Harry nervously followed Nicholas outside, Coral around his left wrist. He could still hardly believe all of this was actually real.

Breakfast had been light and pleasant. Perenelle made great pancakes and the syrup with it had been smooth and warm. The Flamel’s home was comfortable and nothing at all how he thought it would be, not that he had really given much thought to how it would be. However, he couldn’t help but be surprised, for it was a place he envisioned kind grandparents living at, rather than two famous alchemists.

“I trust you slept well, Harry?” Nicholas asked as they headed further from the house.

Harry nodded, Perenelle having asked something similar when she had flipped pancakes for him; however, Harry couldn’t help but frown when he tried to think back to his dream the night before.

It was strange. He couldn’t really remember much of the dream he had had, but he knew he had had one, and an intense one if he could trust his foggy memory. There had been a tangible feel to it, a forbidding sense and a kind of warning that often rung in his ears when Dudley and his friends began plotting. But it had been more than that. Much more.

It had been an urgent warning, a thrum of danger and coming peril.

There had been people and an intense discussion. Talk of some kind of plan and the mention of blood.

Ergh! If only he could remember more!

“Something the matter, Harry? You’re very quiet,” Nicholas observed as they went around a hill and entered a field.

“No, nothing. I was just trying to remember a dream,” Harry answered.

“Ah, the adventures that leave us when morning comes,” he said before stopping at the edge of the field. “And here we are.”

“Uh, where, sir?” Harry asked, a little confused. There wasn’t anything of note that he could see.

Nicholas tapped his old forehead in self reproach. “Oh, forgive me, I forgot,” he said before placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry felt a warm tingle seep from Nicholas’ hand and into his skin and couldn’t help but jump as a large, stable-like building suddenly appeared before them. It was painted red and brown and had a low stone fence encircling a massive cleared area of dirt on the right side.

“Go on around the side. There is someone waiting for you,” Nicholas said with a twinkle in his eye as he gave Harry a little nudge.

Not needing further prompting, Harry hurried forward, opening the low gate of the stone fence and stopping as his eyes took in the building’s exposed and open side.

The interior was magically enlarged, throwing off his perception a bit as his mind tried to reconcile the size of the building and the area within it. However, his internal struggle with spatial dimensions was quickly cut short as he took notice of a form within.

“Norberta?” he asked, amazed as he took in her size.

She was no longer the tiny baby dragon he had helped months before, but an adolescent dragon larger than a horse. She quickly spotted him and clamored forward, stopping just beyond rails with a translucent magical shield, and happily clawed at the ground.

Nicholas came up behind him with a chuckle. “She has been quite anxious to see you again when I told her you would be coming to stay with us.”

“She was?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes. Dragons are more intelligent than most wizards give them credit for. Though they are still animals and do not have our level of awareness, their comprehension of certain parts of speech and communication is quite impressive.”

Harry slowly approached, slightly overwhelmed by her partly reacquired but now genuine size.

:Hi, Norberta: Harry greeted, only to be rewarded by Norberta’s deep, happy rumbles.

“We have to be careful with larger dragons, hence the shield, but I will lower it for the moment. She has been rather docile for a dragon,” Nicholas said, waving his wand and causing the magical divider to fall.

Norberta did not waste any time. She promptly leapt over the low railing and gently nudged her head against Harry’s.

:Nice to see you again, girl: Harry said, patting her nose with his right hand as Coral gave a greeting as well.

Nicholas smiled as he went to the side wall and leaned up against it. “So, how was your first year at Hogwarts, class wise?” he asked, wisely deciding it was not the time to broach the other things that year had involved.

 “It was good. I learned a lot. Potions is the best, but Charms and Transfiguration are pretty brilliant too,” he said. “I like Defense as well, now that Quirrel isn’t teaching it anymore.”

“Ah yes, had Albus mentioned something about the DADA class, now that I think about it. Professor Lupin should now be able to continue teaching it next year.”

“That’s good, but, if you don’t mind me asking, why wouldn’t he have been able to before?”

“Oh, there had been a curse placed on it years ago,” he said offhandedly. “Many believe it was Voldemort’s doing. Anyway, the curse prevented the class from being taught by the same person for more than one year. No matter how devoted, something would happen that would prevent an individual from teaching the following year, like an accidental injury, unfortunate death, odd occurrence, etcetera. Albus has been trying for years to get rid of it, but finally the problem has been resolved, thanks to the revamping of the wards and a talented Curse Breaker.”

Harry slowed his petting of Norberta, surprised to learn the curse on the DADA position had actually been real. He had heard a few rumors, of course, but hadn’t taken them seriously.

“I’m glad that problem has finally been taken care of. I know Albus was tired of finding DADA teachers,” Nicholas added with a chuckle. “He had even offered me the job once, but Perenelle outright refused to let me take it so I said no. Poor Albus.”

“If there hadn’t been a curse, would you have said yes?” Harry asked, intrigued.

“Well, if there hadn’t been a curse, I doubt Albus would have asked me, but if he had . . . I don’t know, I would have had to think on it. A job like that comes with many things attached, after all. Perenelle and I enjoy our privacy and moderate seclusion from the rest of the world. That would be lost if I agreed to work at Hogwarts for any length of time.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Harry agreed.

“I had been a teacher once, though, centuries ago,” Nicholas said after a moment, his voice quieting as his eyes grew sad. “But my student was taken from me.”

Harry, sensing the anguish of the old man, turned and faced him fully, Norberta now standing stoically behind him, her head directly above his own.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He was taken from his home one day in the fall and we found him a week later by a lake.” Nicholas gave a pained sigh before smothering it. “It was a long time ago. I’ve accepted it, but I still wish I knew who had done it.”

Harry nodded softly. “What was your student’s name?” he asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

Nicholas’ eyes shined brightly with a proud and happy memory. “Abramelino. I first met him when he was seven years old. He had displayed a powerful burst of accidental magic, so was brought to me by a friend who knew his family.”

“Abramelino? Yesterday, Professor Snape. . . .” Harry trailed off, his eyes growing wide.

Nicholas nodded, seeing where Harry was going. “Yes, he is the one and the same. The last known Slumbering Mage, before you.”

Harry blinked, totally at a loss of what to do or say.

“When Albus asked if we would be willing to care for you this summer, he did not inform us of your mage status until after we agreed to have you. So let me assure you you’re not here because of what you are, but because we wanted to experience something we haven’t yet and because you needed a safe place to stay. However, I’m sure part of why Albus asked us was because he knew we had some experience in this sort of thing and would be able to help you if you needed it,” Nicholas explained before pushing off from the stable wall. “And allow me to let you in on a little secret. I’m not just a wizard either.”

Harry’s eyebrows went very high now. “Are you a Mage too, then?” he asked eagerly.

Nicholas smirked. “No, I’m a Sorcerer.”

O o O o O

Neville was fuming. He didn’t understand his grandmother. Why was she being like this? All he wanted to do was ask Harry over for one night, that’s all!

Why was she doing this? Why was she refusing to allow him to have time with Harry?

Did she not think he was a good enough friend for Harry? Did she think Harry was too powerful a wizard for him, Neville — an ordinary wizard, to be friends with? She must, and maybe she was right, but for whatever reason, Harry had chosen him to be his best friend. He had told him as much last year. Harry had chosen him, no one else, to be his good friend, his best mate, and Neville would rather be thrown out a window again than toss that friendship away.

Well then, he would just need to keep the friendship in spite of his Gran, who was obviously trying to undermine his amity with Harry. He wasn’t dumb; he could see what she was doing. The subtle comments, the obverse remarks about Harry and their camaraderie. She was trying to make him rethink their friendship.

Pfft. As if that was going to happen. Harry was his first friend ever, and though he had made other friends that year, like Susan, Justin, Ernie, and even Draco, Harry was by far his closest friend.

Gran was going to be sorely disappointed if she thought he would give up on it so easily. . . .

Though, unbeknownst to Neville, it would someday be quite the opposite. When she realized her foolishness, she would be exceedingly proud of him.

O o O o O

Severus closed his eyes, leaning back in his desk chair. He had just returned from a staff meeting, though it barely had anything to do with the school or the coming term.

The recent prophesy made by Trelawney echoed in his ears, and though the words he had heard had been recited spoken by Pomona, he could easily envision the batty divination ‘teacher’ stating it stiffly in her painfully flowery chair.

“The beginning of the end is near! The Dark Lord will take and use the blood of his first enemy, and he will become stronger and more terrible than he ever was. Soon, he will seek to prove his supremacy, instigating a great duel that will shape and forever mark the future of the Wizarding World. The beginning of the end is near!”

Well, that boded well for the future, Severus sneered.

He shook his head, knowing little good would come in agonizing over the prophecy, though he did have some ideas as to the implications of its words and couldn’t help but attempt to process them.

‘Blood of his first enemy’. . . .

Severus was quite certain this ‘first enemy’ was not Harry. Voldemort had hated others before Potter had even been born, after all. Dumbledore, perhaps? He had been one of the first, if not the first, who had noticed something off about the Slytherin heir. However, even if the Headmaster turned out to be ‘his first enemy’, that didn’t answer how Voldemort was going to get a hold of his blood.

With a sigh, he shook himself, trying to fight off the feeling that he was overlooking something very important.

Well, whatever was coming, he would just need to be ready and face it. However Voldemort would obtain the blood wasn’t all that important, what was was what he would do with it. With a grimace, Severus mentally listed the options the Dark Lord would have if he got a sample of Albus’ blood.

The prophesy said he would become stronger, so strong that he would be confident enough to want to prove his power that would lead to some great duel. Severus doubted the Dark Lord would ever be that confident in Peter’s body, even with increased power, which meant he would have to get a new body or alter Pettigrew’s to such a degree that it would be entirely different. Which . . . was frighteningly easy with blood taken from a powerful wizard. . . .

A sinking feeling gathered in Severus’ gut.

Bone of the father. . . .

Severus swallowed, his eyes widening.

Deserting his desk, Severus quickly left his chambers and headed to a place he should have visited months before.

Little Hangleton Graveyard.

O o O o O

Healer Smethwyk made his way down to the floor where St. Mungo’s Blood Bank was. A man bitten by a lone werewolf had recently come in from Wales and needed a dose of the vaccine. He was certain a day would never go by where he wasn’t amazed by the existence of such a cure. White Magic was a miracle. He sighed happily and stepped from the elevator, only to halt in shock.

The entire floor was in shambles. People were sprawled out throughout the hall, smoke coming in from a side room. The room that housed the Blood Bank.

“Help!”

“We need some help down here, hurry!”

“Call the Aurors!”

“What happened?” Smethwyk cried, hurrying toward the first injured person before him.

“Two men, I think. They just ran down here and starting firing spells. Blasting curses mostly. They went straight for the Blood Bank and obliterated it. The protections couldn’t endure their assault,” a man answered, coming to his side as he assessed the injuries of the assistant healer on the floor. “Then they ran out and disappeared. They were inhumanly fast, and I mean that. Inhuman.”

“What do you mean?” Smethwyk asked.

“They were werewolves,” the man stated, meeting his eyes.

“What?”

“I saw their eyes. They had ‘embraced the wolf.’ Trust me, they were werewolves.”

Smethwyk frowned as he looked beyond the man. The Aurors had finally arrived.

O o O o O

Severus apparated at the edge of the graveyard, quickly taking in the area around him.

The sun was setting; it was quiet and no one else was around.

Pleased by this, Severus made his way past the gravestones and to the stone statue residing over the grave of Tom Riddle Senior. He glanced above the graveyard and shrugged off a shiver at seeing Riddle Manor. There were no lights on, and gave no hint to anyone being within.

Refocusing, he came to the grave of Voldemort’s father and waved his wand over it.

The earth rose up easily, cut from the ground like a slice of pie. Putting it aside, he pointed his wand at the crumbling casket and opened the rickety lid.

And there, in the capsule of rotting wood, was a tattered suit with dirt and grime, but that was all. . . .

The body was gone.

O o O o O

Albus stepped back from the floo.

Over a firecall, Bones had just told him what had happened at St. Mungos and that she had begun an investigation.

Five people were dead. The explosive spells used more than enough to cause grievous injury to those unfortunate enough to have been nearby.

The Blood Bank was a total loss, which meant the hospital would need to get more blood donations from those who had been inoculated with white magic, such as himself. However, the two assailants had not only ransacked the Blood Bank, but had left a message.

‘WE DON’T NEED A CURE! LEAVE US BE!’

Fudge and the other political morons were already yammering about it, no doubt preparing to lay down more laws and regulations, rather than think about who was actually responsible and why.

Even if he hadn’t heard the recent prophesy from Trelawney, Dumbledore would have known this was a ruse. If this was truly outraged werewolves bent on refusing the cure and fighting it, why would they attack now? Wouldn’t it have made more sense if they had attacked much sooner? Like when St. Mungos had begun organizing the process of accepting donations and giving out the cure and not months later when the werewolf population was down by a near 90 percent?

Dumbledore shook his head. Obviously something more sinister was going on, and he was certain it involved the prophecy . . . after all, a vial of his blood was in that vault.

O o O o O

Madam Bones was not happy. Couldn’t the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ever catch a break?

She honestly wasn’t sure if her department would be able to pull of what the Ministry expected of them, but she also knew, if they didn’t do it, no one would.

First, there was the investigation of Voldemort (which had started near the end of 1991), trying to discover his whereabouts and plans. Then there was the one concerning Peter Pettigrew (started in June 1992), but his had quickly become part of the file on Voldemort — Petermort.

The next (Spring 1992), involved Marx parchment and the ‘Bone Eater’ curse, which was quickly joined by the break in within the Ministry (Summer 1992), where someone had managed to gain access into the Forbidden Library and classified files, such as the Archive that held the addresses of all the known muggleborns. This then spilled over and grew into the nightmarish investigation on the kidnapped muggleborns, which had then prompted her to begin setting up safety measures for the muggleborn families.

Even now, a few of her Aurors were going house to house, introducing the world of magic to the head of the household and giving them a means to contact them, just in case. So far, setting up the precautions was going rather well. With any luck, if the kidnappers struck again, they would be able to catch them and prevent other children from being taken away from their families. Bones was also hopeful, if they succeeded in catching a kidnapper, they would be able to find the missing children and bring them home.

The attack on Potter was filed with the information they had gathered on Voldemort, although it was clear the event was also tied to the kidnapped children.

And now, on top of all of that, was the destroyed Blood Bank.

Madam Bones sighed. There was just too much going on. It was very difficult to make any sense of it.

However, after the firecall to Albus Dumbledore, she was now quite certain the destruction of the Blood Bank was about more than just a few troublesome werewolves, just as she had suspected.

She didn’t really bother with prophesies much, but this one, she had to admit, was quite alarming and should not be passed off as mere divination nonsense.

“Madam Bones?” Kingsley asked, knocking on the door as he entered her office.

“Yes, Kingsley?” She glanced up from her paperwork.

“You need to see this,” he stated, holding out the report on the Blood Bank.

 She took it and pushed up her reading glasses to skim the pages as he waited in silence.

Muttering a curse, she put the report down.

Every single vial and pint of blood, though broken and unusable, had been accounted for — save one.

Albus Dumbledore’s.

O o O o O

“Lucius?”

Draco paused in the hallway, hearing his mother’s voice in the library.

“Severus stopped by for a moment,” his father stated.

“And he left so quickly? He usually humors you by eating a cracker at least,” Narcissa said lightly, though her voice trailed off at the very end.

“This was not the time for such pleasantries, Narcissa.”

Draco pressed himself against the wall, the tension in his father’s voice so stifling it physically unnerved him. He had never heard his father so . . . scared.

“What’s happened, Lucius?” she whispered.

“He fears the . . . Dark Lord may be . . . moving.”

“What do you mean?”

“You recall what I had told you about our previous discussion, and what we had agreed to do if the Dark Lord ever regained his full strength?”

His mother didn’t verbally respond, but Draco was certain she had given a tentative nod.

“Severus suspects it may be sooner rather than later.”

Draco held his breath, wondering what his parent’s expressions currently were and what this ‘agreement’ had entailed.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked softly.

“Be ready to leave the country at a moment’s notice. I want to know you and Draco are safe, whatever happens. You can’t leave now, obviously, but be ready to leave in case you receive the sign to do so. As well as my own, Severus has precautions in place to alert you if things become . . . dangerous.”

“Alright.”

There was a long pause, although Draco could hear his mother’s uneasy breathing.

“I’m sorry, Narcissa. I should never have gotten our family into this. I should have chosen differently. We are purebloods; I should have chosen a more honorable path.”

“Shh. . . . What is done is done. We have a son now, our beliefs and priorities are no longer what they were before.”

Lucius gave a long sigh.

“Yes, but I think I have been trying to convince myself otherwise, until recently. You know, when the Dark Lord fell, a part of me was relieved, even though I relished the power he had given me.”

“I was relieved as well. Aurors and blood traitors were not the only ones dying. Our friends were as well, like Evan Rosier. I feared . . . Draco and I would lose you.”

“I hope you will not experience that fear again,” he whispered.

“If things are as Severus says, surely he has thought of more than the plan you told me about,” Narcissa asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, he has, but he hasn’t given me specifics.”

“What has he told you, then?”

Draco could tell his mother was becoming impatient. She often did when stressed or worried.

“That in the end it will be up to Harry Potter, and that we must ensure the boy is up to the task and that his way is clear. Severus told me no one else can kill the Dark Lord but Potter.”

“You’re serious,” she breathed.

Draco didn’t blame her. It was up to Harry? His friend who cured werewolves, who healed those he didn’t even know? How could they expect Harry to kill anyone, even if . . . no, especially if it was the Dark Lord?

“Why?” she asked.

“I do not know, but I have never seen Severus so sure about anything in my life. We must help him. Old Magic has dictated it.”

“Old Magic or not, it is Honor that has truly dictated it, Husband,” Narcissa asserted.

“Perhaps,” Lucius conceded.

Draco didn’t move for a long time after that, his parents now silently sitting in the library.

He didn’t know what to think or do.

Voldemort was going to regain his full power, and soon? What did this mean? What would happen? Was his father right? Was his Godfather? Was it truly up to Harry, his friend? Were things going to be like the first war? Would people begin dying again?

Quietly and slowly, Draco headed back to his room, very uncertain of the future.

O o O o O

“Severus, where have you been?”

Severus turned to find McGonagall hurrying toward him. He had just made it back from a few serious errands so was not in a very good mood and, by the look of McGonagall, he could tell his sour mood was about to get worse.

“Never mind, Albus wants to see you. Something’s happened,” she continued, clearly distressed.

“What’s happened?” he asked, stepping alongside her as they hurried to Dumbledore’s office.

“Albus’ blood was stolen from the Blood Bank at St. Mungos!” she blurted.  

Severus didn’t bother to try and muffle his frustrated curse.

“When?” he asked.

“A few hours ago. Madam Bones just got back with Albus over the floo and told him what they had found from sorting out the mess.” McGonagall shook her head, her Scottish accent coming through more than usual. “Where in Merlin’s name were you, Severus?!” she asked heatedly, apparently deciding she wanted an answer this time.

“I was doing some research,” he stated as they made it to the gargoyle.

Minerva hissed out the password and they headed up. “Well, I hope your research was worth it.”

“It was,” he answered with a cold look.

Really, he couldn’t help it. He was trying to contain frustration, anger, and fear, but most of all . . . self-loathing. He should have seen this coming. He should have gone to the graveyard sooner, taken the bones, swapped them out, something; but, instead, he had believed he had had time, thought Voldemort would act as he had last time (to a certain extent). He was a fool. Voldemort wasn’t a Dark Lord for nothing. Things were very different now. The wizarding world knew he was out there already. He had no reason to tread as lightly as before. He would be the Dark Lord the future had feared much sooner now. He would be ruthless and erratic, and who knew what else with Albus Dumbledore’s blood in his veins . . . though, he supposed it was better than having a Slumbering Mage’s. . . .

“Severus?”

Severus blinked, suddenly finding himself in the middle of the Headmaster’s office and facing the concerned gaze of Albus Dumbledore.

“Yes, Headmaster?” he asked, trying to appear calm and collected.

“Are you alright, my boy?” he asked.

Severus nodded, while Minerva beside him looked annoyed.

"Really, Albus, it's your blood that's missing! We should be asking you if you're alright," she stated. “Who knows what they’re doing with it. There’s too many dark rituals they could be implementing as we speak!”

“There was only enough blood taken for one ritual, Minerva,” Albus calmly pointed out.

“Oh, well let’s just have a party then!” she said sarcastically.

“Headmaster, I believe I know which ritual the Dark Lord may choose to . . . implement,” Severus said, for the moment ignoring the Gryffindor Head of House.

Dumbledore gave him a nod to continue.

Severus calmed his raging heart and forced himself to inform them of his ‘recent discovery’. “I believe the Dark Lord is going to attempt to create a new body for himself.”

“What has led you to this belief?” Albus asked. McGonagall was silent.

“I went to Lucius Malfoy’s this evening and did some research there. And now, after going to the cemetery in Little Hangleton, I’m certain he means to go this route.”

He didn't need to tell them he had gone to the cemetery first or reveal what he had really been doing at the Malfoys'.

“And what route is that?” Albus asked, his voice as smooth as glass.

“Bone, Flesh, and Blood from Father, Servant, and Foe to Renew—”

“Revive and Resurrect,” Albus broke in, closing his eyes.

Severus wasn’t all that surprised that Dumbledore was familiar with it, but McGonagall was.

“You know of it, Albus?” Minerva asked, her voice very quiet. “What is it exactly?”

“‘Blood of the Enemy forcibly taken’,” Albus whispered, his eyes calculating.

“Yes, Headmaster,” Severus stated.

Minerva looked back and forth between them, wanting to know what was going on.

“I fear you are correct, Severus. Voldemort has likely chosen this route and will regain his form through this. Through my blood.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” Minerva asked, not willing to give up so easily.

Dumbledore began to shake his head, but his eyes suddenly shot to his spy, who was now clutching his left arm.

Not asking for permission, Albus stepped over and yanked Severus’ sleeve up.

“Oh, Merlin,” Minerva breathed.

The mark was darkening right before their eyes.

O o O o O

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe," the newly promoted werewolf leader recited, pouring the entire vial into the massive cauldron, turning the boiling slop within completely white.

Kamalia Rendall stepped back, avoiding Pettigrew who was rocking in a drooling stupor with his stump of an arm.

Slowly, a form began to rise from the cauldron. . . .

Voldemort savored the moment as he felt air touch his new skin.

“Robe me,” he stated.

Ardolf Lowell, Kamalia’s lieutenant, stepped up, clothing him as requested.

Taking a deep breath, Voldemort looked down at himself. He grinned.

In Riddle’s eyes, his new form embodied the perfect wizard. It was a form that would bring fear to his enemies and awe to his followers.

He examined his hands. The pale skin seemed to glow with power and his wand hand felt eager to cast.

To those present, his form was magnificent and utterly terrifying. Although thin, he did not appear frail, but strong and agile; in fact, he looked a lot like he had before his fall, with short dark hair and arguably handsome features. But there was one big difference. His eyes.

They were as red as blood.

Kamalia Rendall and Ardolf Lowell knelt down before him as the other adult werewolves there followed suit. Pettigrew hurriedly bowed as well, his unintelligible grunts breaking the stillness of the air.

“Come, Wormtail,” he stated as Kamalia handed him his wand.

Pettigrew lifted himself from the ground, seemingly oblivious to his missing limb, his eyes vacant, like a doll’s.

“Hold out your arm,” Voldemort ordered.

Pettigrew held out his left arm, boldly displaying the Dark Mark.

Voldemort placed the tip of his wand on his servant’s tainted skin, calling his followers.

O o O

“He’s calling,” Severus gritted through his teeth.

“Should you go then?” McGonagall asked.

“I must. He would not respond well if I did not.”

“Then go, Severus, but take this portkey, just in case,” Dumbledore said, handing him a small metal seal to attach to the back side of his watch — out of sight but always against his skin.

Severus looked down at the item in his hand, wondering, not for the first time, what he had changed to make Albus so much more cautious than before, not that he was complaining. Perhaps it was the safety necklace he had given Harry? Perhaps. . . .

Attaching the emergency portkey to his watch, he gave his mentor a thankful but solemn nod.

“I will return as soon as I can,” he stated as he went out the door, set on the task before him.