The Struggle Within

Ron dived to the side to intercept the Quaffle as it made its way to the left hoop. Successfully catching it, he hurled it back. He was surprised when the person who caught it threw the ball back towards him and through the right hoop, scoring a goal.

'Weasley! What did you do that for? Whose side are you on?' An irate Ravenclaw in his year shouted at him, picking up the Quaffle and hurtling it to one of his teammates. Ron thought his name was Kevin something, but wasn't too sure.

It was a Saturday afternoon and he was up in the air on a broom playing keeper for... well, he couldn't really call it Quidditch. He wasn't sure what it could be called.

He was quite surprised when Harry had invited him to go flying. After all, he barely talked to his best mate for the whole year outside the times when Harry was sharing something important about the war. Ron supposed that it was his fault. He had spent the whole year trying to catch Malfoy, among other things. So he welcomed this time to spend with his best friend refining his Keeper skills for the upcoming Quidditch final.

However, that plan had to be scrapped almost immediately. As soon as Seamus heard the word "flying", he asked to join in. This sparked off a chain reaction to the point that what started out as casual flying became a full blown Quidditch match. That soon mutated because of so many people asking to join in, that it couldn't even be called a game of Quidditch anymore.

By the time they had gone out to the pitch, there were a total of twenty people from all four houses in sixth and seventh year willing to play. After some deliberation, it was decided that the Snitch and the Bludgers would not be used, just the Quaffle, with ten on each side. Dean had enthusiastically referred to the idea as "like rugby in the air".

Ron had to bite down on the irritation he felt at this. He supposed that it was natural for Harry to seek out other friends. After all, he and Hermione had essentially left the younger boy all alone. But what Ron did not anticipate was the fact that Harry had taken to his popularity with such ease.

He swerved to the right suddenly. Catching the Quaffle and sending it to Neville, who he was reasonably certain was on his team. When he saw the boy fly off to the other end, he sighed in relief at being right.

Now there was another surprise. Neville. Flying. He wasn't great at it, but he was decent enough. He had definitely improved since first year.

As much as he appreciated Harry making an attempt at keeping their friendship alive, Ron still had a difficult time fitting in with Harry's new friends. He barely knew the names of half the people there, while Harry seemed to be in his element, calling out the right people with ease and with some people, sharing what only could be inside jokes.

At least Harry was having a good time. It had been quite a while since the last time Ron had seen Harry this happy. Fourth and Fifth years weren't great for him.

But Ron couldn't help but feel a bit of resentment. Here he was, doing his best to spoil Voldemort's plans, and there was Harry. What had he done for the war so far this year? Ron supposed that it wasn't fair on his part to think like this, Harry had done quite a bit over the years, but he couldn't help himself.

Rising up, he deflected another attempt at the goal. This was quite frustrating! He did not know who was in whose team! There was a reason why there were uniforms in teams!

Harry's hand closed around the Snitch, a great roar was heard from all the Gryffindor supporters. After a year of hard practising, of blood sweat and tears, infighting and clashing egos, Harry had won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor for the first time as Captain of the Quidditch team. The feeling was like no other. As he shook hands with the Ravenclaw Captain for a well played game, Harry reflected that the feeling of victory was better than the one he had felt when they had won the Cup in his third year.

Borne towards the stands on the shoulders of the enthusiastic crowd, Harry accepted the cup from Ginny and raised it into the air to more cheers.

The after party lasted well into the night. Every single member of the team was the centre of attention for the night, as they basked in their achievements.

To the chanting of 'Speech, speech, speech,' from the rest of the house, Connor, the seventh year prefect, climbed onto a table in the middle of the room, a glass in his hand.

With an air of exaggerated pompousness, he quieted the noisy crowd.

'First off, I would like to say "well done" to the Gryffindor team for their superb performance throughout the year.

'To the Chasers,' he nodded to each of the girls in turn, paying special attention to Katie. 'Who have kept the Quaffle out of enemy hands, and scored goal after goal.' The crowd applauded.

'To our fearsome Beaters, who have, through deadly accuracy and strength, knocked many of our opponents out of the sky.' The two in question blushed at the applause generated.

'And no one can forget our keeper.' At being mentioned, Ron turned red. 'I remember Oliver Wood, and Weasley is just as good. Weasley is truly our king!' The crowd cheered and clapped at this statement.

'And finally,' the house grew silent. 'To our Captain and Seeker. Harry, I've seen you play ever since you were a wee little firstie. At first I did not think much of you; after all, you were a scrawny little thing then. Of course, you still are scrawny.' He admitted to general laughter. 'At least you are no longer little!' he shouted over the laughter. 'Anyway, to our captain, who, despite many objections over his selection and in some cases, his general sanity, has managed to win Gryffindor the Quidditch cup! And that too on his first year as Captain! Something that Oliver hasn't been able to do!'

With that, he toasted the team and got off the table to loud applause from the house.

'Concentrate, Harry.' Dumbledore's softly spoken words permeated through the silent room.

Nodding, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes closed and hands outstretched, hovering over the box in front of him. After an indeterminable amount of time, he hesitantly said, 'The magic around it ... it feels a bit protective?' he concentrated on the box in front of him. 'It requires something. A password of sorts?' opening his eyes, Harry looked hopefully at his teacher.

'Indeed, my boy!' Dumbledore said approvingly. 'Now can you tell me what the password is?'

'Erm,' Harry concentrated for a moment longer, "socks"?' At the last word, Harry could feel the wards fall as the box opened to reveal a sherbet lemon. Grinning victoriously, Harry reached for the sweet.

'Indeed,' the headmaster said with a small smile. He examined his pocket watch. 'In fifteen minutes too. You are progressing quite quickly. However –'

He was interrupted by a squawk of surprise coming from his student as the harmless looking sweet squirted Harry in the face with a foul smelling liquid.

'– you still have the unfortunate habit of rushing headlong into things.' The headmaster continued smiling serenely. 'One mustn't let complacency take over, Harry. If you had stopped to examine the object instead of picking it up, you would find that it is actually a gobstone.'

Coughing and spluttering, Harry sent the old man a mean look. His mouth had been open when the offending object (now sitting innocently on the floor) had squirted him, leaving him with a very unpleasant taste in his mouth that was too horrible to describe.

Giving a wan smile, Dumbledore held up his blackened hand. 'This may end up being your fate if you let that happen, Harry. Remember, neither Voldemort nor any future dark wizards will be disguising gobstones as sweets.' He said softly.

Harry nodded, sufficiently cowed by the gentle rebuke.

Being taught by Dumbledore was ... interesting. Instead of lecturing and having Harry take notes, the headmaster would explain the concept and then challenge Harry, asking him questions that required a lot of thinking. True to his word, the headmaster was teaching something that wasn't common; that was sensing magic itself. A branch of the mind arts, the main application of this subject was to detect wards set around a place. Curse breakers like Bill Weasley generally use various detection spells and then study the runes and Arithmantic numbers that are revealed afterwards. While this method was quite accurate, it was time consuming, required a solid understanding of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, and there was the chance of the detection spell either setting off the ward, or alerting the caster.

Dumbledore's method of sensing the magic and the intent behind the ward scheme was a rare art, and according to the headmaster, a dying one. It required a lot of concentration, training, and experience to get right (as it was, Dumbledore was pleasantly surprised that his student got it so fast). However, once a wizard knew how to do it, he did not need to rely on arithmantic calculations or Rune translations.

The only way this could be obtained was by practice and experience. To facilitate this, the headmaster would give Harry warded objects. Harry would then have to apply the methods the old mage spoke about and sense the wards set around the objects.

It had taken Harry three weeks of daily practice under the headmaster's tutelage to get to where he currently was; which was being able to distinguish two different wards layered around one object in around fifteen minutes. He did not have any advantages when it came to this field, save for the fact that it was tied to Legilimency and Occlumency, two subjects that he was quite competent in. Nevertheless, it was still tricky. The accuracy of this art depended wholly on the person using it and his experience.

'And now, Harry, we move onto the other aspect of sensing magic,' Dumbledore said. 'And that is detecting charms and curses. The principle behind this is the same, only this time, the magic is a bit more volatile. I have here with me an assortment of boxes, all warded and containing objects within that may or may not be cursed or charmed.' He indicated five boxes placed on his desk. 'I shall be away for a week, so let's see what you can make of this.' He levitated the boxes into a bag which he then handed over to Harry. Noticing the still disgusted look on the boy's face, he clucked and said, 'Come now, Harry, the liquid shouldn't be so much of a problem! You should be able to take care of the taste left behind with magic by now.'

Blushing a bit, Harry cast a mouth-freshening charm on his mouth, sighing in relief as the foul bitter taste was replaced by the fresh and crisp taste of peppermint.

Dumbledore silently approved of the spell usage. Hopefully, Harry would start using magic a bit more. That way, he would have a better feel for his magic and know his limitations better. 'Now, do you have any questions about the spell book I gave you?'

'None so far, sir,' Harry replied. 'I have been able to cast most of the spells. I expect that I shall be done by the end of next week.'

'Good, now, in addition to this, I want you to use the same technique used to detect wards around various people,' Dumbledore said. 'Eventually you will get to the point where you will be able to sense a person by his or her magical signature. Now it isn't possible to identify every single person you meet, but you can discern who means you harm or not. Just like sensing magic, this is tied to Legilimency.'

Harry picked up the bag. 'May I ask as where you will be going for a week, sir?' he asked hesitantly.

Smiling serenely, Dumbledore said, 'You may.'

Harry sat there looking at the headmaster blankly for a moment. 'Oh, right, where will you be going, sir?'

'I believe that I am close to finding the location of one of Tom's Horcruxes. Hopefully by the time we meet again, Harry, it shall be to obtain the object.'

Upon hearing these words, a lump formed in Harry's throat.

The past few weeks under Dumbledore's guidance had left Harry feeling deeply confused. At first he was sure of his hatred for the old man and his intention of trying to engineer his death. Now he was not so certain. After all, if Dumbledore wanted him dead, why would he go through the pains of training Harry?

After the meeting in the headmaster's office with the other two professors, Harry had met professors McGonagall and Flitwick at separate times for them to find out how far he was in their subjects. The two teachers were quite impressed with his progress so far, as it was halfway through the syllabus for seventh year. So from then on, Harry would then meet professor McGonagall once a week for further instruction. The Transfiguration teacher had him conjure animals made of metal, and was at the same time teaching him how to transfigure the material of an object without changing the object itself. A good example of this was the Duro charm.

His lessons with Professor Flitwick happened twice a week. Along with teaching Harry new spells, the Charms master would also duel with the boy. Harry appreciated having another duelling partner. While Neville and Susan were good partners, they really weren't that much of a challenge. And the Room of Requirement could not match the inventiveness and out-of-the-box thinking that Professor Flitwick showed.

'This,' squeaked the short man, showing Harry an incantation and the accompanying wand movements, 'Is an area wide calming charm. The Aurors primarily employ it to calm down large mobs. Can you tell me how it can be used in a duel, Mr Potter?'

Harry thought about this for a moment before giving up.

Smirking, the Charms Professor replied. 'The Unforgivable Curses require emotion to power them, most notably hatred. Now with a calming charm, the hatred is reduced. When the hatred is reduced – '

'– the curses lose their potency!' Harry said with dawning realisation. 'That is so simple!'

'Indeed, Mr Potter,' Professor Flitwick said enthusiastically. 'Not many people think of using such a charm as it is quite overlooked. However, its effects do not last very long, especially if you are facing a determined opponent well versed in the mind arts. So I wouldn't be expecting anything by casting this charm on the Dark Lord if I were you, Mr Potter. But a normal Death Eater should be susceptible enough.'

The one thing that Harry soon found himself looking forward to, much as he did not want to admit it, was the time he spent with Dumbledore. What time he did not spend detecting wards, he spent refining his skills in Occlumency. Dumbledore, Harry found, was quite an engaging teacher. The anecdotes the man would share were amusing, and tended to distract Harry from the Legilimency probes the old man would launch randomly while having a conversation with Harry.

Along with that, the headmaster would also lend books from his private collection.

'What you will see in most of these tomes, Harry, are spells that are not pleasant,' Dumbledore said when lending the first book from his collection. 'Some of them may even be classified as "dark".'

'You don't agree, sir?'

'No, not really,' the old man said after a pause. 'While some of the effects within are indeed gruesome, they lack the malice that true Dark magic has. I think you may find spells such as those in the Black family library.'

Harry involuntary shuddered as he thought of some of those spells.

'I see that you have seen those spells,' Dumbledore commented lightly. 'What are your thoughts on them?'

'I don't think I will be trying out any of those in a hurry.' Harry said with a disgusted look on his face.

'I would hope not,' Dumbledore replied. 'Those curses require a lot of negative emotion to power them. Most of them are in fact quite unnecessary, not to mention addictive. After all, why go through the pains of turning your opponent inside out when there is an equally powerful and more effective cutting curse? Most of true Dark magic has applications only in torture or subjugation of will. A spell need not be designed to kill to be classified as Dark. Of course there are exceptions, the most notable of them being the Killing Curse. But I am sure as you have read, you know why it is considered an Unforgivable Curse.'

Harry took a few moments to digest this. 'I don't quite –'

'I have no illusions of what you will eventually end up doing, my boy,' Dumbledore said tiredly. He sighed and looked at Harry mournfully.

Harry did not reply as he frantically tried to hide the rising panic from showing. Did the old man know what he was planning?

'As much as it pains me so, I know that you may end up killing by the time this war is over.' The old man finally said. 'My hope is that you don't end up falling to the Dark side.'

'You don't have to worry about that sir,' Harry said, surreptitiously exhaling in relief.

And this brought Harry to his current dilemma. A few weeks back, the headmaster's plans for the war were alien and not something Harry agreed with. At that time, Harry could distance himself from the old man. Think of him as something not human.

Now ... now, things had changed. Along with teaching Harry, Dumbledore would also engage Harry in conversation. Initially, Harry was closed off and distant. But the headmaster had persevered, more often than not giving his opinion of things regarding current matters and his reasoning for thinking thus. This in turn made it hard for Harry to hold onto the hate.

It was easier to hate a monster than a human. And in the past few weeks, Dumbledore had more than managed to show his humanity.

Talking to Dumbledore and spending so much of time with the man had rekindled some of the positive feelings Harry had for his headmaster. At times Harry wished that the old man had not bothered taking an active role in his training. At least this way, things would not be so confusing.

On one hand, there was what the man had done to him in the past. At the same time, he was obviously trying to make up for his mistakes, judging by the effort he had put into teaching Harry and connecting with him.

However, Harry was sure that Dumbledore was planning on engineering his death. But, on the other hand, he had to wonder about that. He had searched hard for a hint of malice on the ancient wizard's weathered face, a small hint that proved that the man did not think of Harry as anything more than a pawn, finally coming to the conclusion that either Dumbledore was a skilled actor, or he really was being sincere.

He also had to wonder ... 'was the headmaster holding back on the lessons because he was waiting for a sign from Harry. Did he feel that Harry was not ready until he had proven his dedication this year?

Harry thought back to the first five years at Hogwarts. His marks weren't too bad (at least in the first third and fifth year exams). They were slightly above average, in fact. However, at the same time, they weren't exemplary. Was the headmaster looking for excellence before deciding to spend time training Harry?

Did the headmaster really want Harry dead? If he did, then why was he training Harry? True, one could argue that it was a bit late, but at the same time, in Dumbledore's defence, Harry also needed to grow up. There was a reason why a person was taught magic properly from the age of eleven, and not earlier. It was a well established fact even a thousand years back that eleven was the safest time a witch or wizard could start performing spells safely without stunting their magical growth.

Harry even began to doubt if the headmaster actually knew if he was a Horcrux. Could it be that the comment made during his second year was meant to be something entirely different?

He almost wanted to call off the whole kill-the-headmaster business.

But then there was Draco's task. Not only had Harry promised to help Draco, but he had also sworn an Unbreakable Vow. It meant that he had no choice but to help Draco kill Dumbledore. To go against that would mean death. And Harry did not want to die. The very thought of calling off the whole idea made his magic twinge, warning him that he was close to breaking his Vow.

There was no way Harry could even warn Dumbledore and tell him about Draco's plans. After all, it was Harry himself who had put in that aspect of the vow. For the first time Harry wished he wasn't so paranoid.

Really there was no other choice. He had to help Draco kill Dumbledore. At least his vow said that he only had to help. He had no obligation to kill Dumbledore himself for Draco. As far as Harry was concerned, helping Draco repair the cabinet was help enough to fulfil his end of the bargain. The rest was up to Draco.

And, considering whom Dumbledore was, Harry was sure that the headmaster was more than a match for a bunch of adult Death Eaters and one sixteen year old Death Eater. It would be more than easy for Dumbledore to fight them off, especially when he had the Order and the teachers patrolling the castle. And Harry knew that they were around every night.

Harry also could thin the ranks out too, use his cloak to stay invisible and hex them unseen and unnoticed.

Dumbledore would understand. It was for the Greater Good after all. By helping Draco, he would have an easy way to end Voldemort. The headmaster kept Snape working both sides after all.

Yes, this was for the best. Harry really had no other option. Things would work out for the best.

It was risky, and it put the headmaster's life in possible danger, but Harry couldn't care much about that. While he didn't actively want the man dead, it did not mean that he had fully forgiven the headmaster. Harry was still a bit bitter about his placement at the Dursleys for one. Not to mention Dumbledore's rather cavalier attitude with Harry's possessions and life in general.

Harry still was wondering if he should mention to the headmaster that he had all the Horcruxes in his possession. That was a sticky bit of news, and he did not know what he should do with it. Logically speaking, he should tell Dumbledore. After all, the man was working with him. But something stopped him from mentioning it. Harry was not sure what, but he was reluctant to impart this bit of news.

Thinking about studies got Harry thinking about Hermione. While he did concede that absorbing a fragment of Voldemort's soul had given him an edge over other students. He still resented the fact that the girl thought he was cheating. He had put in hard work to understand the notes left behind by the Half-Blood Prince, and also had worked beforehand on the material to learn the spells. It would be more than easy for him to just use the knowledge and notes to coast through the classes by putting in the least amount of effort. What was more irksome was the fact that Hermione resented the fact that he was outstripping her. Really, she needed to lighten up.

Andrew Mitchell got out of his father's Mercedes, eager to get inside his house. His father had just given permission to let him go to Thorpe Park with his mates the next day. All he needed right now was to speak to his mother, make a few phone calls and he was all set. It would be a great way to spend the holiday that had come up in the middle of the week thanks to the school closing for some administrative reasons.

'Hello,' he said, stopping suddenly when he saw the stranger standing on the footpath outside their house. He studied the man looking intently at their house. The old man had waist long hair and a beard just as long. But that wasn't what caught the teenager's attention. No, what had drawn Andrew's eye towards the man was the flamboyantly cut suit. Andrew was sure he had never seen a suit in that shade of purple. Scratch that, he wasn't aware that they made suits in that colour in the first place!

'Um, can I help you?' He asked uncertainly. He looked around. It was as if the old man had appeared out of nowhere. Andrew had not seen him while they were pulling in. He was sure he would have noticed somebody so ... ostentatiously dressed.

Bright blue eyes behind a pair of half-moon glasses turned to gaze upon him, and Andrew got the feeling of being x-rayed as the man regarded him. 'Oh, yes, is this the Mitchell Residence?' The man said in a strong voice that sounded as if it belonged to a person more of his father's age.

'Yes, it is,' said his father from behind him, obviously having parked the car in the garage. 'And who may you be?'

'Ah yes, I am Albus Dumbledore.' the old man said genially, 'I would offer my hand to shake, but I am afraid that it is rather fragile at the moment.' He held out the blackened appendage as if to prove his point.

'Ah,' said Dr Oliver Mitchell. 'Well, I am afraid that I cannot look at that at the moment. Perhaps you could come by my practice tomorrow? Although I think you need to go somewhere with better resources if you ask me. Like a hospital.' He trailed off as he examined at the hand from afar with a look of pity barely disguised by his professional mask.

'Oh, no Dr Mitchell,' laughed the man airily, waving his blackened hand. 'I am not here for my hand. As much as I wish it otherwise, I am afraid that there is nothing that can be done about it.'

The old man sighed deeply as he leant back in his chair. Tonight was a quiet night. A night best spent reminiscing. He looked around him. The house he was sitting in was built by his own two hands. It wasn't a large mansion by any means, it certainly did not live up to the fantasies he had created as a youth, but it was big enough. It had five bedrooms, and was in a quiet and respectable enough neighbourhood ... not bad for a person with his background.

He never knew his parents. His father died before he was born, and his mother had given him up when he was three instead of opting for rehabilitation.

He was one of the few in his orphanage to have finished his School Certificate and the only one to go further and achieve his Higher School Certificate. After that, he had taken up a job as a mechanic in a garage. Through a lot of dedication and hard work he had managed to get a managerial position in the garage. And with the help of his beautiful wife (whom he had grown up in the orphanage with) he had managed to expand the business and start a chain of service stations.

Now here he was at seventy five. He had a beautiful wife who had only become more beautiful as she aged. His three children, a doctor, a geneticist (some sort of scientist, he was told), and a senior executive working in an advertisement company were prospering and living content lives. And he had a horde of bright grandchildren. Besides his wife, he did not know what had happened to his fellows at the orphanage. And to be frank, he really had no desire to find out. Sure there were times when he wondered what had happened to his old friends, Billy and Eddie, but those times were fleeting. His dear Amy (who had gone to visit their daughter and the new baby) wholeheartedly agreed with his sentiments.

There were just too many bad memories of their childhood. Memories that both of them were glad to be rid of.

'Dad, there is someone here to see you.' The voice of his oldest son broke him out of his reverie.

'Hm,' he looked up to see Oliver standing there in the doorway to his open study, a tall bearded stranger that looked to be his age (if not older) standing behind him. He stared at the ostentatiously dressed man for a moment in disbelief before gathering his wits.

'Not to be rude, but who are you?' he said as he stood up.

'My apologies,' said the old man genially striding forward, 'I am Albus Dumbledore, and I was wondering if I could have some of your time. It is a matter of great import.'

The old man grunted in response as he sat back down. 'Very well, please, sit.'

'Now, how may I help you,' he said when his son had left and it was just the two of them.

'I am afraid that I will have to bring up a bit of the past, Mr Mitchell,' Dumbledore said as he tented his fingers together. 'Or is it Mr Dennis Bishop?' At those words, Dumbledore's blue eyes looked up piercingly at his host.

Dennis Mitchell's heart stopped beating for a few moments as he heard the surname he was born with. He wanted nothing to do with his past. Neither with his mother, nor with that damned orphanage. So he had changed his name, secure that he had outrun the memories. Now, fifty years later, it seemed the past had come back.

How did Dumbledore know his real name? Both he and his wife had been careful in keeping it from the children, and they had never even thought of using that name once it had been officially changed.

He hoped that the man in front of him did not know the other name from his past that he so wanted to forget.

Upon a windy cliff just outside a village an old man appeared. The wind ripped at his clothes, flung his hair back and ruffled his beard as he surveyed his surroundings.

Taking out his wand, Dumbledore cast a charm that negated the effects of the particularly windy night on his hair. He let it ripple his robes, however. He did not want to use more magic than was necessary. Besides, the effect of his cloak and robes billowing was, in his opinion, rather impressive. More was the pity that nobody was around to see it.

He moved slowly to the cliff, away from the village.

It had taken a lot of work, but he had finally managed to browbeat that Muggle into revealing the spot the orphanage had taken the children to for a day trip. It was probably a good thing that he had suggested, via Legilimency that the Muggle have a drink of calming potion before he interrogated him, judging by the expression of terror on Dennis's face when he heard Tom's name. And that was under the effects of the potion. He probably would have had heart failure without it.

As it is, he was quite distressed when Albus had spoken his true name. It was probably a blessing that he had the memory of the meeting removed. Let Dennis spend the winter of his life in blissful happiness.

Finding Dennis Bishop or Amy Benson, the two Muggle children that Tom had terrorised in his youth was quite a lot of work. Albus was reminded of the names when he saw the memory of his first meeting with Tom in the Pensieve with Harry. It had been a small offhand mention, and Albus had not given it much thought the first time he had met Tom. But now, almost sixty years after that ill-fated meeting, the incident that Mrs Cole had mentioned in passing had a different significance.

Knowing his former student, Albus knew that as Voldemort, Tom would covet the cave where he had showcased his abilities and proved himself to be superior. So it stood to reason that he would use this place to hide one of his Horcruxes. Tom was quite predictable that way.

The problem was that while he knew where the orphanage took its children on a day trip, he did not know which cave it was. The answer to that question could only be given by one of Tom's victims, Dennis Bishop or Amy Benson.

Of course, finding the two individuals in question was another matter altogether. It had been more than six decades since Tom had done what he had done. And anything could have happened to those two orphans. Since Albus had some contacts in the Muggle world as Chief Warlock, it was a simple matter of using those contacts to try to trace at least one of them.

At first it looked like the trail had gone cold, that both of them had possibly died (those Muggles were an inconveniently short lived sort) but then an application for a name change had cropped up from a very old file. From there it was simply a matter of finding out where the man now lived. And from then, it was all in Albus's very capable hands.

It was quite interesting that the two traumatised children had married each other. The romantic in Albus found it touching that two souls would be brought together by one harrowing experience. But that fact really did not mean much to him. He already had the information that he had come for.

Reaching the edge of the cliff, Albus peered at the bottom, trying not to let the vertigo get to him.

If he remembered the Muggle's directions (provided Dennis himself remembered the directions) then the cave should be right ... there.

Albus saw the cave in question. The exterior looked just as Dennis had described it. He did have a good memory after all.

Looking down, Albus chose a spot halfway down the cliff and apparated to it. He needed to get a closer look.

From his new vantage point, Albus had to marvel as to how a child barely ten years old managed to ferry himself and two others down such a sheer cliff. The path was steep and treacherous.

Focusing on the cave entrance again, he extended his magical senses. He could feel a faint amount of evil coming from it, a hint of wrongness that suggested the existence of something that should not be there. There was also the suggestion of Tom's distinct magical signature.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. That was the cliff where Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop had seen the true nature of Tom Riddle and experienced a fragment of the power and cruelty he wielded now as Voldemort.

He would love to go inside now, but then common sense prevailed. Tom had used a lot of exotic and seldom heard of Dark Spells and wards to guard his first Horcrux. There was no telling what protections surrounded this one. They would be numerous. So he would need help in retrieving this one. As it was he had trouble getting the ring, forget destroying it.

He would come back with Harry. This would surely test the boy's training. Albus knew that this was literally throwing the lad into the deep end (and that was not counting the depth of the water separating the cliff from the cave) but there was no other way for it. At least, here Albus would be able to guide his young protégé.

"Protégé" ... now there was a word he hadn't thought of using to describe Harry. In fact he had never used that word to describe any of his students (and he had quite a few favourites before). But the term fit Harry.

Lost in his thoughts, Albus absently Disapparated from the cliff and reappeared inside just behind the Hogs Head.

While he would have loved to go in and make the ruse foolproof, he really could not bear the hostile stares of his younger brother. Not when his death was so close. Alas, that was one problem that he had not solved, and could not solve. It seemed that he would die being hated by his brother, the one remaining member of his family.

Albus stopped for a moment as the pain hit him, waiting for it to pass by. The aches were becoming more frequent. And this long excursion had not helped any. Along with the pain was the bone deep ache that he was new to and did not expect to feel for another seventy years at the least.

Leaning against the wall, Albus took a few deep breaths, getting his body under control. He could not afford to look this weak in such a public place. He grasped for the potion phial.

Downing a small sip, he waited for a while for the potion to take effect. When he felt his body reenergised from the energy potion that Severus had started supplying, he strode off to the castle.

He was growing increasingly dependent on them. It was his fifth phial today. Severus had warned him that they were dangerously addictive. To which he had just given the younger man a bland look and said that since he was dying anyway, he had no problem with that.

At least he had mended some of the hurts that he had caused Harry. The boy had moderated his hostile glares, and the feeling of tension and friction that had accompanied their discussions off late had reduced noticeably.

It wasn't enough to earn him full forgiveness from the teen, but Albus was fine with that. As long as the boy moved past the hatred, bitterness and anger, Albus was happy.

'It does not do to dwell on dreams,' as he kept saying. These were the words of wisdom made by a lonely old man who had committed a lot of mistakes in his past. These words had seen him through all these years.

Shaking his head, Albus entered his quarters. It had been quite a while since he had last thought of the past. He was getting melancholic in his old age.

The potion had worn off by the time he reached his bed.

As he tiredly sank down on his bed, Fawkes took off from his perch and flew towards the headboard of his bed, singing softly all the time.

Phoenix song was another thing that was keeping him going now. Albus was positive that he would have been bed ridden much sooner, energy potions or not, if it wasn't for Fawkes. It was too bad that the phoenix could not do anything to cure him of the curse. Indeed, Fawkes had cried quite a bit on his hand before giving up. In the end, the phoenix, much to its obvious distress was relegated to just using his song to help him.

Smiling gently at his one true friend, Albus got ready for bed, falling asleep to the phoenix's crooning. He needed rest, and needed a lot of it. In the coming Saturday, he and Harry would go and retrieve the object. Were he much younger, the first thing he would have done is gone to Harry's dorm and practically dragged the boy over the very minute his feet touched Hogwarts. Had he been injury free, he would have gone the next day with the boy. However, he was much too tired to do anything, and he would not be able to recover till the next Saturday. But Dumbledore was not concerned. The Horcrux had waited this long, it could wait a few more days. Idly, as sleep claimed him, Dumbledore wondered which one it would be. Would it be Hufflepuff's cup, or Slytherin's Locket?

Draco Malfoy sat back as he looked at the cabinet. With trepidation, he looked over the notes he had made and consulted the complex rune diagram. Slowly, he felt elation. He had finally done it!

It had taken months of work, weeks of labour and days of toiling, but he was very close to having the cabinet fixed.

All it needed was one more part, and one more charm. Then a test run to be sure. But he was sure that it was done.

Now at least the Dark Lord would not kill his family.

Draco breathed out a sigh of relief. All that was left now was to eliminate Dumbledore. Then, his year, and perhaps his time at Hogwarts would be done.

All of this would not have been possible without Harry. However reluctant he was to admit it, he really could not deny the truth. Draco was sure that the cabinet would have taken longer to get fixed if it wasn't for his former school rival. It was funny how time could change people.

Draco knew that he would have to help Harry get to his master. He cursed the oath that he had made that compelled him to assist Harry.

Well there was nothing he could do but hope that Harry succeeded in killing the Dark Lord. Because otherwise, it won't take long before He figured out just who had betrayed his location.

Draco had full intentions of making up a story about how he managed to appeal to Potter's arrogance and lead him like a lamb for the Dark Lord to slaughter if that happened.

A small part of Draco did not like doing this. After all, the two of them had become – well, he wouldn't use the word "friends", and he doubted that they ever would be friends, but they weren't exactly enemies either. But one had to look at the realities of life. The Dark Lord was pretty powerful, and Harry just a sixth year.

Besides, he was sure that Harry had thought of doing something like this with Dumbledore. Potter would be extremely stupid not to. Draco had no illusions about his chances for success either.

Oh well, each of them could only do their best.

He removed Harry's enchanted mirror. 'Harry Potter.'

Harry felt the mirror vibrate. Casting a few wards around him he took out the mirror not seeing his reflection, but Draco's face. 'Yes?'

'The cabinet is nearly ready.' Draco said, with emotion colouring his voice. 'All it needs is one more panel, which should come tomorrow night. And if the test run is successful, it should be operational. And I have a good feeling about the test run.'

'Good, I'll meet you then with the panel. We shall discuss this further then. Right now, I am a little busy.' Saying this, he terminated the connexion just as he sensed McGonagall approach the room.

The very next night, Harry appeared suddenly in front of Draco. 'Here you are,' he said, as he handed the parcel to him.

'Thanks,' Draco said as he reverently took the last panel. 'We're almost there!'

Harry could see the blond's hands trembling. 'Yeah,' he said quashing his own jittery feelings.

'How long do you think this will take?'

'A day or so,' Draco said. 'Then I have to carve in the final rune. After that, the activation charm. If the cabinet is repaired properly, then we move on to testing it.'

'I hope you have done everything right, Draco. Otherwise, the results won't be good.'

The blond chewed his lip. 'I don't even want to think about what will happen if I made a mistake,' he said.

'I'll check everything again, just to make sure,' he finally said after a long pause. 'It will set the completion back by a day or so, but better safe than sorry at any rate.'

'Yeah,' Harry replied. He took in a shaky breath. 'Well, tell me when you are done.' With that, he left the Room of Requirement.

Harry spent the next hour tossing and turning in his bed. Things were moving too fast! He thought he had more time. He had to decide now. Should he fully help Draco, or switch sides at the very last moment? Was the headmaster really out to kill him, or was it possible that the old man did not know about Harry's scar and never did have the intentions of killing him?

More importantly, should he come clean with his knowledge of the Horcruxes, or should he continue pretending that he had no idea about their existence?