Summer settled strangely over Britain.
The war that should have erupted into chaos instead moved in whispers.
The Daily Prophet no longer denied Voldemort's return, not after too many witnesses had stood in the Ministry Atrium and watched Harry Potter drive the Dark Lord through marble pillars while half the government cowered behind desks. But though denial had died, certainty had not replaced it. The paper printed daily speculation, contradictory reports, editorials demanding reform, editorials condemning panic, columns insisting Dumbledore was staging a private coup, and letters praising Harry as saviour or denouncing him as a dangerous aberration.
Meanwhile, Voldemort vanished.
No public massacres.
No marked raids on Diagon Alley.
No screaming headlines of villages burned.
Only disappearances.
A junior undersecretary gone while walking home.
Two Ministry archivists vanished from secure offices.
A Wizengamot clerk taken from her own garden.
A magical transport inspector never arrived at work.
The silence was worse than bloodshed.
It meant planning.
And so the Order of the Phoenix worked from two homes: the Burrow, warm and chaotic and smelling perpetually of fresh bread, polish, and dragon dung from experimental products Fred and George swore were safe; and Grimmauld Place, where the shadows clung too long to corners and the walls seemed to listen.
Harry spent the summer moving between both places.
It felt, in some quiet way, like having homes.
That thought still startled him.
Training Days
The orchard behind the Burrow had become a battlefield.
At dawn Harry stood barefoot in the grass while Ron tried, for the sixth time that week, to lift himself into stable flight.
"Less flailing," Harry called.
"I am not flailing!"
Ron promptly rotated sideways, lost control, and crashed into a hay bale with a muffled oath.
Ginny, already hovering ten feet above him with maddening ease, laughed so hard she nearly dropped.
Hermione sat cross-legged nearby, eyes shut, sensing the movement of ki signatures in the field around her.
Neville practiced reinforcement strikes against charmed logs, each blow cleaner than the last.
Luna floated upside down several yards away as if gravity had simply become a suggestion.
Fred and George had weaponised everything.
Their "experimental beam redirection goggles" had set a shed on fire.
Twice.
Harry corrected stances, adjusted breathing, explained energy flow, and sparred until shirts clung with sweat and the sun climbed high.
He was patient.
More patient than he had ever imagined himself capable of being.
Perhaps that came from age.
Not the age his face showed.
The other kind.
The accumulated years of forests on Pandora, winter thrones in Narnia, deserts of Namek, battlefields under strange stars.
Some mornings he caught himself expecting to see Goku grinning beside him.
Or Jake Sully cleaning a bowstring.
Or Lucy Pevensie carrying cordial in a crystal flask.
Instead there was Ron snoring against a tree after overexerting himself.
Harry found that comforting.
Grimmauld Evenings
By contrast, Grimmauld Place belonged to candlelight and murmured strategy.
Kreacher still disliked most of them but had grudgingly upgraded Harry from blood-traitor associate to acceptable master with bizarre habits.
This evening the long dining table was crowded.
Order members lined both sides: Kingsley, Tonks, Moody, Lupin, Sirius, Arthur, Molly, Bill, Charlie, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, Sturgis Podmore, Amelia Bones, and Elira Vael.
Even Snape sat at the far end, expression carved from acid.
Mrs Weasley had objected fiercely at first to the younger lot attending meetings.
"You are children," she had declared, hands on hips. "Children do not sit in on war councils."
Fred had muttered, "Tell that to Harry's forty-seven previous lifetimes."
She had not appreciated that.
But Dumbledore, with grave gentleness, had shown selected Pensieve memories: Harry standing against Voldemort in the Atrium; Harry crowned in Narnia; Harry in Saiyan armour carrying a child through fire; Harry burying comrades on Pandora beneath glowing roots.
Molly had watched in silence.
Afterward she hugged Harry so tightly his ribs protested.
Then she set an extra plate for him at dinner and never objected again.
Now she sat with arms folded, listening sharply while pretending not to fuss.
Dumbledore rose at the head of the table.
Candles brightened.
"The situation remains... restrained."
"That's one word for it," growled Moody.
"Very few overt attacks," Dumbledore continued. "Though kidnappings continue. The Ministry is unstable. Fudge's authority diminishes daily. Amelia's internal reforms have support, though resistance remains."
Amelia inclined her head. "Half the department wants justice. The other half wants whichever side wins."
"Typical bureaucracy," Sirius muttered.
A few tired chuckles followed.
Dumbledore turned to Snape.
"Severus."
Snape looked as though he would rather swallow broken glass.
"The Dark Lord is occupied."
"With?" asked Kingsley.
"Obsession."
That got everyone's attention.
Snape's eyes slid briefly to Harry.
"He believes Potter's power is acquired rather than innate. He seeks mechanism. Process. Repeatability."
Harry leaned back in his chair.
"Of course he does."
"He has questioned me extensively on magical evolution, foreign disciplines, bloodline catalysts, ritual ascension, and dimensional anomalies."
The room chilled.
Sirius straightened.
"Dimensional anomalies?"
Snape's lip curled. "Draco Malfoy was not acting alone when he used that spell. It was provided."
"By Voldemort?" Hermione whispered.
"No," said Snape softly. "By something older. Something he acquired."
Silence spread.
Then Snape delivered the true blow.
"The Dark Lord intends to have Draco cast the same spell on him tonight."
Chaos erupted.
"What?"
"He'll vanish?"
"Can he come back stronger?"
"Can it kill him?"
"Can Draco even perform it twice?"
Molly swore aloud.
Moody slammed his flask down.
"We strike now."
"We don't know where," Kingsley snapped back.
"If he goes missing we may gain months," said Amelia.
"Or lose all idea what returns," Vael countered.
Sirius swore more creatively than Molly.
Dumbledore lifted a hand.
The room stilled.
"Harry."
Every eye turned.
Harry had been quiet all meeting, thumb rubbing unconsciously at an old scar no longer there.
He looked tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
"Yes."
Vael leaned forward. "Have you had any indication?"
Harry let out a slow breath.
"Yes."
The room sharpened around him.
Amelia's voice was careful. "Please explain."
"All day," Harry said, "I've been seeing flashes."
"Flashes of what?" asked Ginny.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Water rising in spirals. Stone walls moving like waves. Fire from hands. Air carrying people over rooftops."
Hermione inhaled sharply.
"Elemental manipulation," she whispered.
Harry nodded.
"And one phrase keeps repeating."
He looked at Dumbledore.
"As clear as if someone is standing behind me."
"What phrase?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry's voice lowered.
"You will keep your memories and experience... but not your power from other worlds."
The silence that followed was dense enough to touch.
Then Fred said, "Bit rude."
George nodded solemnly. "If one is travelling dimensions, one expects amenities."
Even Molly barked an unwilling laugh.
But Hermione was already thinking aloud.
"That means the framework changes, not the mind."
Ron blinked. "English?"
"He'll return with skills learned there," she said rapidly, "but not necessarily the raw energy system tied to that world. His body here will adapt and integrate what it can."
Charlie whistled.
"So if he learns some new way to chuck mountains"
"He may not chuck mountains," Hermione snapped, "but he may understand the principles."
"Which is worse," muttered Moody.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled sadly.
"Or better."
Snape steepled his fingers.
"And if the Dark Lord undergoes similar transformation?"
Harry's gaze hardened.
"Then I'll deal with him."
The certainty in his tone unsettled even veterans.
Later That Night
Rain tapped softly against the windows of Grimmauld Place.
The house had gone mostly quiet.
Downstairs, muffled voices still drifted from the drawing room where adults argued logistics and probabilities.
Upstairs, Harry's bedroom was lit only by a lamp on the bedside table.
Ron sprawled in a chair, legs too long for it.
Hermione sat perched neatly at the foot of the bed, arms folded around her knees.
Sirius lounged by the window, looking more alive than Azkaban had ever allowed.
"You know," Sirius said, "if I'd known sleeping could lead to adventures, I'd have napped more as a teenager."
Harry snorted.
"It isn't as relaxing as it sounds."
Ron pointed. "If you see dragons, bring one back."
Hermione smacked his arm.
"What? A small one."
"You are impossible."
Harry watched them.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
This room.
These people.
The ridiculousness of normal affection wrapped around impossible circumstances.
He had lost worlds before.
He had buried families under alien stars.
He had watched sons die, kingdoms fall, planets burn.
And yet somehow this, Ron complaining, Hermione fussing, Sirius pretending not to care felt the most fragile.
"Oi," Ron said quietly.
Harry blinked.
"You alright?"
"Yes."
Lie.
Sirius heard it anyway.
He rose and crossed the room, squeezing Harry's shoulder.
"You always come back."
Harry met his godfather's eyes.
"Not always."
Sirius held the gaze.
"This time."
Something inside Harry eased.
Hermione reached out and took his hand briefly.
"We'll be here."
Ginny was not present, Molly had insisted on curfews but Harry could almost hear what she would have said: Don't be dramatic. Just come back and then we'll hex you if you're late.
He smiled faintly.
"Thanks."
Ron yawned hugely.
"So... how many years are you hoping for?"
Harry groaned and flopped backward into bed.
"None."
Sirius laughed.
"Optimistic."
Harry stared at the ceiling.
"I hope I don't spend too many years this time."
He meant it lightly.
The room knew better.
One by one they said goodnight.
Ron shuffled out first.
Hermione paused at the door, gave him a long searching look, then left.
Sirius lingered.
"You're stronger than you think."
Harry snorted. "Everyone keeps saying that right before things go badly."
"True," Sirius admitted. "Still applies."
Then he was gone.
The lamp dimmed.
Rain continued its soft percussion.
Harry lay alone with shadows and memory.
He felt the pull before sleep took him.
Not downward.
Sideways.
A tide behind reality.
He thought of the phrase again.
You will keep your memories and experience... but not your power.
Fair enough.
He had enough power.
What he lacked, perhaps, was peace.
His eyes closed.
The room vanished.
Elsewhere
He opened them to wind.
Cold.
High mountain air cut across his skin.
Beneath him stretched a vast temple city of white stone and red banners built into cliffs above the sea.
Monks in saffron robes crossed hanging bridges below.
Far in the sky, a shape glided on six legs through clouds.
A voice boomed like thunder and kindness entwined.
The world needs balance.
Harry sat upright.
On the ledge before him stood a child monk with grey eyes and blue arrow tattoos.
The boy grinned.
"Hi," he said cheerfully. "You must be Harry."
Harry closed his eyes for one brief second.
Then opened them again.
"Unfortunately," he said, "this is going to be years, isn't it?"