FicWad

Chapter 4

"Good God, Tonks," Harry said, smirking widely. He had very nearly pulled a muscle trying to grab Tonks before she hit the ground, and he had to hide his wince as he spoke.

She stirred, eyes bleary, and tentatively said "Good joke, Harry. Try not to make me faint again, eh?"

Harry grinned, hauling her to her feet. "No joke, Tonks. Why joke around or lie when I know you can't tell anyone about what we discuss?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, and then burst into questions. "How? What- it isn't possible! He died a thousand years ago! Tell me? Please? What do you mean?"

Grinning, Harry started walking towards Privet Drive, calling over his shoulder "Take a guess...we can make it a game."

Scowling, she rushed to catch up with him.


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Yellow teeth, stained thusly due to the effect of countless noxious gases being ingested, were bared as a sallow, hook-nosed man stared at Harry Potter. Malevolence and hate flowed from his eyes as he regarded the whelp before him, cursing to high heavens the fact that he had been chosen for such a menial task. A slightly hunched posture, unbecoming for any self-respecting pureblood, contorted the man, no doubt due to countless hours spent hunched over cauldrons, peering interestedly into their murky depths.

His lip curled in a snarl as he watched the boy approach, the pink-haired metamorphmagus conversing with him quite avidly. Some surprise registered in the depths of his obsidian eyes as he watched the young man stiffen suddenly, and make a motion for the woman to silence herself. Striking emerald green eyes, the legacy of a mudblood woman, narrowed as he scanned his surroundings looking for something that might stand out. The gaze that reflected the light of the killing curse swept to and fro, and suddenly settled exactly upon the hook-nosed man.

A dainty eyebrow was raised, the expression, to him, looking curiously cultured upon the face of someone as unworthy as the boy. The sallow man bit back a snarl as he was spotted, for he knew not how the whelp knew that he was being watched.

A voice, cultured and deep, rang out across the short distance that separated the two men. Both were dark haired, but with dispositions so entirely opposite that it made the contrast between the two stand out even more than it would normally.

"Hiding behind trees, Snivellus? Of course you are. It would take a man to stand in the open...only mice curse when backs are turned." The young man spoke with conviction, a mocking lilt to his voice as he regarded the one who had been hiding.

This time, the man failed to hold hack his snarl, and his voice rang out across the road, anger and hate dripping as if it were venom.

"Your arrogance can astound even the basest creatures, Potter. You are much like your father in that aspect. You will address me with respect, you whelp. I am your superior, while you are nothing but a schoolboy with delusions of grandeur."

A chuckle, deep and throaty issued form the lips of the young man. "Arrogant? Me? Snivellus, you seem to be confused. Of course, you would be right to call me arrogant if I were to preach about brewing fame, bottling glory and putting a stopper on death."

The tone was mocking and humorous, but nothing but malice was reflected in the eyes of the young man named Harry Potter.

Snape emerged from the shadow of the tree that he had been concealed in, sweeping across the street much like a cheesy villain would. Hate glittered menacingly in the obsidian depths of his eyes, the soulless orbs excelling in their attempt at conveying his general contempt for the young Potter. The comment stung like the barb it was meant to be; the boy had thrown his words back into his face.

"You will show me respect, boy, or mark my words, you'll live to regret it! Do not forget; I am a fully qualified Wizard, while you are a pathetic student, incapable of using magic during the summertime." Whatever he hoped to achieve by pointing out such an obvious fact was lost as the boy sneered right in his face.

"You wish to curse me, Snivellus? I daresay I'd have to turn my back on you before you could accomplish that." He was overdoing it, true, but it was extremely unlikely that Snape would divulge what Harry said about him. After all, the man was more than prideful, and being lambasted by someone he hated would not be conducive to his image.

Snape's knuckles were white as he grasped his wand, bringing it to bear at Harry Potter. The words that he had uttered that night two years ago were repeated, evoking a sudden remembrance of a lost friend in the young man.

"Give me a reason, Potter. Just give me a reason, and I'll end it for you."

The chuckle re-emerged, as the metamorphmagus looked on at their verbal sparring emotionlessly.

"Excellent words, Snape. As I recall, the last time you uttered them, three thirteen year olds made a fool of you. I believe you were floated out of the Shrieking Shack looking like a rag doll, only to pretend that you had accomplished something great an hour later."

The barest of flinches registered in the man's expression, but Harry caught it anyways, smirking at him.

"Now; enough of this childishness, Snivellus. Do you have a purpose to be here, or are you now taking orders from your favorite tattoo-artist?" He stared quite pointedly at the man's left forearm, where the Dark Mark of Lord Voldemort resided under the sleeve of his robes.

He sneered at Potter, and snarled "Do not venture where it is dangerous, Potter...you seem to think that your foolish displays of bravado are what constitutes a man fighting in this war. Being set in your arrogance is what will ultimately destroy you, Potter...if I don't do it first. Worthless epithets don't make you a great wizard, oh great Boy-Who-Lived. Now, as to your impertinent question; I am here on orders from Dumbledore."

A bored expression on his face, Harry said "Well? Do I have to beat it out of you or will you tell me on your own volition? Honestly, one would think that you might have learned that your penchant for dramatics simply makes you seem immature. You lord knowledge over other people like a schoolboy with a secret. Oh, well...what else can be expected from someone who persists of his jealousy of a dead man?"

A sneer accompanied the reply of "You really should watch your tongue, Potter, or someone might just cut it off. The Headmaster believes that you might try to curse your...relatives." The word was sneered with revulsion, and he continued, "He has instructed me to take your wand from you. It will be returned to you at the end of the summer. Your invisibility cloak will also be needed, for that idiot Podmore caused one of them to be confiscated. You are not to leave the house the whole summer. Now, hand over your wand!"

Harry tapped his chin with his index finger in a thoughtful expression, whiling away a good five seconds before he unconcernedly remarked "Well, Snivellus, I do believe you can go fuck yourself."

The metamorphmagus standing next to him cracked up in hysterical laughter, increasing Snape's general feeling of contempt at the moment.

"This is no joke, Potter! Hand over your wand and invisibility cloak immediately!" he snarled, brandishing his own wand at the pair threateningly.

If a Muggle were to see them at this moment, they would be perplexed, as it seemed like a weirdo dressed in a bathrobe was trying to intimidate a young man and woman with a ten-inch long stick.

"Snivellus, I thought I made myself clear. The day I willingly hand my wand over to a Death Eater is the day that pigs fly. It is more likely that you will get laid than for such a travesty to occur. My wand is just that: mine. I shall relinquish it to nobody. You may kindly inform the Headmaster that his wishes are not acceptable to me. As he well knows, I am in danger, and when my life is on the line, Mafalda Hopkirk's general ire isn't very high on the list of things I would be particularly concerned about. The same goes for my Invisibility Cloak. It was the property of my father, and of his father's before him. To hand over a family heirloom to one such as you would be insanity. The Order can make do with what it has. I shall not lend my possessions to them simply because they wish to sit around in the Leakey Cauldron and stare accusingly at whosoever passes by. After all, a disillusionment charm goes a long way when you hide in the shadows and glare at people."

Snape nearly shouted in anger, but instead stormed close to Harry, and flicked his wand, muttering "Imperio! You will hand me your wand and Invisibility Cloak!"

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, simply grinned in response, and flung his fist out, hitting the man in the throat with his knuckles. Snape fell to the floor gasping for breath, his wand having fallen from his fingers.

"Snivellus...I am shocked. Using an unforgivable on a student? On the Boy-Who-Lived? And that too in front of an Auror? Egad, man, I knew you were stupid, but this goes beyond the pale. I have taken the Imperius from your half-blood master and thrown it off. What hope do you have?"

Snape choked out "Potter! How dare you touch me! I'll have you expelled!"

Harry laughed. "Snape, you are standing in the lawn of my property. You entered my house uninvited, slandered and attacked me. You used an unforgivable. What did Crouch say about them? Ah, yes...use of one on another living being is enough to warrant a life-long stay in Azkaban. I defended myself, which, of course, is entirely permissible."

Snape sneered at him, slowly rising to his feet. He tried to lift his wand as he stood, but found that the toe of Tonks' shoe pressed it firmly to the ground. He looked up at her to berate her, but silenced himself as he saw a fire burning in her eyes. Slowly, she said "Snape, you have exactly three seconds to apparate out of here before I stun you point-blank, and arrest you."

He snarled "You wouldn't dare, you worthless harlot! Dumbledore needs me, so you can't do a thing to me! Now, give me my wand!"

She stared at him with hate in her eyes in response, the barb doing nothing to faze her. Aurors faced people far more dangerous than Severus "Snivellus" Snape. "I am an Auror, Snivellus. I can do exactly what I want in this situation. Dumbledore might need you, but no-one else does. So, I will warn you again. Pick up your wand. Turn around. Disapparate and never return. You have three seconds. In any case, I cannot understand what Dumbledore was thinking when he entrusted the location of this house to one such as you." The word was sneered with undisguised disgust, her general evaluation of the man before her coming through quite clearly.

Harry looked at Tonks appraisingly. He liked what he saw; the beautiful Auror was far from a pushover. It seemed that last year had been a pretense, for she must have faked her quails whenever Molly Weasley glared at her...such hardiness as she was displaying now would not permit quaking before the ire of an impotent opponent. Respect, though it was veiled while Snape was around, was the primary feeling within his mind at the moment.

The look in her eyes convinced him, and he did as she said, pausing to bite out "You will regret this, Potter!" Then, he was gone, a crack in the air denoting that he had disapparated, and that he was not a particularly powerful wizard at all.

After twenty years of using Apparation, a moderately powerful Wizard should have been able to apparate with a simple 'pop'. His loud crack indicated that he was not particularly powerful at all, which was probably why he had taken to Potions in the first place. Even a muggle could mix potions, as the ingredients put the magic into the potion, not the brewer. Harry also recalled Sirius' comment that Snape knew a lot of Dark curses by the time he had started Hogwarts, which was another indicator of his low power level. Dark Magic made powerful results, while less taxing on one's magic than one would expect, considering the effect that they made. Those who relied on them solely, Voldemort not included, probably had little power to boast. This made them useful spells to learn for those that had little power, as it got things done quite effectively. It was no wonder that Snape excelled in them, or rather, at the narrow scope of dark spells that he was capable of using.

Tonks turned to Harry, and grinned. "A true Slytherin, eh? I liked your responses to his comments...diplomatic tone, but stinging insults nonetheless."

Harry gave a mock bow, theatrically exclaiming "Ah, fair lady, your favor means ever so much to me!"

She grinned again, swatting him on the arm playfully. "Alright, Harry. Quit beating around the bush. Explain immediately what you meant when you said that Slytherin was your father. I'm sick of waiting!"

A sly smile spread across his face as he looked at her. Since reviving her, her questions had been met by extremely vague and misleading answers, causing her to get quite riled up. He had even turned it into a game, telling her to keep guessing, and then laughing hysterically at the incredible ideas she had thought up. The last one was a true gem: she decided that the only way left was that Lily Potter had been blasted back through time, and had fallen in love with Salazar, who had unfortunately had to send her back to the future without any time having passed. He had laughed at her embarrassed blush when he rather unequivocally stated that James Potter was his father.

He now had on good authority, what with his snarky comments about her being a Hufflepuff, that she was a Ravenclaw. His shock at that statement had not been entirely faked.

"Fine; ruin the fun, Tonks. It's quite simple, really. By about halfway through my fourth year, we had gotten pretty close. Of course, technically speaking, I have never really known the real Salazar, but that's just a small problem. A thousand years ago, when the portrait was created, he gave it a specific task, and enchanted it with many spells. Apparently, after enchanting it, he was magically exhausted for seven months-ouch!"

Tonks scowled at him as he digressed, and had whacked him on the shoulder, making him yelp.

Scowling right back, he continued "One of the purposes of the portrait was to choose a male heir to bear the Slytherin name. You see, Salazar only had a daughter, and his wife died during childbirth, leaving him with the girl. He loved her dearly, but always wanted his family name to live on. Now, Voldemort is descended from that girl, a true travesty, for she was apparently a pleasant person. Salazar knew that he could never marry again...not because he did not want to, but because by the time he got over his grief-which was what made him leave Hogwarts-he was a tad old to have kids. So, he decided that he would station his portrait in the Chamber, and assign it with the task of choosing his heir.

"Now, the point of this was actually quite simple. Since only those of the Slytherin bloodline could speak Parseltongue, it was obvious that only his direct descendants would ever find the Chamber, and thus the Portrait. So, basically, he was going to confer his family name onto a descendant that proved himself worthy of the honor, which means that he wouldn't really be adopting someone, but he would be giving the Lordship of the Family to someone who already was his direct descendant. This certainly is a big deal, because since the current line originates from his daughter, they cannot open the Slytherin vaults. Of course, the Wizengamot seat belonging to the line of Slytherin was abolished, but the money and heirlooms in the Slytherin vaults are rather valuable.

"Okay, so what he did was that he gave his portrait a few enchantments. I told you that he gave it the same legilimency as the Sorting Hat. He also gave it a way to recognize blood purity, since even though he wasn't an elitist, he would rather have kept his line pure. Now, within the Portrait, he hid a vial of his blood, held under incredibly strong preservation charms. I found out by the end of my second year, thanks to the portrait, that I was a pureblood with rather potent blood in my veins. It took a while, but eventually, we got to know each other pretty well. Halfway through my fourth year, about two years worth of knowing him, he told me that he had judged me worthy. That's all there is to it, really. It was a painful ritual, I'll tell you that much. That's how my eyes got fixed."

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him curiously. "You don't sound all that enthusiastic about things."

He shrugged dismissively in response. "You have to understand...he isn't really my father. Salazar Slytherin himself did not adopt me. I haven't gone fishing with him or anything like that. It has always been a Master-Apprentice relationship between us, and so it will remain. Of course, when he is not teaching me, we are slightly looser with each other and are more prone to actually showing the slightest emotion. Having a portrait as a father is not the easiest thing to bypass, y'know? I can't exactly give him a hug. As I said, I was judged worthy. Lord Slytherin has never been a very emotional man, and this was more of a business venture than anything else. He saw me to be someone who could do the Slytherin name and credo proud, and bring it honor."

She nodded, feeling slightly sorry for Harry, and he caught it immediately. She was struck again, realizing that he truly was a consummate actor. Harry would have been expected to scream and shout in such a position, but his obvious maturity and capability of rational thought certainly contrasted the differences between the two versions of him that she knew. Apparently, his entire demeanor before, the image of a brash, irritable youngster, was a sham, a meticulously constructed falsification.

He smiled at her comfortingly, saying "Don't feel pity...I don't have use for that. Listen, it was pretty much the same for me. Doing the ritual gave me some benefits that I didn't have, and it assured Lord Slytherin of my dedication and honesty. I was able to speak Parseltongue fluently and instantaneously rather than with a lot of effort. My eyes healed themselves, and I received some minor degree of natural skill at Occlumency. You see...he knew, even then, that I would eventually fight Tom to the death. Of course, we didn't know that it was literally like that at the point. If I managed to kill Tom, Slytherin blood would no longer exist in the magical world. No more direct heirs of Slytherin would exist, which would mean that he would have to give another person his family name. Since he didn't know if my Parseltongue would become hereditary, the gift of snake-speech might even have entirely faded away. By adopting me, he ensured that not only his blood would live on, but that his name would too. If Voldemort won, an Heir would still live. It sounds barbaric, in hindsight, but it was what I would have done. What I got in return simply sweetened the deal. I got those advantages that I mentioned, and I got access to a rather large vault filled with incredible things...books, artifacts, heirlooms. I don't mean to sound materialistic, but it's the truth. We each received an equal bonus from going through it."

She made a noise to indicate that she understood, and asked "What does this make you? I mean, what's your full, real name now?"

"Well, as the world knows me, I'm still Harry James Potter. My name wasn't changed by the ritual; I wouldn't have it. James and Lily Potter were my parents, and I will not let that be taken from me. The only difference is that I now have the blood of the Slytherin Family, the Potter Family, and my Mother's family within me. I don't have the Black blood in me, but Sirius made me his heir by magic last summer, a nifty little ritual involving nothing more than a few oaths, none which require loyalty to the current Blacks, meaning I can still kill Bellatrix."

She nodded with an impressed look on her face. "You realize, of course, that you stand to gain a veritable mountain of money in a month? The assets of the Blacks and Potters are rather large, and doubtless, the Slytherin Vault will contain priceless artifacts. Do you know which line your mother comes from?"

"She was the last Heiress of the Crowen Family. It is old, and has had some rather powerful members, but it isn't a part of the Magical Aristocracy. They were well known in some circles, with many being Hit-Wizards or Mercenaries. Not really rich, I would say, but they were respected in their circles. While my mother's family is not nearly as well respected as the Potters were, or the Malfoys, they carried their own weight in the circles they frequented. The bloody heritage potion took way too long to make, what with having to simmer it for seven months, and adding the lacewings each full moon."

She laughed at his annoyed expression, and said "Incredible. You have two seats on the Wizengamot, apparently, since the Slytherin seat was abolished. Still, if you play up the fact that you are Slytherin's heir, you can get a rather large amount of support from some families, though it will detract from the support you get from the Light families."

He nodded, replying "It isn't something I will bandy about aimlessly. It can only be revealed under an oath of silence, and that, too, only to those that cannot be convinced by other means. You might have noticed that I stand to inherit from my mother's side of the family, while Lord Slytherin's daughter's line could not?"

At her nod, he continued "You see, until sometime in the late 1400's, Magical Law prevented inheritance through the Mother's line. Rather lucky for me or otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now, and I'd probably be holed up in my room, crying and talking only to my owl."

She fell quiet, thinking hard, and continuing into the house.

They returned to the room, and she sat down on the bed, still thinking hard. Finally, as he watched her, she raised her head, and said "Recite the Prophecy to me. I want to know the exact words."

He blinked, and acquiesced. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those that have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as an equal, but he shall have the power the Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord is born as the seventh month dies. Voldemort heard the first sentence, because the spy was kicked out of the pub at that point."

She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You realize that this was done purposely, too? You told me that Voldemort's spy heard the first sentence. If he had heard the next one, then he would have known not to touch neither you nor Longbottom, therefore basically putting the Prophecy on hold. Quite convenient. Why was the spy found out at that point? One would think that once the Prophecy had started, Dumbledore would be too engrossed in it to take the time to get rid of a spy. And in any case, why wasn't the spy obliviated? Kicking him or her out wouldn't serve any purpose."

Harry's muscles stiffened, his hands unconsciously folding into tight fists. "Interesting observation," he ground out eventually, only the slightest hint of anger in his tone.

By the time she blinked, his expression was jovial once more, not betraying even the slightest hint of anger. Perplexed as she was, she let it drop.

"How'd you like to teach me how to apparate, Tonks?" he asked cheerfully.

She raised an eyebrow. "After pointing out to Snape not five minutes ago that I'm an Auror, you ask me to teach you how to Apparate?"

He grinned, saying "Well, Tonks, I can either learn from my book, or you could teach me...at least this way you can keep an eye on what's happening."

Grinning at his reasoning, she said "Sure...but why?"

"I have been given two weeks to relax. I'm supposed to learn how to apparate and make portkeys in these two weeks, and then I'm back in training with Lord Slytherin."

She blinked, and said "Well, you'd better get down to it, then. I can't teach you how to make a portkey...I'm only a 3rd ranked Auror. My wand is tracked, and I don't have clearance to make them yet. Only Second and First Rank Aurors can make them."

He looked expectant as he said "Well? Hop to it, then, teacher! I'll figure out the Portkeys myself, and the book that Lord Slytherin gave me might solve your little tracking problem."


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The door clicked shut, the sound ominous despite the cheerful disposition of the man inhabiting the room.

The reason for this became rapidly obvious as twinkling eyes suddenly dimmed, although they retained their intensity. A long finger absently twirled a strand of hair as the old man thoughtfully stroked his beard, contemplating puzzles that had just become more complicated. Where cheerful, pleasant eyes once shone, lay a pair of cool blue eyes, calculating and pensive as they swept the room. They alighted on a curious contraption, a criss-cross of small metal pipes that formed an octagon in three dimensions, a ball of light floating between them. The light was tinged green at the moment, but flashed pink for a second, showing a slight switch to mild irritation. Closing his eyes, the man breathed deeply, causing the ball of light to cycle through colors, eventually turning a yellow-green that signified utter tranquility.

It was easy to take the old man as a joke, what with the batty comments and the overenthusiastic, pleasant disposition that he usually exhibited. In the presence of others, he was the grandfather, the slightly insane, yet lovably interesting old man. In seclusion, however, the story was different, vastly so. Albus Dumbledore had rarely been transparent in thought and action, thus being able to cement his image of eccentricity even as a youth. Later in life, the image had served him well; allowing him to accumulate debts owed to him, and to capitalize on them by asking favors to grant him knowledge. When the debt was given, it was given to a pleasant man, a gentleman who had helped out of the kindness of his heart. The debts were given as a role of protocol; not really voiced, in the same way that they were not meant to be taken seriously. However, the one who collected the debt was not the pleasant man, rather a calculating, scheming one.

He rose smoothly, ignoring the squeals of the House-Elves on his robe. Their ears flapped wildly as protuberant eyes watered in shame and subservience even in two-dimensional representation, the irritating actions simply begging for castigation. The robes, colorful and extravagantly odd, simply bolstered the impression that he was slightly senile. Walking smoothly to the wall, he cast a look at the portraits lining the circular room. These were his minions, his path to knowledge. Almost nothing passed their scrutiny, consequently allowing him to possess some degree of omniscience, at least within Hogwarts.

"Is he still here?" he asked one, the demand to the point as always. The woman, looking as dotty as he did, disappeared for a second, and returned.

Once again, it was proved that impressions meant little. She glared at him through eyes that were a vivid red in color, hate marring her features. "No," she snarled, painted flecks of spittle emerging hatefully from her mouth, "your filthy little half-blood is gone. He left the Entrance Hall a minute ago. The castle is empty, save for you, blood-traitor that you are."

Dumbledore gazed at her mildly, a reproachful look on his face. He wasn't impressed in the least by the venom she spewed. "Really, Mares, must you use such language?"

Rather than indulge herself in another tirade of hateful screams pontificating Pureblood Supremacy, the woman simply glared at him. Her eyes clearly announced her opinion of him; a dotard indulging in games that were far past his age. She bit back her snarl, deciding to ignore him completely. Apparently, as boring as death was, she would rather not debate this topic again.

Giving her a look filled with disappointment, one that he usually reserved for unruly students, he muttered "Sanctuary."

A curious knob, golden in color and affixed to the wall to serve no fathomable purpose, glowed red and swirled away. A second later, what had once been just another ornament in the office had transformed into a humble doorway. Dumbledore walked through, triggering a ward that re-sealed the door behind him.

Mahogany flooring gleamed, a stark contrast to the cold stone in the rest of the castle, advertising the efforts of his house-elf. The walls were generally bare, save for the bookshelves that cluttered the room. A worn rug graced the floor before the hearth, a comfortable seat stationed upon it. These were his quarters, his inner sanctum. This room held memories of Albus Dumbledore that would shock anyone in the Magical World. This was where Albus Dumbledore was himself, free of the demands of image and decorum.

He sank into the plush ottoman, reclining into its comfort with a sigh. A snap of his fingers summoned his personal house-elf, who promptly followed his orders to fetch a decanter of fine French wine, a product of Bordeaux. Taking a sip, he allowed himself a smile as he recognized the vintage, a fine year for wines...no, the appropriate term for such a beautiful period would be 'era'. His smile lingered as he pondered the excitement, the relaxation, and the bliss that the early 1920's had brought him.

Such exhibitions of humanity-genuine smiles or sighs-weren't seen in his office, unless they were fabricated. The famous sigh of Albus Dumbledore was the instrument of order in the Magical World, a sure sign that the greatest wizard of the age was burdened. It was an action that caused the most obstinate of people to fold and become docile, an action that was perfected by experimenting on students for over fifty years. It was a silent, effective protest, one that played on the compassion of his companion. The sudden switch from energetic old man to weary, burdened old man quite successfully made people more compassionate and accepting towards his opinion. With enough use, it even assured people that his opinion was best, that he was never wrong in his convictions.

Sighing, he rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. The constant debates with Mares Tennenbaum, one of the ex-Headmistresses of Hogwarts, were wearing on his nerves. She, of course, was right. Pureblood Superiority was not simply fanaticism, it was the truth. In the Magical World, Purebloods were capable of things that Muggleborns could only dream of. It wasn't a rule of thumb, since Squibs only came from Magical Families, but in general terms, Purebloods were stronger.

Why? A simple allegory could explain it. Magic was like a fine wine, getting stronger and gaining potential with age. Of course, it could become over-ripe with age, and the result of this was a Squib...a person forced to bear the dregs left from the simmering, being the container for the over-ripe portions of the magic in a Family. With each Squib, the quality of magic deteriorated slightly, but remained pure. Families that dated back a hundred generations had extremely potent magic running through their veins, and not just symbolically.

Blood Magic was perhaps the most powerful magic that existed, an art that Muggleborn Wizards and Witches were incapable of performing. It had been outlawed viciously, an act that took place centuries ago. All information about Blood Magic was wrested from the population due to its power. The Blood Mages that had once populated Wales could have taken control of Hogwarts, or demolished it. It would not have been easy, since the Founders had incorporated Blood-Wards, but with strength in number, it was possible. Luckily, the Blood Mages had never attempted such a blasphemy, out of respect for their greatest prodigy...Salazar Slytherin of all people. Luckily, Dumbledore mused, it was common knowledge that Slytherin had never passed on his knowledge of Blood Magic, never having deemed anyone worthy of such knowledge.

The Dumbledore Family was Pureblooded, albeit a Family that was formed a mere five centuries ago. A disowned wizard, still bearing his pure blood, had formed the Family, adopting the name Dumbledore. How Albus Dumbledore had yearned for knowledge of Blood Magic...for months he had begged his mentor to teach him. Nicholas Flamel, ever insightful, had refused, clasping him on the shoulder warmly even as he uttered words that would devastate Albus.

"It is for the best, Albus, my child...I mean you no slight, but 'tis something that corrupts. Power...'tis something that ruins all that is pure. Be content with your lot, Albus, for Perenelle has seen what horrors shall emerge with the return of such knowledge. I can speak no more about this."

Slight anger flashed through him as he recalled the conversation. After nearly 80 years, the pain had lessened, but it was not an easy thing to endure. Absently, his fingers found the blood red stone, the size of a small pebble, that hung from his neck on a necklace made of twine.

A Philosopher's Stone...the key to immortality, only not. This was nothing more than a replica, a symbol of dreams from a younger, more naïve age. It was real...a creation made for him by the Flamels, one that would prolong his life, but it was far from the real thing. But it would not sustain him as its larger version did them. It secreted the elixir merely four times a year, each sip-sized dose removing the effect of one month from his wearied stature.

"We have great faith in you, Albus. Someday, we know you will achieve the knowledge of how to construct a Stone for yourself. Keep yourself pure, my child, and the world shall luxuriate in the times of peace and prosperity you will bring it."

However, Albus Dumbledore had hit a wall. It was as if Nicholas' mentorship had been the sole driving force in his acquisition for knowledge in the field of Alchemy. Since that day, he had made only the most minor gains in knowledge in the great art of Alchemy. As things looked now, he would never achieve that greatness.

For all his platitudes, Nicholas was nearly an equal to Albus himself in craftiness. All false modesty aside, Albus Dumbledore could, with great glee, proclaim himself to be far craftier than Nicholas Flamel, despite the four and a half centuries that currently separated their ages. Of course, such a proclamation would be anathema, considering Albus' aims in the current war. Five years ago, he had asked Nicholas to give up his stone for safe-keeping.

"Voldemort searches for a way to return," he had said, "and he will certainly approach the stone."

Nicholas, of course, had seen through it. No, Albus could truthfully say that he did not want the stone to analyze it, to tear it apart in search for the secret behind immortality. He wanted to use it as a trial for one Harry Potter. Of course, Nicholas' alternative of using a fake had worked just as well, but a certain part of Albus' psyche had always wanted to truly test the strength of Hogwarts' defenses. If he had actually held the Philosopher's Stone and protected it with the power that Hogwarts held, it would be a greatly positive portent for the coming war. Now, of course, Albus knew that even Hogwarts would not stand up to the might that Voldemort possessed. Perhaps it was because he descended from the founders, and it wished to protect its own. Perhaps not.

Voldemort.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Half-blood, Heir of Slytherin. The most powerful wizard in the world.

It was curious, he mused, how the amalgamation of feelings that he felt for Tom were so diverse. Of course, there was a certain amount of hate...some anger, despair, and some fear. True, Albus Dumbledore feared the power that Voldemort had. Most curious was the sense of pride. Albus was actually proud of Tom. The boy he had once known decades ago had come a long way. When they had first met, Tom had been a sniveling little urchin of a child, malnutritioned and fearful. Albus had immediately thought him to be a Hufflepuff, despite his heritage, one that Albus had known of very well. After all, he had dated Merope Gaunt in her youth, no matter how briefly. Giving birth at the age of fifty would possibly kill any woman. The boy had shocked him, becoming a Slytherin. Over the years, he grew colder, harsher, and more powerful. The façade of Lord Voldemort came in to play, creating an insurmountable wall between student and teacher.

Suspicion had reigned between them, Albus unable to prove Tom's guilt in the death of young Myrtle, and Tom vastly suspicious as to Albus's designs for him. It was a pity, he had wanted Tom to become his Apprentice someday, but times had changed things.

Harry James Potter had been in much the same position as Tom had been. He, too, had been a little urchin of a boy, more starved than even Tom had been. A demure, innocent boy, he had taken to magic with glee, something that initially worried Albus. His worries soon evaporated when his friendship with the Weasley boy kicked in, and he decided to invest more time in Quidditch and other mind-numbing activities. Now, the boy was nothing more than an average wizard: far too reliant on magic to truly question it's intricacies. The boy would never learn of the binds on his core, and the impromptu evacuation on the 31st of July to Hogwarts would allow Dumbledore to replace the binds. The boy was even unaware of the massive legacy that was his. Albus had control of his vaults, but it was only a cursory position. He had no desire to steal from a boy...such a crime had nothing to do with the greater good. In any case, Albus Dumbledore had no lack of money.

No, Harry Potter had a simple purpose to fulfill: he would be a martyr. He would die for the cause of the Light side, forever setting an example to Wizardkind. Of course, he would also take Voldemort with him, thus taking a small problem off Albus' hands. Dumbledore truly felt remorse for using the boy in such a barbaric manner, but it was the only way out. Voldemort had no less than fifty years of experience over Harry...fifty years of experience that was insurmountable to begin with, considering that the Dark Lord's sole opponent was a bespectacled fifteen year old. With Albus's idea in play, at the very least, all was not lost.

The news Snape had just brought was irritating. Of course, part of this irritation stemmed from having to decipher the irritable man's words as he foamed at the mouth in anger, shouting about the "nerve of that little bastard, striking a teacher and threatening him!" Was it something to be worried about? Perhaps not...after all, being emotional was something Harry was famous for. Still, it was unwise to let this pass without scrutiny. The wand was necessary...a charm that Albus had recently found would make it possible for him to cast the power-binding spell from long distance, as long as the first half of the charm was already performed on the victim's wand. The loss of the cloak was regrettable, but it was far from crippling. A stern letter would probably bend the boy's determination, but it was wise to wait a while. Wallowing in his grief could cause the boy to lash out at him, damaging their relationship irrevocably. Perhaps two weeks in the company of the Metamorph would reduce his anger.

Blinking to clear his thoughts, Dumbledore returned to his glass of wine. Sampling the bouquet, he snapped his fingers, causing his House-Elf to return with the decanter and refill his glass. Reaching into his robes, he irritably drew his wand and cast a silencing charm on his robes. The House-Elves stitched into his clothes squealed at every opportunity, cringing in fear whenever his body shifted, fearful in anticipation of a blow to the head.

Waving the wand once more summoned a chessboard from the nearby cabinet. It landed on the small stool at his side neatly.

This was a game that had been going on for months. Three, to be precise, although he had not made a move in over a week. Each figure on the board was an ornate depiction of the members of the current war. The ivory pieces featured Dumbledore as both King and Queen, and Harry as one of the pawns. The other powerful figures consisted of Moody, Lupin, McGonagall and Shacklebolt, amongst others. The 'Dark Side' crafted exquisitely of ebony, had Voldemort as King and Queen. Malfoy and Bellatrix were his Bishops, the brothers Lestrange forming the Knights while Nott and Dolohov were his Rooks. Mucliber, Macnair, Crabbe, Goyle and various others formed the Pawns. An appropriate evaluation of both sides of the war, at least in Dumbledore's estimation.

He pored over the chessboard, evaluating his next move. He, of course, played the white pieces, leaving the black ones to think for themselves. Of course, they were crafted with his own knowledge of chess, using strands of his memories, so they were equally skilled as he was.

At a loss, he whispered "King to B-1." Castling was his only way out of the check that was sure to come. Apparently, Harry Potter, at least in this representation, was going to take the fall sooner than expected, for the pawn representing him was now left open for the taking.

Things did not go as planned.

The pawn representing the Boy-Who-Lived suddenly straightened up, its former hunched posture disappearing. Turning, it took the place of the 'Dumbledore-King', wrenching the scepter, crown and cloak from it, donning them with practiced ease. Looking regal now, it assumed Spot B-1, the Dumbledore figure becoming a pawn in the war, back hunched in submission.

There was a short cry as the sword swung through the air before everything settled. The Dark Lord Voldemort playing Queen had just decapitated Albus Dumbledore the pawn.

A scream of anger reverberated off the walls and roof of the room as the Chessboard was unceremoniously thrown to the ground.


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Black and white pictures, moving, covered the wall. The room was dank and dusty, but it served her purposes. Each picture displayed the same person, a short, black-haired boy with vivid green eyes, a lightning-bolt shaped scar above his brow.

Violet eyes gleamed with unrestrained anger as Bellatrix Lestrange, Deputy Scourge of the Magical World, glared at the pictures. Articles torn whole out of the Daily Prophet were tacked to the wall with sticking charms, some of the pictures expanded to life-size proportions. A veritable mural was plastered to the wall, each article and photo devoted to hounding one particular person...Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

The boy-Harry!-had bested her. Not really, but Bellatrix was far from one for specifics. All he had done was land a spell on her, no matter how ineffective it was. That, in itself, was a travesty...a prepubescent boy, from the looks of things, had managed to land a curse on Bellatrix Lestrange! It was unheard of!

Her dueling skills more than matched the skill of Shacklebolt, Moody or Flitwick! She was a born duelist, naturally gifted with nimbleness and a strange ability to detect when she was under attack. No one had ever got the drop on her, but a child had come along and made a fool of her!

Then, the curse. The Cruciatus Curse, an Unforgivable in every Magical Country on Earth. The last...well, second-last...curse that anyone would expect from the wand of the Boy-Who-Lived. Yet, it had come. And she had felt it. The unimaginable pain...pain that matched the power of her Master's curses. But only for a second. She could feel his power flowing into her, stimulating pain into every nerve, but it had been cut off.

Her screams about 'righteous anger' had been correct in technical terms, but he had cast the curse correctly. The pain, delicious as it was to her, had been unimaginably short, unsatisfying to her. He had terminated the curse of his own volition, but why? He had cast it beautifully, a perfectly woven spell that efficiently used the power behind it. Something did not match...and she would find out.

Lust glinted amongst the insanity and hate in her eyes as she thought "No boy shall taunt me! I shall have him...and then, I shall kill him. The master be damned- he is mine!"

Fourteen interminable years of suffering through the emotionlessness that Azkaban had gifted her had made her more than hungry for sensations...pain being the most delicious one she could imagine. Her Master had her allegiance, true, but insanity had crept through every crevasse in her splintered essence, perverting the devotion that she gave her Lord. Lord Voldemort would ahve to make do with the world...this was one battle he would not have a part in, if she had anything to say about it.

Harry Potter would be hers; to scream for and to die for.


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Well...there you have it, folks.

This was a beast of a chapter to write, and i apologize for how long it took. Thanks for all the great reviews you people have given me, please know that they are most appreciated.

Note that Cho will NOT be a fuck-buddy...that was her impression in Chapter 1, but that changed, as you might have noted. Bigger space in his heart or not, Tonks and Cho will be equally important to Harry.

A point of notice: Credit is due to IP82. My beta reminded me of the scene in his fic that involves a chessboard. While i had forgotten about this, since i haven't read the fic since the last time it was updated 4 months ago, credit must still be give where it is due. So, the chessboard of the light and dark side idea came from IP82's fic Potter's Resistance I: Breaking Ties.

The next chapter will start two weeks from this one. It will basically be the starting point from where the Independant!Harry part of this story will actually take off.

Tell me what you think, people.

Cheers, and thanks for reading.

-Apocalypso