The Potter Conspiracy

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed.  I appreciate feedback greatly.  To LegoLand and others concerned about potential Harry/Ginny shenanigans: don’t worry, it’s not going to happen.  I’m not going to spoil anything here, but Ginny’s situation in this story will be a bit complicated.  She won’t be the typical, brash fan girl with a fiery temper, and Harry won’t be mooning over her very much longer.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.  JKR and partners do.

Chapter Three – Wotcher, Harry

July 31st, 1995 – Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry Potter paced his room irritably, brooding over the package and letter he had just received from Hermione.  She had returned from France two days ago and gone immediately to the Burrow to spend time with the Weasleys.

Harry had expected to be free of his captivity by now, but Dumbledore had sent him a message via Fawkes two days ago insisting that it was still too dangerous to move him elsewhere.  The wards at the Burrow, he had written, weren’t strong enough to resist a sustained attack, and surely Harry didn’t want to put his friends at risk, did he?  And so Harry had resigned himself to yet another miserable birthday spent at the Dursley home.

Tonight, in the late evening of his 15th birthday, he had received another package of homemade sweets from Mrs. Weasley and a letter wishing him well.  Ten minutes later an unfamiliar owl had flown through his window with another small package and a letter from Hermione.  Well, it was signed by Ron too, but it was clear that Hermione had written it.  The package contained a small selection of Honeydukes Original Chocolates, and Harry had set it aside to eat later.

It was the letter that had really irritated him.

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday!  I’m back in England and staying with the Weasleys at the Burrow.  France was wonderful.  My mum and I visited museums every day while my dad played golf.  Did you know their version of Diagon Alley—La Rue de Sorcellerie—is almost twice as large as ours?  I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.

I’m sorry we can’t be with you on your birthday, but Professor Dumbledore says it’s not safe.  He said you were a little annoyed with him, but you have to trust him, Harry!  He knows what’s best.  Please don’t do anything rash; he’s just trying to protect you the best way he knows how.  You should be using this time to do your summer homework anyway.  Don’t forget this is our OWL year!  I’m so excited; I brought back several textbooks from France, and I can’t wait to see how they compare to ours.

Well, enjoy your chocolates from Honeydukes.  They’re from both me and Ron.  I’ll write again when the Professor says it’s okay.

Love from,

Hermione (and Ron)

Ron’s signature was scrawled illegibly next to Hermione’s; Harry supposed he was too lazy to write his own letter so he had just signed his name to Hermione’s.

What a git, thought Harry.

Harry stopped his pacing and balled up the letter from Hermione.  He tossed it into the corner of his room, accidentally bouncing it off Hedwig’s perch, from which she hooted indignantly.

“Sorry, girl,” Harry muttered.  “It’s not you I’m mad at.”

I’m preparing to fight for my life and she’s worried about summer homework, Harry thought bitterly.  She can go wherever she bloody wants and she has the nerve to tell me to make the most of this hellhole.  Harry briefly contemplated sending Dobby to the Burrow to yell at her for him, but then everyone would discover Dobby’s connection to Harry.  And he definitely didn’t want Dumbledore getting his hands on Dobby.

Harry thought if he heard one more person praise Dumbledore he was going to get lose it.  The old man might know how to protect him, but he certainly didn’t know how to treat him with respect.  If he was forced to stay in this godforsaken room for the rest of the summer, they were not going to like the consequences.  

Sighing, Harry sat on his bed and fingered the thick woolen socks that Dobby had given him for his birthday.  Really, they were the best present of the lot.  One was bright gold and the other deep scarlet, Gryffindor colors, and if they hadn’t been a gift from Dobby he would have tried to bribe Dumbledore with them in exchange for his freedom.  It looked like he was going to be stuck here for the indefinite future.

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While Harry was pacing restlessly around his room, many miles to the north in a house full of sleeping redheads, a bushy-haired young witch lay on a bed in a darkened room, hugging herself and weeping softly into the pillow.  

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August 6th, 1995 – Little Whinging, Surrey

It had been a week since Harry’s birthday.  Harry had not bothered to send letters of thanks to Ron, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley for their small gifts.  They didn’t want him using Hedwig for deliveries, and he didn’t want to dignify their isolation of him with a response.

So Harry had settled back into his daily routine and resigned himself to having to stay at Privet Drive.  His spell repertoire had grown to two small but densely-packed notebooks, which he practiced every day using his stick.  It was hardly like the real thing, but it was better than nothing and Harry was pleased with how well his knowledge was progressing.

He was likewise pleased with his physical fitness.  In the past four weeks he had grown an inch and put on several pounds of muscle.  He was by no means an imposing figure, but his daily running regimen had given him a taut look that he thought looked good.

Currently he was halfway through his evening four-mile run and day dreaming about running his hands through long red locks of hair.  He never noticed the group of people who stepped out of the alley near Mrs. Figg’s house just after he passed by.

WHAM!

Harry’s vision went white for a full second and he fell to the ground, skidding five feet on the asphalt before he came to a stop.  A blinding pain in the back of his head was accompanied by multicolored spots dancing before his eyes.  He put his hand to the back of his head and it came away wet with blood.

Harry looked up from his position on the ground, trying to make sense of his surroundings and collect his thoughts.  There was a fist-sized rock lying next to him in the road.  Then he heard someone speak, and it all became clear.

“Not so tough now, are you freak?”

A few snorts accompanied Dudley’s voice as he looked down upon the bleeding form of his cousin.  Piers, Malcolm, and Duncan were arrayed around Big D and smiling menacingly.  Dudley was caressing his Smeltings Stick and smirking at Harry.

Bastard hit me in the head with a rock, thought Harry dazedly.  I’m going to have to use magic to get out of this one.

“You thought you could get away with anything now, huh, freak?”

Thinking back on it, Harry realized that Dudley had taken his humiliation with Dobby and the uniform fiasco really well.  Too well.  His mother had probably made him promise to stay far away from Harry and his unnaturalness, but Dudley just didn’t have the discipline to restrain himself when he wanted something.  And he wanted his revenge.  Badly.

Dudley apparently didn’t notice that Harry had his wand tied to his arm, or Harry was sure he’d already have been relieved of it.  Surreptitiously slipping it out of the shoelace “holster,” he backed a foot further away from Dudley’s looming mass and then leveled the wand right at Dudley’s chest.  Dudley paled noticeably but stood his ground.

Piers burst out laughing.  “Look at ‘im.  What’cha goin’ ta do with a ruddy stick, Potter?”

But Harry ignored him and looked right in Dudley’s eyes.  His vision had now cleared considerably, but he had a pounding headache and Harry thought he would probably need medical attention for his bleeding head.

“I know I can get away with anything now, Dudley.  Do you have any idea what I can do to you?  Oink, oink.”

A flash of fear showed in Dudley’s eyes as he remembered the pig’s tail that Hagrid had given him in that terrible hut on the sea.  But he was with his best mates now, and Big D had an image to maintain.

“You don’t have the guts.  They’ll kick you out of that school, and then dad’ll kick you out of the house.”  Dudley sneered at Harry.

Harry didn’t blink.  He just continued to stare deep into Dudley’s eyes.

“Try me.”

Before Dudley could decide whether to test Harry’s mettle, the decision was taken out of his hands.  It seemed that Dudley’s attempts at revenge against Harry were doomed to be interrupted by magical forces beyond his control.

Harry was the first to notice that an unnatural chill had suddenly descended upon Little Whinging.  The others noticed soon after, and suddenly discovered in themselves an overwhelming desire to be anywhere but here.

“What the…hell…” whimpered Piers.  “Let’s get outta here.”

Malcolm, Duncan, and Piers each bolted away from the scene, heading toward their respective homes.  Dudley was rooted to the spot, a look of intense fear on his face.  Harry had just begun to hear his mum’s voice, crying out for him to be spared, and was looking quickly around the street.  So far he could not locate the danger.  He picked himself off the ground and raised his wand, knowing he was about to get more practice with the patronus charm.

“What…what are you doing?  Stop that!  Make it stop!” Dudley whined.

“I’ll hit you!  I swear I will!”  Dudley’s voice was shrill with fear, and he was brandishing his walking stick like a weapon, shaking it in Harry’s direction.

“Shut the hell up, Dudley.”  Harry hissed.  “I’m not doing this.  I’m trying to get us out of here alive.”

“You are too…I know you are...please, I’ll stop trying to hurt you.”  Dudley was practically begging now.  Harry wondered briefly what terrible memories were running through the fat bully’s mind.

It was then that three huge dementors floated slowly out of the alley where Dudley and his gang had lain in wait.  They were about thirty feet from the boys, and Harry could feel their cold, slimy presence on the air.  Dudley couldn’t see them, but he certainly felt them.  Shrieking with terror, he advanced on Harry with his stick and began swinging wildly.

“MAKE…..IT…….STOP!!!”  Tears were now running down the huge boy’s face as he tried to bludgeon Harry.

“Dudley….damnit!”

Harry had finally had enough of his cousin.  He had dodged the first three swings before being struck on the shoulder with a glancing blow.  He knew he couldn’t fend off both Dudley and the approaching dementors at the same time, so he did the only thing he could do.

“STUPEFY!”

A weak jet of red light sent Dudley crashing to the pavement just as the closest dementor began to extend his long arms toward the boys.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”  Harry roared, desperately trying to think of how proud his parents would have been of his accomplishments.

A faint, silvery mist spilt from his wand and quickly dissipated.

Harry looked at his wand incredulously for a split second.  He hadn’t performed this charm since third year, when Professor Lupin had reluctantly taught it to him, but he knew he had done it correctly.  He was masterful at this charm.  Was he simply out of practice?

By now one dementor was stooping to reach for Dudley’s prone body and the other two were advancing on Harry.  They were frighteningly close.  Harry focused his thoughts on how happy he would be when Voldemort was finally pushing up daisies:

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”  he shouted again, but got little more than silver mist.  “EXPECTO PATRONUM!  EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The dementors had paused at the presence of the silver mist, but it quickly evaporated and they continued forward.  The dementor in the rear was now lowering his hood to kiss Dudley and the dementors attacking Harry were reaching out their arms to grab him.  Harry wondered how he was going to live through this.  Why the bloody hell isn’t the spell working?  He couldn’t die like this, could he?  His mind had frozen into a blank wall of terror as the closest dementor seized his wand arm and lowered it.  Its companion slowly lowered its hood and Harry could do nothing but moan in despair during what seemed to be his final seconds on earth.

He mercifully blacked out before he could experience his soul being sucked out through his mouth.

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August 6th, 1995 – Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office

“HEADMASTER!”

Albus Dumbledore flinched involuntarily as a frantic female voice shouted at him through the green flames of the floo.  He recognized the voice of Junior Auror Nymphadora Tonks, a new member of the Order who was scheduled for guard duty at Harry Potter’s house later that evening.

Dumbledore had returned to his office from dinner only seconds ago, and was still standing in the center of the room trying to discern which of his monitoring devices was making such a racket.  He had just realized that the device which monitored the use of magic in Harry’s neighborhood was shrieking madly when the floo erupted.  He silenced the alarm with a wave of his wand and strode quickly over to the fireplace.

“Nymphadora, what is happening?”

Tonks was breathing heavily, and seemed to be shaking.  She didn’t even wince at the use of her first name.

“It’s Harry, sir… there’s been an attack….Dementors…three of them…”

“What?!  How could…is Harry alright?  Where are you now?”

“I’m at Figgy’s.  Harry’s on the couch…he’s, er, he’s still unconscious, sir…I don’t know if…”  She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Stand aside, Nymphadora.  I’m stepping through.”

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August 7, 1995 – Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk with closed eyes, absentmindedly stroking his long beard while pondering yesterday’s events.  Three dementors had somehow entered the wards surrounding Harry’s neighborhood and attacked him.  His cousin had been kissed in the attack, and Harry had been milliseconds from succumbing to the same fate.  If Tonks had not been early for her shift of guard duty, Harry Potter would likely be a soulless husk right now.  

Dumbledore wondered absently what would have happened to Harry if the dementor had been successful.  Would it have truly been able to remove his soul, given the existence of the prophecy?  Did Harry’s status as a horcrux mean that he possessed two souls?  Was it possible for a dementor to remove one and leave the other?  Perhaps Harry’s life could be saved in such a manner.  The magic involved here was too obscure to know with any certainty.  It was just too risky, Dumbledore decided.  He had gone so far down his chosen path that there was no turning back now.

Though Dumbledore was mostly relieved at Harry’s survival, he was gravely worried by the implications of the attack.  The dementors were under strict Ministry control and didn’t wander London suburbs at their own whims.  Someone with connections to the Ministry had sent them to murder Harry Potter.  And somehow those foul things had gotten through the blood wards.  Dumbledore knew the wards were still intact and very strong, so that could only mean that the dementors weren’t affected by them.  This was entirely possible, as the wards specifically targeted wizards and witches with malicious intent.  Dumbledore wasn’t sure that dementors could even properly be called “creatures,” so maybe their intentions simply didn’t register with the wards.  They had not been picked up by his detection wards either.  

There was an ominous thought.  Dementors had never been used in a wizarding war; their sole function was to guard the prison fortress of Azkaban and to “execute” the worst criminals.  If they could penetrate wizarding wards with impunity, the results might be catastrophic.  Dumbledore would have to ensure somehow that the dementors remained at Azkaban, safely out of Voldemort’s clutches.  But if he already had control over some of them.....

That was the crux of the problem.  Dumbledore didn’t know whether this had been an attack by Voldemort’s forces or someone else entirely.  Could Fudge want Harry silenced badly enough to murder him?  He didn’t think Fudge had the stones for that, but one of his cronies perhaps…

Mentally groaning at yet another thing to do, Dumbledore made himself a note to investigate those people at the Ministry who had the authority to issue orders to the dementors.  He would have to look into that as soon as he took care of the Dursleys.

Dumbledore both despised and pitied the Dursley family.  They were thoroughly offensive people, and genuinely hated Harry Potter.  Dumbledore had checked up on Harry once when he was five years old, and had been shocked at what he found.

He had gone to the Dursley household to ensure that they raised the boy with an iron fist; he needed Harry to be meek, pliant, and shy, and had planned to bewitch the muggles into cowing the boy with rigid discipline.  Instead he had discovered the necessity of bewitching them not to physically harm or even kill Harry.  It was very likely that Vernon Dursley would have eventually abused the boy.  And Petunia Dursley probably wouldn’t have minded.  Dumbledore didn’t understand how such a woman could be related to the gentle and kind-hearted Lily Potter.

Regardless, it was truly an awful thing that had befallen their son.  Dudley Dursley was currently in a muggle hospital hooked up to machines that Dumbledore didn’t understand the purpose of.  The boy was as good as dead.  His body would live for another week or two before it stopped functioning altogether.  He had gently explained this to the Dursleys, but Vernon Dursley had dismissed his explanations entirely.  Petunia had seemed to know what dementors were, and was practically catatonic by the time Dumbledore finished explaining what happened.

He had explained that it was not safe for Harry to return to Privet Drive, and that the blood wards protecting them would eventually dissipate and die without Harry’s presence.  It was best for them to move, preferably out of the country, before they could be located by Voldemort’s forces.  Petunia had taken this news without reaction, but Vernon had exploded in rage at Dumbledore.  The old wizard was certain that the hulking man would have killed him had he been able.  He had sworn to kill Harry Potter if he ever laid eyes on him again, and Dumbledore took him at his word.

Today Dumbledore would be transferring 75,000 pounds into the Dursley’s bank account.  No amount of money would replace their son, but it seemed the decent thing to do.  Dumbledore was partly responsible for their ordeal, after all.  The money actually belonged to Harry, but they didn’t need to know that.  They could use the money to help with relocation costs and try to forget about yesterday’s terrible events.

Dumbledore’s thoughts traveled to the newest occupant of Hogwarts Castle.  Harry Potter lay recovering in the hospital wing, and it was clear that he would have to remain here for the rest of the summer.  Molly Weasley, having heard about the dementor attack, was now especially adamant that Harry would never set foot in the Burrow again.

Dumbledore rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for a lemon drop.  Harry Potter is in the castle, he thought.  These next few weeks are going to be very tiresome.

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August 7, 1995 – Hogwarts, Hospital Wing

Nymphadora Tonks rested her heavy black boots on the edge of Harry Potter’s hospital bed as she reclined in her chair and perused the quidditch scores in today’s Daily Prophet.  Merlin the Cannons suck, she reflected.

It was her day off from work, and she had spent most of the day at Hogwarts waiting for Harry Potter to awaken.  The-Boy-Who-Lived had given her the fright of her young life almost 24 hours ago, and she felt the need to confirm with her own eyes that he was alright.  It wasn’t everyday that the wizarding world’s most famous teenager was attacked by dementors in broad daylight.  She couldn’t bear to think about what would have happened had she arrived two seconds later.

She lowered the paper and glanced at the sleeping black-haired boy.  He should be awake by now, she thought.  That potion should have…wait, here we go…

Harry Potter let out a low groan and opened his eyes blearily.  He knew instantly where he was.  Hospital wing.  Bloody fantastic.  What had he done this time?

“Wotcher, Harry.”

Harry squinted in the direction of the female voice and tried to make out her features.

“Oh, right….here you go,” he heard as his glasses were slipped over his nose.

Now Harry could see his companion clearly.  She was a young witch, probably somewhere in her early 20s, with a cute face and short, bright pink hair that was spiked in every direction.  She looked to be dressed in a black muggle t-shirt and baggy green cargo pants.  No robes in sight.  She could easily pass for a muggle who was into punk rock, Harry thought.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Tonks.  And you gave me quite a scare yesterday, young man.”  Still standing over him, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a mock glare.

“Huh?  What….”  And then Harry remembered.  Dementors.  In Little Whinging.  He sat up abruptly and made to leave the bed.

“Whoa, easy tiger.  Just lay back, or Madam Pomfrey will have my hide.  She left to get something to eat, but she’ll be back in a bit.”

Harry lay back down and tried to calm his racing heart.  He remembered trying but failing to cast the Patronus Charm.  And then the cold…how had he gotten out of that mess?

“What…er, do you know how I got here?”

“I do.  Professor Dumbledore brought you here after the attack.  It probably isn’t safe at your house anymore.  Erm, do you remember anything about the attack?”  Tonks asked hesitantly.

Harry thought.  “Just that I couldn’t get my charm to work, and I thought I was about to die.”  And then he remembered Dudley being there.

“What…what happened to my cousin?”  Harry asked, dreading the answer and somehow knowing what it would be.

Tonks looked at him sadly.  “I’m sorry, Harry.  He didn’t make it.  They had already gotten to him when I arrived, and my patronus was just barely in time to save you.  I did everything I could.”

Oh God.  Oh my God, thought Harry.  I stunned Dudley.  I stunned him and he couldn’t escape.  I stunned him and they sucked out his soul.  Harry had no love whatsoever for his cousin—he despised him, in fact—but he would never have wished such a terrible fate upon him.

Tonks observed his horrified expression and wished there was something she could say that would help.  But there was nothing.

“I stunned him,” Harry whispered.  He looked at Tonks, as if pleading for her understanding.  “I stunned him and he couldn’t get away.  It’s my fault.”

“I saw, Harry,” she said softly.  “I was too far away to do anything at first.  But I saw everything.  He was attacking you, and you did what you had to do.  It’s not your fault.  I would have done the same.”

“But…but my spell didn’t work.  It should have worked!”  Harry’s voice was choked with emotion, and Tonks gently tried to comfort him.

“It’s alright, Harry.  That’s a hard charm to get right.  Not everyone can do it.  You did your best, and you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Harry bristled at the condescension concealed in Tonks’ words.  He didn’t know this witch, but it irritated him that she thought him too weak to cast a patronus.  He had mastered that spell in his third year, and he damn well knew how to “get it right!”

“That’s not what I meant,” he glared at her.  “I know how to cast a patronus.  I’ve done it perfectly dozens of times.  I don’t understand why it didn’t work.  It just…I don’t understand.”  The anger had fled from Harry by the time he finished speaking.  He realized he was getting angry at someone who had very recently saved his life.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t thank you.  I must seem like a giant prat.  Seriously, thank you, I owe you my life.”

Tonks grinned at the earnest tone of the young man before her.  “You’re welcome, Harry.  My pleasure.  I’m just glad I could help.”

“Oh, before I forget, there was a house elf at Figgy’s who was really worried about you.  Poor little guy was nearly hysterical; I thought I was going to have to stun him to get him out of my hair.  You might want to find him and let him know you’re alright.  He said he was going to bring all your stuff here.”

Harry nodded.  Dobby was probably pulling his ears right out of his head by now.  Then Tonks’ words registered.  Figgy’s?  Mrs. Figg?  The cat lady who used to babysit him?

“I’ll call Dobby in a second.  You said I was at ‘Figgy’s?’  What was I doing in Mrs. Figgs’ house?”

“Oh…well, that’s where I took you after the attack.  I used her floo to get hold of the headmaster so he could figure out what was going on.  I was a bit stressed, and I was worried that maybe the dementors had, well, you know…” Tonks informed him, shuddering while remembering those terrible few minutes of panic.

“I’m just glad I decided to show up early,” she smiled at him.  “Cor, I thought the headmaster was going to murder Dung right in front of my eyes.”

Harry was now shaking his head in confusion and irritation.  What the hell is she talking about?  “Wait…Mrs. Figg has a floo?  She’s a witch?  What did you show up early for?  And who is ‘Dung?’  I don’t understand.”

It was Tonks’ turned to look confused.

“Er, well, I was there early for guard duty.  Dung is Mundungus Fletcher; he was supposed to be watching you yesterday afternoon, but he fell asleep in the bushes and missed the whole thing, the bloody git.  We use Mrs. Figg’s house as our base; she’s a squib.”

“Guard duty,” Harry repeated, his temper starting to flare.  “You mean I’ve had people guarding me all summer long?  Why am I learning about this right now?”

“Well…,” Tonks hesitated.  She didn’t quite understand why Harry was getting so angry.  “The headmaster didn’t want anyone to make contact with you.  He said you were grieving and wanted to be left alone, so we were just supposed to watch.”

Harry snorted and shook his head.  It all comes back to Dumbledore.  Again.  And Mrs. Figg knew about the wizarding world; knew Dumbledore.  She has probably been watching me my entire life.  So that bastard has known all along what it was like at the Dursleys.  Harry resolved then and there to have it out with Dumbledore as soon as he could find him.  The old man’s interference in his life was going to stop.  True, that interference had apparently just saved his life, but he wasn’t supposed to need protection at 4 Privet Drive.

Tonks was mystified at the hard look that washed over Harry’s features.

“Tell me, Tonks,” Harry remarked coldly, “do you people do everything that old man tells you to do, no matter how irrational it is?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, taken aback by his tone and the blatant disrespect shown toward the headmaster.

“Never mind,” Harry muttered.  “Thanks again for saving my life.”

“Right,” said Tonks, completely bewildered at the coldness that had entered the conversation when the subject of Dumbledore came up.  Like most of magical Britain, she had grown up revering the hoary professor, and had jumped at the chance to join his band of secret ‘protectors of the light.’  Part of her job had been to guard Harry Potter in his muggle neighborhood; why would he resent that so much?

“Well, I’ll just be going then…just wanted to make sure that you were truly okay.”

Harry sighed.  “Yeah, I’m good.  Nice to have met you.”

Nymphadora Tonks left the hospital wing wondering if she had somehow managed to offend The-Boy-Who-Lived.

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Later that same night, Albus Dumbledore massaged his temples as he tried to relieve his burgeoning headache and the ringing in his ears.  Harry Potter had just shouted at him for what seemed like an eternity; he had barely been able to get a word in edgewise, and even the portraits of past headmasters had left their frames to escape the din in his office.

At one point Harry had almost drawn his wand, and the headmaster had wondered whether Harry actually possessed the courage to fire a spell at him.  He knew he was in no real danger, so he had decided to just let the boy rant.  He was, after all, guilty of far greater crimes against Harry than those he was being accused of.  So he sat there and took his medicine like a man, his inaction only seeming to infuriate the boy further.

Harry had accused him of being aware of his mistreatment at the Dursleys for all these years.  Guilty as charged, thought Dumbledore.  He had accused him of locking him away for his “protection” when he needed to be learning how to defend himself.  Very Guilty.  Of failing in said protection, resulting in the death of Dudley Dursley.  Guilty.  Of isolating Harry from his friends.  Guilty.  Of failing to keep Harry informed about his bodyguards or what was happening in the magical world.  Guilty.  Of withholding his vault key from him.  Guilty.

This last accusation had turned out to be more explosive than Dumbledore could have anticipated.  When Harry had demanded that Dumbledore return his vault key, Dumbledore had patiently explained that it was far safer with him and that, in any case, Harry had no need for it.  He couldn’t go to Diagon Alley, so it made more sense for the key to remain in his possession.  It was at this point that Harry had nearly drawn his wand, and Dumbledore knew he would never forget the exchange that followed:

“You…have…no…RIGHT…to…my…KEY!” Harry had gritted out through clenched teeth.  “It belongs to me, headmaster.  You have no bleeding right to it.  I don’t even know how much money my parents left me; did you know that?  You are not my guardian, and I demand that you turn over my key this instant.”

Dumbledore had made no move to comply with Harry’s demand.  He had just continued to look placidly at Harry.

Then something had seemed to click in Harry’s brain, and he sat down heavily in one of the squashy chairs he had been pacing around.

“Bloody, bollocking, shite,” he had breathed.  “You are, aren’t you?  You’re my guardian in the magical world.”

Suddenly the degree to which Dumbledore had insinuated himself into all of Harry’s affairs made sense to him.  The old bastard could do so legally.  He had placed him with the Dursleys.  He had control over every aspect of Harry’s life.  Legally.

Dumbledore, realizing that this was getting out of hand, had put on his best grandfatherly twinkle and explained that everything he did as Harry’s guardian was for Harry’s benefit.  That he was sorry for concealing so much from Harry, but he had wanted Harry to have an ordinary life, away from his fame in the wizarding world, for as long as possible.  That he was more worried about Harry’s protection from Death Eaters than his less-than-ideal conditions at the Dursleys.  That he didn’t want Harry to be bothered with trivial things like bank balances when there was so much for the young man to experience in the magical world.  That he would have someone train Harry in advanced defensive magic when the new term began.  That Harry was very important to him and he would understand everything better one day.

Harry had listened impassively to Dumbledore’s earnest spiel, not uttering a single word in response.

When the old man finally finished, Harry had gotten up and walked out of the office without a word.  Dumbledore considered locking him in until his temper cooled, but he didn’t want to antagonize the boy any further than necessary.  He was already worried that he had pushed Harry too far, and he needed the boy’s cooperation for just a little while longer.  And so he had let Harry depart.

Now Dumbledore sat in his throne-like chair and rubbed his temples, wishing that Severus were in the castle so that he could get one of his special migraine relievers.  Snape’s errand to Eastern Europe appeared to be taking most of the summer.

Now it truly begins, thought Dumbledore.  Harry has started to rebel.  We shall need to get a plan in place as soon as possible.  He sighed in exasperation.  He really was getting too old for this.  Perhaps I shall my visit special friend tonight and relieve some of this stress.

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A/N: There you have it.  No more Privet Drive, no more Dudders.  Next chapter we’ll have some more Tonks and some more training, and the summer will be complete.  Never fear, I won’t be following canon events for book five very much longer.  There are fireworks coming soon.