Harry Potter and The Garden of Shadows
Chapter One: Grimmauld Place
It was a bright and sunny day in Privet Drive, Little Whinging, or at least that was what the map on the weather news showed. The general area where the village was located was clear of any clouds, rainy or otherwise and had been so most of the day, or so the weather woman explained brightly.
A young man, skinny as if he'd grown a lot in a little while, with black spectacles on his nose and his hair ruffled as if he'd just got out of bed, shrugged his thin jacket up higher as he watch the televisions that were playing in the display. In London, where he was, the sun also shone though it was not such a warm day and the chilly wind seemed to penetrate right through his jacket and t-shirt today.
Harry did not seem to care much, though. He seemed rather pleased to be out here, mingling with the muggle society. They had no idea of the war that had broken out in the magical world last year. Oh, they'd noticed there had been quite a lot of 'freak accidents' and that more people than normal seemed to get killed, but they had not gone to bed wondering if they'd be next to die, or if come morning they would be a family member short. They had not lain awake, wondering if the defences they had set up would hold and they had not feared that the Dark Lord might have a new law created the next day that marked themselves as one of those to be killed at sight.
Oh no, compared to the wizarding world, the muggle community had nothing to complain. And they hardly did, he noticed. He'd tried to catch their news at least every other day just to see if strange things were still being reported. It was remarkable how well everything had been covered up to uphold the Statue of Secrecy and keep muggles in the dark.
That was one reason why Harry had sought to escape here, but there was another. For many years he had been the boy who survived an attack from Lord Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard history had ever known. Before, he had been 'the boy who lived'. But upon killing Lord Voldemort again only three months ago he had become something else. Nearly every wizard wanted to find him, to shake his hand, to thank him, to party with him, to befriend him. That was all good and well, but it only took one thought about what he'd had to do, one memory of how many friends he'd lost to completely drain him of all happiness.
He'd found himself very lonely when around wizards and witches ever since. The bodies of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks had been transported to Tonks' mother, who chose to bury them together and next to her husband, with only a select group of people present. Harry had been one of them. After all, he was the godfather of their son, Teddy Lupin, who was now being taken care of by his grandmother. She'd asked Harry to live with her to get to know his godchild, only a few days old when his parents died, but Harry had kindly declined this offer.
A day later Fred Weasley's funeral was slightly bigger. Their joke shop had really done well, which had given the twins quite some business relations and of course most of the Weasley family was present, as well as a select group of friends who'd wanted to come and pay their respects. Again Harry had been invited and again he had gone. He'd held Ginny Weasley's hand, comforted her as she cried on his shoulder, but had found himself unable to cry. An empty feeling lived inside him and he could not seem to bring himself to show much emotion at all, except perhaps frustration. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had also offered Harry to stay with them for as long as he liked, but he had again kindly declined their offer. He had his own house now, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and he had simply explained that he needed some time to deal with everything in his own way. Figuring he would come back when he was ready, Mrs. Weasley had just assured him he was welcome whenever he wanted and had let him go.
"Whoops, sorry." A tall, bearded man in a long, brown coat, reading today's muggle paper handed out for free had just bumped into him. Harry watched the muggle walk away and disappear into the crowd on the main street. He shook his head, glanced once more at the televisions all displaying a commercial for some new fruit drink and then turned to accept a copy of the free papers. He was not really interested in the paper, of course. He just wanted to prevent the other paper boys who stood on nearly every corner of this street, to keep offering them to him.
He scanned the front page of the paper for good measures and then folded it to carry it back to Grimmauld's Place. This news paper was so much different from the Daily Prophet, which was downright depressing nowadays. It kept up the reports of people who still refused to believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was gone and claimed that whatever they did wrong now was on His orders. Harry had tried to follow it all for a while, but there were so many details and his head was so clouded already that he just could not manage to keep up with all the news of who had done what and got what punishment.
Shortly after Voldemort's demise, Harry had been called to give a statement on the dreadful night's events. The dementors had returned to Azkaban and the wizarding prison was now filled with Voldemort's followers. The whole Malfoy family had been caught as Death Eaters. Harry had given his statement, however and Lucius Malfoy, whom they had been about to sentence to the Dementor's Kiss –the wizzarding equivalent of the death penalty- had been given a life sentence in Azkaban instead. Narcissa Malfoy was given ten years in Azkaban. Draco Malfoy got off the hook completely. He was barely of age and had been pressured very harshly to do the things he had done. Besides, the fact that he carried the name of Malfoy would be enough to hinder him in his future, Harry figured.
Many of the death eaters were still awaiting their sentences. A good lot of them claimed, as they had the last time Voldemort had been killed, that someone must have put a curse on them. But the ministry was not about to make the same mistakes they had made earlier. Anyone carrying the Dark Mark would have to come up with a very good story and solid proof to be let off this time.
Harry had also handed over the pensieve containing Professor Snape's memories, after, with Hermione's help, extracting the ones where his father completely humiliated the teenage version of Severus Snape. This information had cleared Professor Snape's name when Harry specifically insisted upon it. Even though the former Professor had not made Harry's life at Hogwarts any easier, it was the least he could do for the brave man who had sacrificed himself to get rid of Voldemort this second time.
Oh yes, the muggle world was currently very different from the magical one.
His hand was on the wand in his pocket even as he walked towards the underground. The chance of being attacked there was even smaller than it was out on the streets he just walked, but one could never be sure. Nearly nine months of looking over his shoulder, travelling continuously to shake off anybody who might be looking for him and always casting protective charms around their tent had made him a little paranoid, or so had Hermione called it. Voldemort was gone. He had nothing left to fear. She'd told him that more than once, but Harry just could not shake off the feeling of uncertainty that easily.
He had travelled this route often lately and barely paid attention to where he was going as he blended in completely with the muggles. None of them would know he was a wizard. Non of them knew he was currently carrying a stick which he could easily turn into a deadly weapon at will. Hell, if any of the security guards were to search him, they would probably not find the wooden stick very impressive. But if Harry blended in so well, another wizard might be doing do the same.
Since it was the summer vacation period, Harry did not have to stand in the train. He sat down opposite a woman who smelled like cats, reminding him of Mrs. Figg, the squib who had lived near him in Little Whinging. For a brief moment he wondered where the Durseleys were, but he found he couldn't care if they'd gone to the other end of the world. He felt absolutely no desire to ever again lay eyes upon his living blood-relatives, who'd treated him like dirt all his life.
He watched the dots on the map above the door move from one station to another and at the sixth station he stood up and got off the train. From there he only had to walk for seven minutes before he reached Grimmauld place. He looked at number eleven and then at number thirteen next to it. Number twelve was still protected by the Fidelius Charm's protection, with about everyone who had been in the Order as secret keeper. Harry did not mind this, for it kept the neighbours and other muggles out, leaving him in the solitude he sought.
Just the thought of the place made it appear between the other two houses; first the door, then the dirty walls and windows. He looked around the silent street once before he walked up to it and tapped the silver handle lightly with his wand. Several locks were heard opening and he entered silently.
The portrait of Mrs. Black still hung on the wall, currently with her curtains closed. Many of the order had tried to remove it and had failed. Harry had tried, but whatever permanent sticking charm the woman had put on it was doing its work well. The place smelled not as foul as it had at one time, but it was not exactly clean either. The old house elf Kreacher was definitely a better cook than cleaner and Harry had not really felt up to cleaning the place himself.
This meant that it still mostly looked as if it had been raided, searched from top to bottom, and then shoved or kicked aside to form a path where one could walk. Broken pictures lay against the wall; the inside of the cupboards and closets had all been thrown to the floor and shoved aside carelessly. Pieces of broken wood littered the path still, making Harry watch where he put his feet.
He avoided hitting the umbrella stand Tonks had run into nearly every time she'd come here and headed straight to the kitchen. He remembered how it had once been filled with people. Now it looked empty, broken and filthy. He took off his jacket and hung it carelessly over a chair while letting himself fall down in another. He ignored the pile of unopened letters that had gathered on the kitchen table. He did not care for them. Oh he knew there were one or two letters there from his friends. He had recognised their handwriting, but he had not been able to make himself care. He did not want to read their words right now. They could not possibly understand how he felt.
The other letters were from various people, Harry guessed a good many of them were from people he did not even know, wanting this or that from him and if he could please. No, he could not please. He had opened a few letters those first days. They were asking him if he wanted to give interviews, statements. They wanted to know what happened, wanted to congratulate him, thank him. They had even asked if this was really the end now. Was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gone for good this time? Harry simply did not want to explain.
The door to the kitchen creaked open again and a house elf entered. The small creature had a very large, snout-like nose and a filthy rag tied around the middle resembling a loin cloth. The elf walked hunched down, but upon seeing Harry he straightened somewhat.
"Ah, Master has returned, Kreacher sees." Said the house-elf. "Kreacher has a lunch prepared for master, should he want to eat now. Kreacher knows master likes grilled cheese, so Kreacher grilled it himself, sir!" He sounded rather proud of it.
Harry looked at him and then nodded. "Alright." He said. "I'll eat." And within seconds his grilled cheese sandwiches appeared on the table before him.
The elf let Harry eat in silence at first, but after he'd finished the first sandwich he said "Master had been out again, hasn't he? Master has been to the filthy muggles again."
"It is none of your business where I choose to go." Harry answered him simply, upon which the elf bowed.
"Of course not, of course not. But Kreacher sees master leave to mingle with muggles every day." He said this with a certain undertone at the word 'muggles'. Even though he now seemed content with the idea that his master dealed with muggles, even when he no longer share every idea his former Mistress had shared with him, Kreacher could not just change everything. He was an old elf, who had fought against Voldemort. True, he rallied the Hogwarts House-Elves. But mingling with muggles who possessed no magic at all still seemed a world away from Kreacher's life.
"Master even ignores the owl post. Does master not wish to speak to his friends?"
Harry knew the elf was quite fond of Hermione, who'd always treated him well. He might never admit it, but he'd caught the elf reading one of her letters when he'd carelessly left it out on the table. Or at least he was looking at it. He didn't even know if Kreacher could read. Last Harry had heard, however, Hermione had gone to Australia, searching for her parents so she could attempt to retrieve their memories.
Harry merely glared at the house elf, finished another sandwich and then left the kitchen to go upstairs to the bedroom he'd shared with Ron three years ago. It was the only room where it looked as if someone had half bothered to clean up. One of the two beds looked whole and one of the mattresses had been repaired magically while one set of bed sheets was on top of it on the good bed. The other bed still looked broken, the mattress torn and the painting of a wizard in Quidditch robes lay crumpled and half torn on top of it.
The magazines littering the floor did not seem very dusty. The titles that could be read were 'Challenges in charming', 'The practical pioneer', and a copy of 'Transfiguration today', which he guessed Hermione had sent him in attempt to remind him how much he still had to learn. She had wanted him to return to Hogwarts with Ron and herself and was making no secret of it.
But Harry did not want to go back. It all seemed useless to him, after what he'd been through the past year. What did he need Defence Against the Dark Arts for after he'd defeated the darkest, most powerful wizard the world had ever known? He'd already made history with his actions and he found it hard to imagine himself sitting in school benches answering questions on how to banish a boggart when he'd fought hundreds of the creature the boggart turned into when it saw him.
He had never really known what he wanted in life. For a time he had not thought he see the day he'd turn eighteen and he certainly didn't want to have to think about what to do now. He let himself fall onto his bed and closed his eyes, hoping not to wake before darkness fell. He didn't bother getting undressed or even pulling the sheets up. He just closed his eyes and allowed himself drift to off.
-princess
I decided to start reposting this story after editing it. Hope you'll enjoy it! Let me know what you think. And don't worry, he won't stay like this.
