Harry Potter: The Making of a Dark Lord

Dumbledore wondered idly if Fawkes would have intervened on Harry's behalf against Quirrell if Harry had not produced his inexplicable miracle. They were lucky that the bird had not taken it upon himself to introduce Harry to Sirius Black before the boy's godfather could be Kissed.

So far all of his plans to force a confrontation between Harry and Voldemort had been ruined by strange magic from Harry or by Fawkes' intervention. Had Dumbledore been a gambling man, he might have wondered if he were playing a rigged game. Whatever the case, he knew he would have to take measures to ensure that Fawkes did not intervene again. There was simply too much at stake.

Dumbledore moved away from Fawkes and groaned tiredly as he sat down in his ornate desk chair. He looked despairingly at the topmost parchment of a huge pile. There was still so much work to do, and he was only one man. And an old one, at that.

His current situation was complicated because he could not publicly announce the return of the Dark Lord. If he did so now, his reputation would suffer just as badly as Harry's currently was. That would have to wait until the prophecy was safely out of the picture. For now he had to make his moves slowly, discreetly, and in complete secrecy.

Then there was the increasing headache of Molly Weasley. Dumbledore was starting to regret getting her involved in this. She had never demanded money before, but now she wanted a piece of the Potter vaults to reward the risks she had taken with the safety of her family.

So he had reluctantly agreed with her plan to dose Harry with a mild love potion. If Harry were in a serious relationship with Ginny, it would lend credibility to the huge bequest that Harry would bestow on the Weasleys when he died. But the infernal woman had refused to allow Harry to come to the Burrow, citing the increased risk of attacks.

Dumbledore agreed with her about the risk to the Burrow, despite its strong wards, but he wasn't sure what else to do with Harry. The boy had already written him three times this summer, and the last letter had practically demanded that Dumbledore get him out of Surrey immediately and then hand over his vault key. Well, the latter was not going to happen any time soon, but he would have to move Harry in the near future. He didn't want to alienate the boy any more than he had to.

Though it would raise some eyebrows, it wasn't out of the question to bring Harry to Hogwarts. The trouble was that he just didn't want Harry around all the time; he knew the boy was going to demand advanced training this year, and it was imperative that he didn't receive it. He had, of course, taken measures to insure that no amount of training would matter anyway, but better safe than sorry. He would have to think more on the matter.

Dumbledore sighed and looked over the top parchment on his desk a final time. He opened a locked desk drawer and pulled out a small vial of blood that he kept on hand for just such occasions. Dipping his quill into the blood, he carefully signed the parchment and blew on it to dry it. Sealing it in a large envelope, he set it aside and made a mental note to visit the Owlery later.

He could ask Fawkes to make the delivery, but Dumbledore wasn't sure the blasted bird wouldn't intentionally flame this particular package.

July 26th, 1995 – Little Whinging; Surrey

Harry Potter walked slowly down Magnolia Crescent toward Privet Drive. He had just finished his early evening run and was now cooling down before heading back to his room. It had been over two weeks since he began his physical fitness program, and he was starting to see results. He could see the nascent muscles developing on his upper body, and his cardiovascular fitness had improved dramatically. Harry had been pushing his body very hard, and could now complete his daily four mile course in 28 minutes without exhausting himself. Dobby had been feeding him well, so Harry was feeling stronger and healthier than he ever had.

He hadn't solved the problem of being able to do magic, but Dobby had once again come through for him. He had hesitantly suggested to Harry that he practice with a stick from the yard; that way he would perform no actual magic, but could memorize the spell movements and incantations.

"A stick," Harry had repeated dumbly.

The simple brilliance of this solution made him smile. He wondered why he had not thought of such an obvious thing and thanked whatever deities there were for Dobby. He now had a small muggle notebook full of potentially useful (and deadly) spells to practice, and he was using his stick to "cast" them for hours out of every day. Dobby, now able to read most book titles, was keeping him supplied with fresh books whenever he wanted them.

Harry's thoughts turned to Dumbledore and his friends as he slowly ambled home. There was no word from Hermione so Harry assumed she was still in France. He would try to contact her around his birthday; she would probably owl him a small present.

Ron had not written again, just as he had said, but Harry had been receiving almost daily packages of sweets from Mrs. Weasley. He wondered why it was permissible to send him packages of food but not to send him letters. He thought all this cloak-and-dagger business about intercepted owls was a bit much, but he shrugged it off. At least he was eating well.

He had written several times to Dumbledore, begging to be released from his prison, but the old man had just written back to be patient. He had also inquired, a bit pointedly, as to why Dumbledore was in possession of his vault key. Dumbledore had informed him that it was safest with him, and that regardless it was too dangerous for Harry to visit Diagon Alley this year. Someone else would be picking up all of his school supplies.

Harry's frustration with Dumbledore's restrictions was growing daily.

Harry's thoughts turned to the youngest Weasley. He had been thinking about little Ginny quite often for the past two weeks, and now realized how foolish he had been to ignore her during the school year. She had rarely spoken to him, and always seemed to hang back in the shadows, making it easy for her to escape attention.

I wonder why she's so shy, Harry thought. She was cute—perhaps even beautiful—now that Harry thought about it. The way her freckles make little patterns on her nose and cheeks is adorable, he mused. Thinking of her long red hair made Harry unconsciously run his fingers through his own hair. Is this what it feels like to fancy someone? he wondered. Do I fancy Ginny Weasley? Should I maybe write to her? What on earth would I say?

But then Harry's thoughts darkened, turning yet again to the mortal danger he was in. He had no time to fancy someone. He couldn't afford to lose focus. He couldn't afford to put anyone else in danger, especially if it was someone he cared for.

Looking back on his life, Harry realized that being his friend carried great risks. Ron and Hermione had put themselves in peril several times, and now the stakes were even higher. Nothing, Harry thought, absolutely nothing is going to distract me from being ready to stop that monster. And in his mind Harry was indeed strong enough to stop Voldemort. When their wands locked in the graveyard he had felt it. He had known it. And next time he would be prepared.

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