Harry Potter pressed his face against the cold window of his bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive, watching the red streak that had appeared in the summer sky three nights ago. The comet was visible even in the early evening light, a crimson gash across the pale sky that made his scar tingle with an odd warmth. Not painful like when Voldemort was near, but almost pleasant.
The Dursleys had banned all mention of it at breakfast that morning. "Unnatural rubbish," Uncle Vernon had declared, glaring at Harry as if the comet's appearance was somehow his fault. But Harry couldn't stop looking at it. There was something about the way it pulsed with deep red light that drew his attention for hours at a time.
And the dreams. Strange dreams where he felt confident, respected, where people actually listened when he spoke instead of dismissing him or whispering behind his back.
"Get away from that window, boy!" Uncle Vernon's voice boomed from downstairs. "Don't want the neighbors seeing you gawping at that thing!"
Harry stayed where he was. After everything he'd been through, Vernon's shouting seemed more annoying than threatening. He'd faced Voldemort. He'd watched Cedric die. He'd fought in the Department of Mysteries. Vernon Dursley yelling about windows hardly registered anymore.
"Don't make me come up there!"
"Then don't," Harry muttered, not moving from the window.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs suggested Vernon had decided to make good on his threat, but before he could reach Harry's room, a sharp crack echoed from the street below.
Harry looked down to see a familiar figure in midnight-blue robes striding up the front path, long silver beard catching the streetlight.
"Professor Dumbledore," Harry breathed, his spirits lifting.
Uncle Vernon's roar of outrage shook the house as the doorbell rang. Harry could hear Aunt Petunia's sharp whispers, Dudley's confused grunting, and then Vernon's stomping toward the front door.
"What do you want?" Vernon's voice carried clearly through the walls.
"Good evening, Vernon. I trust you received my letter?"
Harry frowned. What letter?
"We told you already," Vernon snarled. "The boy's not going back to that place. Nearly got us all killed last time, didn't he?"
"I'm afraid that decision isn't yours to make," Dumbledore replied pleasantly. "Harry's education continues as planned."
"We won't have it! The boy's nothing but trouble-"
"The boy," Dumbledore's voice carried a steel edge beneath the politeness, "has done more to protect this world than you could possibly imagine. I suggest you show him the respect he has earned."
Harry felt a warm glow at the defense. It was nice to have someone acknowledge what he'd been through, what he'd done.
After a moment's silence, Vernon grudgingly said, "Fine. Take him. But don't expect us to welcome him back."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Dumbledore replied dryly.
Harry grabbed his trunk, already packed and waiting. He'd learned years ago to stay ready for quick escapes from Privet Drive.
"Ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked as Harry hurried downstairs.
"More than ready, Professor."
The Dursleys clustered in the hallway like pale, hostile sentinels. Aunt Petunia's lips had disappeared entirely, pressed together in disapproval. Dudley cowered behind his parents, still terrified of magic after his encounter with Dementors.
"Well then," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "I believe we have business elsewhere. Good evening."
Vernon slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
"Charming as ever," Harry said.
"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his blue eyes twinkling. "Though I hope you don't mind, Harry, but we have a small errand to run before I deliver you to the Burrow."
Harry felt a familiar stab of irritation. Of course there was an errand. There was always something with Dumbledore, always some plan Harry wasn't fully trusted to understand.
"What kind of errand?" he asked, working to keep his voice level.
"Nothing too demanding. We need to visit an old colleague of mine. Horace Slughorn. You may have heard the name?"
Harry shook his head, studying Dumbledore's face. There was something calculating in those blue eyes that made his nerves prickle.
"Well, no matter. You'll meet him soon enough." Dumbledore offered his arm. "Shall we?"
As they Disapparated, Harry caught a glimpse of the comet through the swirling darkness. For just a moment, it seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
They appeared on a quiet village street lined with neat houses and summer gardens. Everything looked perfectly normal except for one house near the end, where the front door hung crooked and dark stains marked the doorframe.
"Budleigh Babberton," Dumbledore announced. "Charming village."
Harry stared at the damaged house. "Professor, shouldn't we call someone? It looks like there's been an attack."
"All in good time, Harry." Dumbledore was already walking toward the house, apparently unconcerned.
Inside was complete chaos. Furniture lay in splinters, a chandelier had crashed to the floor, and dark stains that Harry didn't want to think too hard about splattered the walls.
"Horace?" Dumbledore called in a sing-song voice. "It's no use hiding. I can smell the dragon dung fertilizer. You always were heavy-handed with it."
Silence.
Dumbledore sighed and looked around the destroyed room. Finally, he approached an overstuffed armchair that looked oddly untouched amid the chaos. He poked it sharply with his wand.
The chair squeaked and began transforming, colors swirling until it became a large, walrus-like man with a silver mustache, who glared at Dumbledore with wounded dignity.
"There was no need to poke so hard, Albus!"
"My apologies, Horace." Dumbledore smiled. "Though your interior decorating has become rather dramatic."
Slughorn huffed and waved his wand. The room began reassembling itself - furniture flying back together, the chandelier floating up to the ceiling, stains vanishing from the walls.
"One must take precautions," Slughorn said stiffly. "My pursuers have been persistent."
Harry found himself studying the older wizard as the room reformed. Slughorn had the look of someone used to luxury, expensive tastes poorly concealed beneath current shabbiness. When his eyes landed on Harry, they lit up with something like hunger.
"Harry Potter," Slughorn breathed, his entire manner changing. "My word. You look just like James. Except the eyes - you have your mother's eyes."
The mention of his parents sent warmth through Harry's chest. "Did you know them well?"
"Oh yes! Lily was one of my most gifted students. Such talent for Potions - she could brew a Draught of Living Death that rivaled my own by sixth year."
Harry leaned forward, genuinely interested. "What was she like? Everyone talks about her sacrifice, but no one tells me who she actually was."
"Brilliant mind," Slughorn said, his eyes lighting up. "Always asking insightful questions, seeing connections others missed. She theorized that emotional resonance could enhance potion-making, and she was absolutely right."
Finally, real details about his mother. Not just platitudes about her bravery, but who she'd actually been. Harry felt the words coming more easily than usual.
"I'd love to hear more sometime. Hogwarts could probably use a teacher who really understood her methods."
"Well," Slughorn said slowly, straightening slightly, "I have been considering returning to teaching..."
"Excellent!" Dumbledore interjected smoothly. "Then it's settled. Horace, surely you're tired of this constant running?"
Slughorn's expression flickered between temptation and fear. "The Death Eaters-"
"Will find Hogwarts much more challenging than a series of hideouts," Dumbledore pointed out. "And you'd have exceptional students to work with again."
Harry caught Slughorn's eye. "The students need teachers who actually care about helping them reach their potential. From what I've heard about you, you'd be perfect for that."
Something in his tone seemed to reach the older man. Slughorn's chest puffed out with old pride.
"You know, you're quite right, my boy. Very well - on one condition!"
"And what would that be?" Dumbledore asked.
"I want Professor Merrythought's old office. If I'm coming back, I deserve proper accommodations."
"That can be arranged," Dumbledore said, looking satisfied.
"Wonderful! I suppose I should start planning my curriculum then."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, though Harry noticed the headmaster watching him with unusual intensity. "We should be off. Molly will be expecting us."