Harry Potter pushed himself onto his elbow and looked confusedly around him. His first assumption was that the complete darkness around him was due to the hour of night, and yet, even as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he could tell that it was not quite right. His room, that is, Dudley’s second bedroom, had a window through which he could see the moon and stars from his bed. He extended a hand – he could not see it – and his fingers brushed against soft drapery.

He pulled it aside. He blinked as sunlight hit him full in the face, and again as it revealed four more bed-like shapes curtained in Gryffindor red. Puzzled, he sat on the edge of his own bed, resting his chin on his palms, and tried to figure out how he had come to Hogwarts without his knowledge; he tried to remember exactly what had occurred the previous night.

He had planned to stay awake until midnight, when Hedwig would return with his birthday present from Hermione. Waiting for Hedwig, Errol, Pigwidgeon, and the various school and hired owls was Harry’s personal birthday ritual. Yet this year, he had fallen asleep before they had arrived. He stood up, about to stretch his arms, and the soreness in his legs, shoulders, and all down his back, reminded him of why he had been so tired.

He’d had to scrub the roof yesterday. He’d been up there all day, the sun beating remorselessly down on him, his only reprieve the two trips he’d taken to the bathroom. Harry did not know whether the roof was outside of the blood wards, and had been unwilling to face his uncle’s wrath on the off-chance that Voldemort would descend upon Little Whinging in broad daylight, but he had kept his wand tucked in the waistband of his pants the entire day.

His wand! Harry patted his drawstring pajamas, relieved to find that his wand had not fallen out in transit. He pulled it from his pants, and hesitated as he held it aloft. Magic came naturally in the castle, but it was summer. His warring instincts gave way to the realization that it was his birthday – he was seventeen – and now he could do magic whenever he pleased. He triumphantly Summoned his glasses, a wide grin settling on his face as they smacked into his hand.

Now that he could see, he looked around, properly, and noticed that he had slept on top of the sheets; the bed was perfectly made, save for where he had been. There was a head-shaped indentation in the pillow, and a smaller set of creases where his glasses had slipped off his face. There were identical marks on his cheek, he found as he rubbed it. He then spotted a square of parchment on the bedside table. He Summoned that, as well.

It was in Dumbledore’s handwriting; Harry could tell at once. Being back at Hogwarts for the first time since his funeral, having expected never to return, he realized that he fiercely missed the old man. The task of finding and destroying the remaining Horcruxes seemed insurmountable without the Headmaster’s help. He turned his eyes back to the letter, hoping it contained some last trace of the man’s wisdom. It said:

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday. I am sorry to have missed it.

You are surprised, undoubtedly, to find yourself in your bed at Hogwarts. You were transported here, at the stroke of midnight, by Portkey. That is, I used your wand to create a timed Portkey. Forgive me for neglecting to inform you beforehand; I was incapacitated, and then dead, shortly afterwards.

Perhaps you can guess my reasons; I will write them regardless. At midnight, you became an adult. The blood wards around your aunt’s house fell, and you were therefore in mortal danger. You can imagine that Tom and all his Death Eaters would have struck precisely then. He does have a flair for dramatics.

I have one last task for you, Harry. You will likely encounter a person you hate above all others, within the castle. Keep your temper, for me, and listen to what he has to say. Appearances can be deceptive. You will need him.

You are not a boy anymore. You have become a fine young man, and I congratulate you. I am sure your parents would be proud of you, as I am.

Yours in the light,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry returned the note to the table, taking great care not to wrinkle it. He scrubbed surreptitiously at the wetness on his cheek, making an effort to think of the letter’s contents and not its author.

A man I hate? He furrowed his brow. Surely Dumbledore did not want him to have a nice chat with Voldemort, did he? And at Hogwarts? That was unthinkable.

He reached for the robes hanging from the bedpost. So that’s where they went, he thought, recognizing the set he’d thought the house elves had misplaced. Dumbledore had really put quite a lot of thought into this, right down to the shoes, which were not his own, but were charmed to fit. As he tied his laces, he pondered the other people at Hogwarts whom he hated.

There was Snape; an implacable, burning hatred, mingled with a fierce desire for vengeance, reared in Harry’s chest when he thought of the man. Dumbledore could not expect Harry to parley with his murderer. No, it would have to be someone else.

He made his way down to the empty common room and flopped onto a couch. The lack of other students made him uneasy, though it was perfectly natural at this time of year. Maybe Dumbledore’s talking about one of the students? He got to his feet, scuffing his shoe against the thick carpet, thinking. Malfoy, perhaps? But he was wiser, now. He could see that it was no more than petty rivalry, that he did not hate the boy, after all. When he thought of Malfoy, he thought of a pathetic, desperate soul, like an ugly wild animal backed against a wall. He knew the difference between hatred and contempt, and surely, Dumbledore did too.

But there was someone who evoked both, in his mind – Peter Pettigrew. He remembered the man cringing and cowering, the same man who had sold his parents to Voldemort because he had been afraid. Harry hated him, to be sure, but why would Wormtail be in Hogwarts? And why would Harry ever need him?

Harry paced the floor in front of the big Gryffindor fireplace, which seemed eerily quiet without a fire in it. Pacing was an old habit of his, one he had developed spending hours alone, locked in Dudley’s second bedroom. It was not something he did often at Hogwarts; but he was alone, and the low table was as good as his bed for a course.

He could go out, of course, but the passwords were reset every summer, so he might not be able to reenter. Did Dumbledore mean for him to stay here, then? Until, perhaps, the man he hated came to meet him?

He fingered his wand, looking for something to do, with his newly liberated magic. Aimlessly shifting and levitating the furniture would not be the least productive. Perhaps he could light the fireplace. Looking more closely, he found that there was no wood, not even on the rack by the hearthstone. Had the house elves taken it away for the summer?

House elves, he remembered. Harry lowered the wand in his right hand and snapped the fingers of his left. “Dobby!” he called.

The elf appeared at his side with a pop. “Harry Potter, sir!” he squeaked, all enthusiasm and flapping ears. “Dobby is expecting you today! Happy birthday, sir!”

“Er… thanks, Dobby. Wait, did Dumbledore tell you I was coming?”

“He did! Headmaster Dumbledore is telling me, a long time ago. He said I is to give you a password.”

“Go on, what is it?” said Harry. Trust Dumbledore to read his mind, even from the grave.

“It is ‘faith’, Harry Potter sir!” The elf’s enormous eyes regarded him without blinking. “He was saying to tell you that it is the only password.”

“The only password…” A strange glint appeared in his eyes; even without seeing the knuckles whitening around Harry’s wand, so fixedly did Dobby watch his face, the elf seemed to shrink and retreat a step or two.

“Yes, Master Harry sir. Is Dobby wrong?”

Harry appeared not to have heard him. “The only password in all of Hogwarts, he means?”

“He was not saying anything more, Harry Potter, sir.”

“He never did.” Harry looked down at Dobby, and seemed to notice him for the first time. “Thanks, Dobby. You’ll be around if I need you?”

“Yes sir! Headmaster Dumbledore was telling Dobby, I is serving Harry Potter now!”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you later then.” He mustered a smile for the elf, who positively beamed as he disappeared with a pop.

Harry stood where he was, staring blankly at the now empty space where Dobby had been. He forced his fingers to uncurl themselves, replacing the wand so its tip barely protruded from his sleeve. By the turbulence of his gut, he was likely to hex anyone he encountered, friend or foe, by pure instinct. Better that the fraction of a second it took him to draw his wand be afforded him to think.

He pushed open the portrait and ventured into the eerily quiet corridor. He was not perturbed by dim, deserted hallways; he had done his fair share of roaming the castle after dark. It was merely that sunlight spilled in through the windows, and a faint breeze played at the drapery, yet Hogwarts itself was completely still. There were no ghosts, no life in the suits of armor, not even the smallest peep from anyone in the paintings. He had half a mind to see if Moaning Myrtle still wept in the girls’ restroom, but did not; he knew where he had to go.

Harry reached the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office, much sooner than he had thought possible. It seemed to leer at him, this time around, as though it mocked him for hoping – wildly, desperately, for one fleeting moment – that at the top of the revolving staircase, Dumbledore was waiting to offer him a lemon drop, and all would be well.

“Faith,” he murmured to the gargoyle. It hopped aside, revealing the familiar stone steps behind it. Harry entered, and ascended.

There was no one at the top of the staircase, and Harry told himself that he hadn’t expected anyone anyhow. He laid a hand on the doorknocker– his left, as his right slipped the wand from his sleeve – and froze. There was a noise behind the locked door, unmistakably that of another person.

His first thought was that McGonagall had, after dropping the “Deputy” from her title of “Headmistress”, begun relocating her domicile. Surely his Head of House, or more properly, former Head of House, would be glad to see him; she had undoubtedly been apprised of the Portkey affair. He knocked twice, and pushed open the door.

Sitting behind Dumbledore’s desk, with quill in hand, was none other than Severus Snape.