The war felt like it did last time. There was that impending sense of doom looming over everybody's heads. Things were tense, and trust was scarce. Harry, James and Lily's boy, had grown up. He was fifteen now, and reminded you of the time James had been fifteen.

Order meetings were no longer at Potter manor - the place had gotten destroyed by death eaters some years ago.

Sirius, who was in hiding and restless, offered up Grimmauld Place as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. It was, as he had said, about the only useful thing he could do.

Most of the order had gone now - Dumbledore didn't even attend the meetings himself like he used to. Remus sank tiredly into the armchair in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place. Walburga's portrait was once again screaming about mudbloods, halfbreeds, and blood traitors living in her house. "Harry's been wanting to join the fight again," he said, exhausted and running a hand down his face.