This is a translation of my ongoing "saga" (21 chapters online in French now), an alternative 6th year. It started as a dare and I got caught in it. I am improving it – so I wish – with the translation.
Beware: You'll find soon enough I'm not JKR. Everything is hers. I am just having fun with the world she built.
Beware: English is not my first language. I'm not bad with vocabulary, but if one of you English speaking grammatical geniuses would consider helping a French speaking grammatical would-be genius, it would be greatly appreciated. Just PM me. : )
Beware: I toy with canon and I integrate a few things from HBP. Some things will happen way faster. Do not take me too seriously.
Still on with this? What a courageous reader you are…
What could lead Harry to leave the Dursleys in shame, are you asking? Well, let me fill you in.
Chapter 1
Leaving the Dursleys in shame
The sunlight was bathing a small, usually dark bedroom of a tidy house in Surrey. Sounds of vehicles going by and birds chirping could be heard outside while the thick smell of freshly cut grass was flowing into the room.
Harry Potter was lying on his back, his eyes wide open, in a bed that was becoming smaller year after year. His feet were alternately tapping the footboard in a slow, regular rhythm – left, right, left, left again, right -, his myopic eyes staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. The light breeze coming in by the open window sent a shiver down his spine although the heat rising was already announcing a hot summer day. Harry tucked the thin bed sheet under his chin and uttered a relieved sigh. This was one of the happiest moments of his dreary summer. An outsider would have only noticed a teenager in the midst of a growing spurt, with too long arms and hair. But that teenager was not an ordinary boy: the sharp scar adorning his forehead was itself the symbol of miserable years and too many losses.
Harry was addressing himself a large if not a little stupid smile: today, the deliverance would occur. Harry never had Ogden's Old Firewhisky, but he was sure that the effects of drinking it would have been similar to the way he was feeling right now - frazzled and strangely light, as if the glorious summer day was getting to his head. Today, his birthday, was indeed a great day and he could not have wished for a better gift: he was finally leaving the Dursleys to join Ron and Hermione at the Burrow for that last month before the beginning of a new year at Hogwarts.
Arthur Weasley had left a few days before a short and hesitant message on the answering machine of the 4 Privet Drive, disturbing the polished atmosphere of the Dursleys' house.
«HELLO, DURSLEYS. MAY I PLEASE SPEAK WITH HARRY?» Mr. Weasley loved Muggle technologies and the idea of the phone was endlessly fascinating to him, even though he did not understand completely how it worked. His voice echoed in the house while Aunt Petunia recoiled from the machine with a small shriek. Uncle Vernon had an unpleasant smirk on his lips but the redness creeping on his cheeks gave away his uttermost irritation.
«You may speak normally, Mr.Weasley. Just leave your message.» Harry could hear a patient smile illuminate Hermione's assertive voice on the tape. He could not help but smile too while Petunia and Vernon looked at the answering machine with horror as Mr. Weasley's voice was expressing incredulity.«Oh. Are you sure, dear? I thought that somebody had to answer first before I can speak again. They are not there right now, so they said: how exactly will they hear me then?»
«Come on, Dad. Just do what Hermione says. She knows how it works.» Ron's slightly raspy voice was heard too and Harry was floored by nostalgia. He could not wait to see them again. Mr. Weasley spoke again, slightly perplexed, «Well…Harry, I will bring you back to the Burrow on the last Saturday of July, if it is still fine with the Dursleys.»
The message ended with a small click.
Aunt Petunia glimpsed nervously at Uncle Vernon: Harry could read in her face all her hatred of this unbecoming world of wizards, which threaten her world each summer for six years now. Uncle Vernon's already sanguine face was turning into an unhealthy shade of red. Harry clenched his fists: he felt ready to fight.
By Merlin's beard, there was no way he was not leaving.
To his surprise, Uncle Vernon threw him a despising glare and said over his shoulder, while he was leaving the kitchen, «Good riddance.»
Harry climbed the stairs two by two, almost not believing how easy it has been this year. He walked in circles in his small room for hours, picturing the uproarious reunion that would inevitably happen at the Burrow. He could not help but feel a small tinge of jealousy: Hermione had been at the Burrow for almost a month now, appreciating the Weasleys' kind hospitality, while he was sweating his brains out in airless Surrey. Everything must be safe if the Order could manage him out of here for a month.
But deep down, Harry had already admitted to himself he was afraid of returning one day to the Burrow as persona non grata. He feared the day he would become a nuisance to Ron and Hermione, who did not seem to have noticed - yet - they were turning into so much more than friends. He was also keenly aware of the danger he was bringing with him, a shadow menacing to engulf everybody around him. The day would come, Harry dreaded, when he would be unwelcome everywhere.
But on this promising day, all jealousy and fear were forgotten: lying down on the bed, his head resting on the pillow, Harry was rehearsing mentally his triumphant departure from Privet Drive with building anticipation. He threw his legs off the bed and slid his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He got up and looked into the mirror. It reflected him a tall teenager…nah, young man, with a newly acquired suntan, green sparkling eyes and a huge mess of jet black hair that was covering a bolt shaped scar. Harry could not help but feel a little proud: after all, he did take advantage of the suffocating atmosphere of the Dursleys house to give himself a great excuse to be outside all the time, sunshine or rain, and he felt quite happy with the results. Harry noticed with pride that he had built some muscles in the last two months.
It was more than the muscles, though. He was feeling slightly different: calm, secure, older.
Aunt Petunia had been suspicious of his sudden interest in gardening, as soon as he came back from Hogwarts, only a few weeks after the tragic events that occurred in the Ministry of Magic. For two months, Harry digged the soil, dragged heavy bags of peat and compost mixture, took obsessive care of the costly rose bushes, while answering without a peep to every whim of his aunt, who acted as chief supervisor. Aunt Petunia saw Harry's efforts recognized: she was awarded an early «Most promising garden » prize. The night she received her pink and white flower-shaped trophy, a little dizzy with the two glasses of rose wine she drank, Petunia grabbed Harry by the shoulders and almost thanked him. Feeling his aunt's bony fingers through his shirt got Harry shivering: Petunia was his mother's sister and his only parent alive. That extraordinary physical contact confronted him to the paradoxical desire of running to the other side of the room or to reciprocate, even with all she made him suffer through the years.
Those two months, he exhausted his body to clear out his mind. Harry crawled to bed night after night, his head free of nightmares. Voldemort, Dumbledore's Army, the Death Eaters seemed almost blurry when all of his limbs ached from the strenuous work he was commanding himself to.
But thinking about Sirius was like pulling his heart out: Harry had accepted that summer he could feel raging anger a minute and overpowering sadness the next. Some nights, when he had not exerted himself, he could see under his closed eyelids Sirius falling again and again behind the Veil with painful clarity, the demented laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange tormenting him as a chilling soundtrack. When it happened, he wept silently, his tear glazed face buried in his pillow, wishing to be in Ron's bedroom, surrounded by the security he had found at the Burrow.
To his astonishment, his scar did not hurt once in the last two months. His dreams were shadowy but peaceful, and he was managing to get a regenerative rest, which proved useful to keep his cool to face Uncle Vernon's bad temper and Dudley's sarcasms.
After trying unsuccessfully to comb his hair with his fingers, Harry pulled on a blue T-shirt and grey trousers, while throwing into his open trunk the clothes scattered in his room, his books, and other important things he would be needing for the next year. He closed the trunk, forcing it a bit, and dropped off his Firebolt on it. He then stroked lovingly Hedwig's immaculate feathers. His heart thumped in his chest when he heard a scream coming from the main door.
«KNOCK KNOCK!»
Mr. Weasley was certainly in a good mood as he sing sang the words at the top of his voice. «Why don't you use the doorbell?» chirped a familiar feminine voice.
Moving deftly, Harry made Hedwig go into the cage. He ran out of the bedroom, almost sliding down the stairs, happiness rushing in his veins. Uncle Vernon was rushing to the door as fast as could permit his massive silhouette, huffing and puffing, but Harry got to the door first. He opened the door and flashed a huge grin to Mr. Weasley.
Ron's father, in an attempt to make himself Muggle-like, was wearing huge sunglasses and purple shirt and knickers that Harry had seen on tasteless golf players, the colour clashing terribly with his thinning red hair. The familiar feminine voice he had heard was embodied by Ginny. She smiled widely in return and in a swift move, pushed back her neatly braided hair, a black cap covering her scalp. Harry was glad that Ginny, at least, had followed Hermione's Muggle fashion advice. Harry would not have bet on it but he thought he recognized his friend favourite pink sweater and patched jeans: he wondered if Hermione had noticed they looked much better on Ginny.
Seeing familiar faces made him feel happy and embarrassed at the same time. Harry could feel his mouth numbing as he addressed alternately to Mr.Weasley and Ginny his widest grin. He then saw Bill Weasley who had his back turned to him, his ponytail moving slightly as he was looking from left to right in front of the house and Harry noticed a weird hooded figure - that could only be Mad-Eye Moody - behind the wheel of a not so recent car.
Meanwhile, over his shoulder, Uncle Vernon was trying to identify who had the courage of screaming « KNOCK KNOCK » a Saturday morning in a peaceful community.
«But who are you?» grunted Uncle Vernon with his usual poor sense of hospitality that he kept especially for wizards.
Ginny could not hide a frown and her face contracted into a disgusted expression. Mr. Weasley smiled again, prompting his hand towards Uncle Vernon, as the latter took a step back. «I... am… Arthur Weasley, Ron's… Ronald's… father… We have met…Ron…Harry's friend? This is my daughter Ginevra.»
Vernon Dursley had no interest for wizards and less so for the fathers of Harry's friends who articulate each word like he was some kind of an idiot. Before he could snarl an angry remark, Harry lifted a finger towards Arthur Weasley and spurted urgently, «I'll be ready in one minute!»
Ginny took a step forward, «May I give you a hand, Harry?»
For a brief second, Harry considered arguing that he was strong enough to bring everything downstairs, that he did not spend the summer working all that muscle to be helped with a simple trunk, a broomstick and an cage, but the glitter in her eyes made him say, «Well, why not? An extra hand is always useful.»
As Mr. Weasley was trying courageously to discuss lawns with a monosyllabic Uncle Vernon, Harry climbed the stairs hastily, Ginny on his tail. Harry stormed the room while she stopped on the threshold. As Harry was leaning to pick up his Firebolt, he saw on Ginny's forehead a long, fine graze that looked recent. Harry asked, his finger pointing her face, «Hey, what happened there?»
Ginny pushed back the cap with the back of her hand. Her fingers felt lightly the graze and she shrugged, her palms up to the ceiling. She took the broom from his hands, «That's nothing. Only a nice reminder that I have a clumsy brother.»
«Only one?» retorted Harry quickly, unable to hide the smile that was creeping on his lips.
Ginny's tinkling laugh made him inexplicably happy and her face lit up, «Well, for your sake, Harry, I will not repeat that to my brothers. That's George's handiwork, if you must know. He scraped my forehead while he was…Oh.»
Ginny covered her mouth with a hand and gave Harry a shy smile, «You'll understand later. Let's get you out of here now.»
She squinted while her eyes wandered at the furnishing in Harry's room. He read a certain trouble in her eyes but also a glimpse of anger. Ginny whispered softly, «So is this the room where they confined you for all these years?»
Harry looked at the dark room, the broken furniture and the suffocating walls and answered, «Well, not all of this time. I used to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. You must understand now why I'm ecstatic to get out of here.»
But Ginny was not looking at the room anymore: her eyes were gauging Harry. They exchanged a long look and somehow Harry felt uncomfortable. It was quite unnerving that it was neither Ron nor Hermione who was standing in his room, but Ginny. Of course, his friends knew how horrible staying at the Dursleys was but Ginny was the first one to see what it was really like from the inside.
Something shifted in Harry's stomach: he had the feeling that Ginny understood in a single look all his misery and for a reason he could not comprehend, he felt naked and ashamed. But Ginny broke the stillness of the room by moving gracefully towards Hedwig's cage, grasping it firmly. Before she turned her back to him so she could go downstairs, Harry noticed, with a slight alarm, that compassion had soften her expressive face.
Harry gulped: he did not want compassion or pity from his best friend's sister. He wanted… Harry felt two hot spots on the apple of his cheeks as he was acknowledging the unsettling truth: yes, he would have wanted to see…admiration, maybe, at the fact that he managed to survive the Dursleys almost miraculously each summer.
Lifting his case straight up with one hand, he followed her out of the room. Harry lowered his head, swallowing his shame, and focused on following Ginny's steps, his eyes not leaving the bouncy, shiny red braid in front of him.
To be continued...