Harry felt the vibration in his lightning-bolt ring. It was time. He pushed forward, past the lake, across the grounds, up the side of the ancient castle wall, and onto the top of the astronomy tower.
Safest place in Britain. Yeah right. Any random group of broomstick-riding wizards could get in this way.
He tap-danced down the stairs. He glided along the corridors. He flew past the grand staircase. The massive castle was dead to the world. Not a ghost, not a teacher, not a house-elf.
Harry reached the stone gargoyle. He felt for the magic in the stone creature, felt himself welcomed into its control system, felt the shift.
The gargoyle stood up and moved aside, leaving the spiral staircase open to him. That was a relief. He hadn't been sure that would work. Not having to break in through the window was definitely a good thing.
He opened the door, trod on the humorous welcome mat, and scanned the room for his goal.
One painting frowned at the open door; another looked confused.
He spied the book sitting on a raised pedestal, next to the sorting hat. Excellent.
...
Headmaster Dumbledore listened to the assembled aristocracy of the wizarding world bicker and snipe at each other. Not much was likely to happen. Not much had happened for a while. A few years ago, it had looked like the Neutrals were set to collapse. That would have been… volatile. But it hadn't happened. A new player had shown up, with a new ideology, and new energy. The neutrals now called themselves the Gray, and were blocking almost every law the Light or Dark put forward. Stability seemed to be their watchword.
Rumours ran rampant about Lord Slytherin. He'd heard stories of the man. Rumours of a powerful charismatic wizard in an emerald green mask. Rumours of expensive gifts, lavish parties, and stirring speeches. The methods were uncomfortably familiar.
But, despite his first words to Magical Britain, Slytherin had seemed content to let things be. He hadn't interfered at Hogwarts, hadn't tried to recruit students to his cause, and hadn't pushed many laws of his own.
He had a feeling that was about to change. The man's eleven-year-old betrothed was watching him from the visitor gallery. Her gaze was more intense than an auror interrogation. She would be joining Hogwarts this year. So would Harry Potter. It made him uncomfortable.
Most of his contingencies for the boy depended on his being an outcast of both the Light and the Dark. If the Gray took him in…. Would Lord Slytherin appreciate the risks the boy posed, even if he explained? He didn't know. The man still refused all contact with him. Slytherin was harder to pin down than fog.
He jerked. He felt his moon-shaped spectacles heat up, saw them flash a warning onto the lenses. Someone had entered his office, alone. Someone who wasn't on his personal okay list. But how? The security systems shouldn't let anyone in who wasn't okay'd. Even Minerva couldn't give permission without his clearance. Who could possibly— his eyes widened and flickered to the ice-blue stare of Miss Greengrass.
Slytherin could possibly.
And he was trapped here. He didn't even dare patronus Minerva. Not in the middle of a full Wizengamot session.
Merlin damn it!
...
Harry fired a point blank killing curse at a sleeping Fawkes who gave a loud Cawwww, burst into flames, and fell to the floor in a pile of ashes. He conjured three boxes, scooped the ash into one, the newly moulted phoenix chick into the second, and the sorting hat into the third.
He pocketed the ashes. The hat and phoenix chick boxes should be left here. As much as how utterly broken phoenixes were, there was no point swiping him. Phoenixes were extremely loyal. If he wanted one, he'd have to find his own.
He glided to the paintings, and turned them all to face the wall. They weren't happy about this, but what did he care.
That should take care of anything in the room that might tattle on him. Now time for the main event.
Harry opened the Book of Names, and turned to the latest year —1991. There he was — Lord Harry James Potter Slytherin — Current Residence: The master bedroom, Apartment 3, 63 Loather Street, Penrith, Cumbria. The private apartment he rented near Greengrass Manor.
He focused his magic and weaved enchantments. The name faded, replaced with another. Harry James Potter — Current Residence: The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry smirked. Seeing the look on his aunt and uncle's faces when he turned up for a night would be priceless.
He closed the book and turned to the rest of the office. What else could he do while he was here?
...
Daphne could see the grand warlock was agitated. He showed all the signs. Excessive beard tugging, beard stroking, beard fiddling, beard curling, the lot. Not only that, but he kept shooting glances at her. Did he know? Did he suspect?
The Lord who'd been droning on finished his piece and sat down.
Before the next person could stand up, the Headmaster jumped in.
"Thank you, Lord Nott. We'll now take a twenty minute unscheduled break. That is all."
Daphne felt a rock fall into her stomach. She quickly pushed three successive bursts of magic into her lightning-bolt ring.
Dumbledore all but ran out of the chamber.
The assorted wizards and witches murmured, surprised and confused by the grand warlock's sudden exit. They all heard Dumbledore shouting for his phoenix all the way down the corridor.
Please, Harry. Get out of there.
.....
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