’s brow.  “I thought I gave that back to Lucius Malfoy.”

Though not smiling, the twinkle returned to the Headmaster’s eye.  “Dobby thought it would be useful and retrieved it for me.”  Harry ducked his head to hide a smile of understanding.

Dumbledore glanced at the clock on the corner of his desk.  “I think, Harry, that you should be on your way if you wish to meet the train.  We’ve been here longer that I planned.  We will be convening a meeting later this summer and I shall see you then.”

Harry grinned, then rose and left the office.  He still had to pack things for his move to the Weasleys’ for the summer.