Harry Potter and the Dark Mark
Chapter One: Disgrace to the Name of Wizard
It was generally acknowledged that Harry Potter wasn't normal. Even the person who probably understood Harry the least, his Uncle Vernon Dursley, had been known to scream about his "abnormality" when he wasn't, along with his wife Petunia, trying to hide the truth about Harry from the neighbors. You see, Harry Potter was a wizard.
But the Dursleys didn't know the half of it. Magic was normal to Harry. After all, it was all they taught at his school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and everyone he cared about did it. Yet Harry Potter was, even by the opinions of the secret world to which he belonged to, very strange indeed, a fact made glaringly obvious by the lighting bolt- shaped scar on his forehead.
You see, most wizards could remember their parents. Most wizards hadn't faced the most terrible, powerful dark sorcerer ever to have lived, Lord Voldemort five times before turning sixteen and survived each meeting. Most wizards weren't burdened by the knowledge that their lives would end with or include murder. And most wizards hadn't discovered a father figure and best friend rolled into one at the age of thirteen, only to see them killed trying to save their life because they had made a horrible mistake.
Harry had. His godfather, Sirius Black, had died trying to rescue Harry when he had put his best friends at risk trying to be the hero. And Harry had felt like the shell of a human being since. Even though the Dursleys were almost completely ignoring him after being threatened by members of the Order of the Phoenix, a group fighting Voldemort, Harry couldn't help feeling that this was the worst summer of his life. He was supposed to write to the Order every three days to tell them he was okay, so he did; there was no way he was going to let them endanger themselves in any way on his account. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.
What made things worse was that there was almost nothing to distract him. Harry had his schoolwork with him, but he was having trouble concentrating on that, or anything, lately. What he really wanted was a nice, long game of quidditch, a sport played on broomsticks. Harry wondered briefly about whether he would be made quidditch captain for Gryffindor, and what he had earned on his OWL exams. But then it was back to the moping, his staple for these long summer weeks.
Then Harry heard shouting from downstairs. He wondered if...but Dumbledore had said this house was protected...
But it was just the Dursleys. It seemed that the mother of a ten year old Dudley's gang had beaten up had written to Uncle Vernon in a rage. In a reversal of the usual family situation, Uncle Vernon and Dudley were arguing that the Muggle teenager needed practice for his boxing matches, while Aunt Petunia was less amused.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to punish you. You can't use the T.V. in your room for a week."
"But mum..." Dudley moaned
"Now Dudders, even thought that Billy and his mum are dreadful whiners, your mother may have a little bit of a point here." said Uncle Vernon.
"IT'S NOT FAIR!!!"
Harry tuned himself out. His best friend Ron's brother's Fred and George, in their usual eloquence, described Dudley best. He was a rotten git.
Harry heard a tapping at his window. It was a formidable looking jet black owl with bright white streaks along its back. Harry opened the window and removed a letter from the owl's leg. But before he could read it the owl exhaled a fine, white powder onto the corner of Harry's small desk. Suddenly the wood began to freeze at a rather rapid rate until before he knew it part of his desk was completely clear and, after touching it, extremely cold and hard as a rock. Then the bird froze several square inches of the floor. Harry frantically began to frantically read the letter in search of a way to stop the bird. He was not surprised to see Hagrid's familiar scrawl. Dear Harry,
How're you? I've been enjoying my game keeping, though I miss the kids. Well, not all of them. I think you know who I mean. How do you like Articia? Real cute, huh? She's an Icy. Wonderful creatures. Oh, and if she's freezing things just pat her on the head a few times to let her know you want her to stop.
Harry didn't read this a moment too soon. Articia was aiming her beak at Harry's Firebolt. He dove over to the bird with the athleticism of a seeker who'd caught the snitch in every game he'd played in except one. Harry patted her on the head three times, and though she hooted softly, Harry couldn't see how anyone in their right mind would describe her as cute. He went back to the letter.
Listen Harry, you gotta stay strong. I knew Sirius pretty well myself, and I figure he wouldn't want much weeping at his account. He woulda wanted to be remembered, but I think he most wanted you to be happy.
Remember that burden or not you're still a kid who gets to go to the greatest school in the world. Don't let the Muggles get you down!
Your friend,
Hagrid
No matter how little he wanted to admit it, Harry knew that Hagrid was right. The game keeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher had his own sort of wisdom. Even though he was depressed about Sirius's death, he knew his life was better than it had been before he knew about wizards.
It was only ten at night, but Harry felt quite tired. The letter had made him feel more relaxed that he had in weeks. A great friend of his was gone, but Harry knew that there were other people out there in the world where he belonged that Harry meant the world to. He realized that no matter what kind of destruction Voldemort caused, he would never destroy the bond he had with people like the Ron Weasley and his family, Hermione, and Hagrid. Harry fell asleep thinking this way.
Harry awoke with a start. He thought he had heard screaming, but perhaps it had been the end of a dream he didn't remember. He decided to look out his window just in case.
He gasped. The air was littered by the foulest thing that could rest upon it. The Dark Mark.
Consumed by fear and confusion, Harry threw on a pair of Muggle jeans and ran down Privet drive. He stopped at the house below the Dark Mark, one he knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Figg, an elderly neighbor who Harry had been left with while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took Dudley on expensive vacations. He had spent most of his life thinking her to be simply a boring old lady obsessed with her cats, but last year he discovered that she was in actuality a squib. This meant that she was born into a magical family but was not blessed with magical powers herself. Voldemort and his followers, the Death Eaters, hated squibs very much, along with those born into Muggle families but with magical powers.
The door was unlocked, so Harry walked in, terrified of what he might see, but still in a sort of trance. He walked through the house, but did not see or hear any Death Eaters. They must have left before he arrived. The Dark Mark meant that they had finished their job.
It wasn't until Harry entered the bedroom that he saw what had been done.
Mrs. Figg lay dead on the peach colored carpet, still in her nightdress, eyes wide with shock. It seemed she had been eliminated with the killing curse, then stabbed maliciously in the heart. On the wall behind her bed was written in blood, "DISGRACE TO THE NAME OF WIZARD!"
"No," said Albus Dumbledore, who had walked up behind Harry, "They are."
Chapter One: Disgrace to the Name of Wizard
It was generally acknowledged that Harry Potter wasn't normal. Even the person who probably understood Harry the least, his Uncle Vernon Dursley, had been known to scream about his "abnormality" when he wasn't, along with his wife Petunia, trying to hide the truth about Harry from the neighbors. You see, Harry Potter was a wizard.
But the Dursleys didn't know the half of it. Magic was normal to Harry. After all, it was all they taught at his school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and everyone he cared about did it. Yet Harry Potter was, even by the opinions of the secret world to which he belonged to, very strange indeed, a fact made glaringly obvious by the lighting bolt- shaped scar on his forehead.
You see, most wizards could remember their parents. Most wizards hadn't faced the most terrible, powerful dark sorcerer ever to have lived, Lord Voldemort five times before turning sixteen and survived each meeting. Most wizards weren't burdened by the knowledge that their lives would end with or include murder. And most wizards hadn't discovered a father figure and best friend rolled into one at the age of thirteen, only to see them killed trying to save their life because they had made a horrible mistake.
Harry had. His godfather, Sirius Black, had died trying to rescue Harry when he had put his best friends at risk trying to be the hero. And Harry had felt like the shell of a human being since. Even though the Dursleys were almost completely ignoring him after being threatened by members of the Order of the Phoenix, a group fighting Voldemort, Harry couldn't help feeling that this was the worst summer of his life. He was supposed to write to the Order every three days to tell them he was okay, so he did; there was no way he was going to let them endanger themselves in any way on his account. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.
What made things worse was that there was almost nothing to distract him. Harry had his schoolwork with him, but he was having trouble concentrating on that, or anything, lately. What he really wanted was a nice, long game of quidditch, a sport played on broomsticks. Harry wondered briefly about whether he would be made quidditch captain for Gryffindor, and what he had earned on his OWL exams. But then it was back to the moping, his staple for these long summer weeks.
Then Harry heard shouting from downstairs. He wondered if...but Dumbledore had said this house was protected...
But it was just the Dursleys. It seemed that the mother of a ten year old Dudley's gang had beaten up had written to Uncle Vernon in a rage. In a reversal of the usual family situation, Uncle Vernon and Dudley were arguing that the Muggle teenager needed practice for his boxing matches, while Aunt Petunia was less amused.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to punish you. You can't use the T.V. in your room for a week."
"But mum..." Dudley moaned
"Now Dudders, even thought that Billy and his mum are dreadful whiners, your mother may have a little bit of a point here." said Uncle Vernon.
"IT'S NOT FAIR!!!"
Harry tuned himself out. His best friend Ron's brother's Fred and George, in their usual eloquence, described Dudley best. He was a rotten git.
Harry heard a tapping at his window. It was a formidable looking jet black owl with bright white streaks along its back. Harry opened the window and removed a letter from the owl's leg. But before he could read it the owl exhaled a fine, white powder onto the corner of Harry's small desk. Suddenly the wood began to freeze at a rather rapid rate until before he knew it part of his desk was completely clear and, after touching it, extremely cold and hard as a rock. Then the bird froze several square inches of the floor. Harry frantically began to frantically read the letter in search of a way to stop the bird. He was not surprised to see Hagrid's familiar scrawl. Dear Harry,
How're you? I've been enjoying my game keeping, though I miss the kids. Well, not all of them. I think you know who I mean. How do you like Articia? Real cute, huh? She's an Icy. Wonderful creatures. Oh, and if she's freezing things just pat her on the head a few times to let her know you want her to stop.
Harry didn't read this a moment too soon. Articia was aiming her beak at Harry's Firebolt. He dove over to the bird with the athleticism of a seeker who'd caught the snitch in every game he'd played in except one. Harry patted her on the head three times, and though she hooted softly, Harry couldn't see how anyone in their right mind would describe her as cute. He went back to the letter.
Listen Harry, you gotta stay strong. I knew Sirius pretty well myself, and I figure he wouldn't want much weeping at his account. He woulda wanted to be remembered, but I think he most wanted you to be happy.
Remember that burden or not you're still a kid who gets to go to the greatest school in the world. Don't let the Muggles get you down!
Your friend,
Hagrid
No matter how little he wanted to admit it, Harry knew that Hagrid was right. The game keeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher had his own sort of wisdom. Even though he was depressed about Sirius's death, he knew his life was better than it had been before he knew about wizards.
It was only ten at night, but Harry felt quite tired. The letter had made him feel more relaxed that he had in weeks. A great friend of his was gone, but Harry knew that there were other people out there in the world where he belonged that Harry meant the world to. He realized that no matter what kind of destruction Voldemort caused, he would never destroy the bond he had with people like the Ron Weasley and his family, Hermione, and Hagrid. Harry fell asleep thinking this way.
Harry awoke with a start. He thought he had heard screaming, but perhaps it had been the end of a dream he didn't remember. He decided to look out his window just in case.
He gasped. The air was littered by the foulest thing that could rest upon it. The Dark Mark.
Consumed by fear and confusion, Harry threw on a pair of Muggle jeans and ran down Privet drive. He stopped at the house below the Dark Mark, one he knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Figg, an elderly neighbor who Harry had been left with while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took Dudley on expensive vacations. He had spent most of his life thinking her to be simply a boring old lady obsessed with her cats, but last year he discovered that she was in actuality a squib. This meant that she was born into a magical family but was not blessed with magical powers herself. Voldemort and his followers, the Death Eaters, hated squibs very much, along with those born into Muggle families but with magical powers.
The door was unlocked, so Harry walked in, terrified of what he might see, but still in a sort of trance. He walked through the house, but did not see or hear any Death Eaters. They must have left before he arrived. The Dark Mark meant that they had finished their job.
It wasn't until Harry entered the bedroom that he saw what had been done.
Mrs. Figg lay dead on the peach colored carpet, still in her nightdress, eyes wide with shock. It seemed she had been eliminated with the killing curse, then stabbed maliciously in the heart. On the wall behind her bed was written in blood, "DISGRACE TO THE NAME OF WIZARD!"
"No," said Albus Dumbledore, who had walked up behind Harry, "They are."