[English translation by CarrieF (carrief_x@yahoo.co.uk)]
Disclaimer: Loads of characters © of J.K. Rowling. I'm making no profit out of this story - it was written simply for the pleasure of writing. Anyone who wants to read it should be able to spend a few enjoyable hours without having to dig too deep in his pockets. *wink*. All characters outside the HP-series are mine - except Professor Leroux. Many thanks, Martina, for this wonderful character. Oh yeah, and any similarities to persons living or dead are, of course, purely incidental. *cough*
Feedback: If you have any to share, you can be sure that I'll read and answer it, no matter whether it's positive or negative. ^.^
Dedication: To Sabine, who's to blame for the fact that I became addicted to Harry Potter and wrote a story longer than 5 sides of Word for the first time in three years. And for everyone who patiently puts up with my mania and doesn't throw me out of the house when I wrap myself in a Gryffindor scarf and rant about the latest book or film, including my parents, who let me use the PC for long enough to let my story-mania run free. ^.^
~*~
"And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth,
or he's not a real hero." ~ Schmendrick, the Magician
"The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle
1. Petunia's Secret
The ticking clock on his bedside cabinet showed a quarter past three. The sparse light from the streetlamps shimmered through his curtains, allowing him to see dim outlines in the room. As he stared with wide open eyes, these outlines turned into eerie figures - tall shadows in long cloaks which crept around his bed like predators waiting to pounce.
A gust of wind rustled the curtain and Harry gasped.
A dream. It was all a dream.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his pyjama sleeve and stared at the big cupboard against the opposite wall, which had seemed so threatening a moment before.
Just a dream.
Harry pulled the blanket higher. It made him sweat even more, but he didn't care. The blanket protected him, like a second skin. At least, that's how it seemed to him.
Hedwig, sitting in her cage, looked at him attentively with her eyes wide open. It really seemed as if the snowy owl was asking him if he was alright. Harry nodded. "I'm okay," he said.
Hedwig hooted softly and fluffed out her feathers. She was still looking at him thoughtfully.
Harry sighed and closed his eyes again. And although his heart was still hammering wildly in his chest after the last dream, he fell into a dark, restless sleep.
Sinking through a formless white mist he reached the world of the subconscious, which seldom - or never - can be seen by day. Sometimes it was a place of refuge, but sometimes it represented pain and hell. And today, as so often in the past weeks, it would be the latter. Harry stared at a double door, several meters high, which rose up in front of him, leading to a long corridor. A corridor so endless that it seemed almost abstract. Where did it lead?
A voice made him jump. A full, loud voice, coming from behind him. It was cold, loud, clear. And it was calling his name.
Confused, Harry turned slowly around and found himself in an immense courtroom, staring at faceless faces, feeling emotionless emotions that streamed against him. He shivered as an icy coldness crept up his back, dancing over his skin and seeking a way inside his body to freeze his heart.
The men before him knew no mercy. Expressionless, yet expressive, alive and yet dead, rigid, and yet so swift.
Thoughts flew.
A blur of tangled thoughts.
Who were they?
Who were these dark figures that stood before him, terrifying in form and appearance? They were black, completely black, and masked so that no inch of skin could be seen beneath the blackness. Only their eyes were visible, and cold. An indefinable moan rose hoarsely from their throats, seizing every inch of Harry's trembling body.
Creatures of the darkness.
A face appeared among the faceless - white, grotesque, mocking in the gloom of the darkest of all nights. The spiteful face of a clown with a grin so terrible that it alone could have been enough to turn life to death. The white, mocking face became contorted with a guttural, devastating laugh.
And it was laughing at him.
Desperation, cold wind against his back. Harry felt more helpless than a chick fallen from its nest, more cornered than a hunted fox staring into the deadly jaws of its executioners.
It was worse. Beyond all cruelty.
And he had to get away, had to wake up from this nightmare.
He spun around and ran, but everything moved as if in slow-motion. Slowly, so slowly, but smoothly he ran, inch by inch, looking behind him to see the white-faced monster of darkness rushing towards him in the endless corridor. Yes, it was rushing - nothing seemed to hold it back. It was rushing like the wind and he, he could hardly move as he fled from the creature in black. However hard he tried, his legs refused to carry him as they should, and all his muscles seemed to fail him. The beast had reached him, struck him to the floor. Nothing softened his landing and he fell hard, but the slow-motion had ended just as abruptly as it had begun.
Half faint with pain he looked up. He saw eyes that looked straight through him, heard a voice that was hardly audible, little more than a soft hiss. And yet he understood what it was saying.
And what it said filled him with a feeling beyond all fear.
Completely paralysed, he stared at the unearthly face rising towards him from the depths of the nightmare. And he felt that He had always been there. He, Lord Voldemort, nearer now than ever before, was showing him his face, openly.
And he saw what couldn't be.
Eternity is a long time to spend with such hatred in your eyes, but He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named had done it.
And the demons of confusion and fear had a place for him, far beneath the earth, where flames consumed any soul that was not like His.
The black mask of death bent down towards Harry, and its claws scratched his face, marking him across his forehead with the wandering red mark of death.
Mystery and confusion.
Where there were no answers, neither were there questions.
A wand was raised, and like a distant hiss Harry heard the words "Avada Kedavra". And at the same time, something grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him upwards, into the blackness.
Screaming, he woke up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open. - and saw a large face, red with anger, directly in front of his nose.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Uncle Vernon thundered, beside himself with rage. "What do you think you're doing, screaming down the house in the middle of the night?!"
Although Harry could still feel the horror of the dream in every limb, he couldn't resist the sarcastic thought that his uncle was doing exactly that which he had just accused him of. He stared at him in silence.
Vernon Dursley had turned the colour of an overripe tomato, and, since his neck was verging on the non-existent at the best of times, he looked rather like one, too.
"Petunia is beside herself!" he hissed. "You've frightened her to death, screaming like that! She already has enough nightmares thanks to you, boy! I don't want to hear another peep out of you! Have I made myself clear?"
He didn't wait for an answer, simply turned on his heel, stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Harry sat motionless in bed. He hardly cared about his uncle's lecture. The good thing about it, although Harry was reluctant to admit it, was that Uncle Vernon had freed him from his nightmare. He sighed and looked at the clock. Half past three. Almost morning. He could hear the first birds twittering outside. Determined, he threw back the blanket and stood up. He was more than happy to go without any more sleep. It was too likely that the dream would come back - the terrifying pictures were still too clear before his eyes.
He pushed open the window and leaned out. In the east, a band of light across the horizon showed that it would soon be sunrise.
Quietly Harry pulled up a chair and sat down, staring thoughtfully at the sky. Since Lord Voldemort had regained his body and called his Death Eaters to him, this recurring nightmare had haunted him. He needed no help interpreting it. Harry knew full well what it meant. And this knowledge filled him with dread. The cold, faceless figures in the courtroom were Voldemort's Death Eaters. And the grotesque white face that had pursued him along the corridor was Voldemort himself. And the mark.
Automatically Harry felt for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The wandering red mark of death.
His parents, Lily and James Potter, had been murdered by Voldemort. Only Harry had survived, protected by the love of his mother who had died to save him. All that Voldemort had been able to give him was this scar, and his power had been scattered on the wind the moment he had laid hands on the one-year-old boy. Since then, Harry had found out that Voldemort, against his will, had instilled some of his own powers into Harry. And besides, there were many parallels between one of the greatest wizards of all time, the murderer Lord Voldemort, and Harry, the boy who lived. The ability to speak Parseltongue. The same wand. The young Voldemort had even looked quite similar to the way Harry looked now.
Harry stared into the small mirror which lay amongst the various other things on his desk. He sighed, took off his glasses and looked more closely. Slim figure, dark hair. like Tom M. Riddle. And his eyes. what colour did Voldemort's eyes use to be?
Harry shuddered, and angrily he pushed the mirror aside. The sudden movement made Hedwig flap her wings loudly in her cage.
"I'm not like him. We have nothing in common," Harry snorted. "Not really."
As if for reassurance, he pulled his school uniform out of his half-packed suitcase. The red-gold emblem of the Gryffindor House gleamed back at him.
"Gryffindor, not Slytherin," he thought fiercely, "Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor!"
"Because that's the house you chose, remember?" said a second voice in his subconscious mind. "And because of the Prophesy."
Angrily Harry stared in front of him. The Prophesy. to be honest, he would have been happier if he had never known about it. He might not have understood why Voldemort never stopped hunting him, why he was always after his blood. But he would have been free from the knowledge that he must become a murderer if the Dark Lord were ever to leave this world for good.
"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
This seemed to be the truth. Harry could hardly describe his life so far as normal. Not even considering that he was a wizard. He, like Voldemort, was a prisoner of the Prophesy. And the Dark Lord seemed much more determined to clear away his 'problem' than Harry was.
The door to his room opened once more, interrupting his gloomy train of thought. Aunt Petunia entered and fixed her eyes on her nephew, who silently answered her gaze.
"I waited until Vernon was asleep." Petunia Dursley quietly shut the door behind her and leant against the wall next to the window. "He wouldn't want me to speak to you. let alone understand what I'm about to say." She bent over and hissed: "And you won't say a word to him about my being here!"
Harry bit back an ironic remark about not speaking to Vernon any more than was necessary, and nodded. He was curious to see what his aunt wanted.
"You were talking in your sleep," Petunia said.
Avoiding her eyes, Harry said quietly: "I often do."
"I've heard you." His aunt looked at him thoughtfully. "Why were you dreaming about You-Know-Who?"
Now Harry could scarcely contain his surprise. He stared at her in astonishment. "How...?" he gasped, "How do you know about him?" The memories of the previous summer flooded back and he pressed her further. "How do you know about the Dementors, and that they guard Askaban? How do you know what kind of place that is? How do you..?"
Aunt Petunia raised her hand, and he paused. "Keep the noise down, or do you want your uncle to wake up again?"
For a few seconds neither spoke a word and they listened for sounds in the next room. But only the regular snores of Mr. Dursley could be heard through the wall.
"You don't know about your grandparents. You don't know about everything that happened after my sister started going to that magic school and met.that..Potter." She positively spat out the name. "You don't know what happened when she made the mistake of following him. Her blind, naïve love brought ruin on us all. Your wretched father was to blame!" She was speaking quietly, but every word resounded like a scream of anger in Harry's ears. "She would never have got involved with those people if it wasn't for him. That wizarding scum would never have bothered about us if she'd have listened. Your grandparents would still be alive - both of them! You'd never have been born. Oh how I wish things had turned out that way."
Harry stared at her in bewilderment, trying to process these small scraps of information. "Voldemort killed them.?"
"Two of his Death Eaters. Shortly before your parents were killed. No one should be left, who knew. No one. But you survived. And so did I. The good thing was that none of those monsters knew about me." She jabbed her pointed finger into Harry's chest. He could feel her fingernail digging through his shirt and into his skin. "Why do you think I want nothing to do with your world? Why I never wanted you here? Because my family's important to me, and your very presence is putting them in danger!"
"But you had no choice," Harry growled, pushing her hand away. "Dumbledore forced you to take me. Because this house is the only protection I have."
"And our ruin!" Petunia snapped, looked up in alarm and lowered her voice again. "Listen, I don't want anything to do with this magic nonsense - not because I'm intolerant but because I have good reasons. This world that you," she snorted, "love so much destroyed my family and I'm not going to let that happen again because of you!"
"As soon as Voldemort is dead, you'll be rid of me for good. I won't have to stay a minute longer," Harry hissed back angrily.
"If he were dead I wouldn't be half as afraid as I am now!" she spat back.
"Then we have something in common." Harry stared pointedly out of the window. His mind was reeling with a flood of new information, answers to questions that he had been to afraid to ask, and anger at his aunt's hostility. The last thing he wanted was to be able to understand her and her vehement rejection of the world of magic. And it annoyed him that he did.
Petunia crossed her arms. "Until he dies. When's that going to be? Someone would have to kill him to make him disappear for good. And who's going to do that?"
Harry continued looking out of the window. He found it easier to talk when he didn't have to look at her. "I'm the only one who can."
His aunt made a noise that was something between a hiss and a snort. "You? Why should you of all people be able to do that?"
Harry dropped his head and ran both hands through his hair. "If I knew.", he murmured, "if only I knew."
***
Harry was silent at breakfast, as usual. The Dursleys didn't like it when he talked. They knew he was forbidden to do magic during the holidays - and the thing they were most afraid of was that he would - but still. you never knew what unforgivable words might slip off the tongue of this abnormal boy who had no place in their orderly world. Uncle Vernon tapped Dudley's chubby finger as he reached for a second helping of bacon.
"You're still on a diet, my boy," he said, taking the slice himself. Harry gave a quick grin. The "diet" had had no effect whatsoever on Dudley. Even when Aunt Petunia kept her beloved son on a course of fruit and vegetables for weeks (much to Dudley's disgust, of course) he never lost a pound. Harry suspected that he stocked up on sweets at school or with his friends. As a result, the only physical difference between Uncle Vernon and Dudley was that Vernon had grey hair and a moustache.
Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, had something her husband and son lacked: an incredibly long neck, especially useful for peering over fences into the houses and gardens of her neighbours.
And Harry? He wasn't that much shorter than Dudley any more. He was still thin, almost delicate, but his once childish face had taken on a new maturity. In his behaviour and the way he spoke he seemed much older than Dudley, but the Dursleys would never admit this or even, least of all Uncle Vernon, notice it at all. This didn't bother Harry much. As usual he had to clear the table and wash up after the meal. For a moment he wondered if it would be amusing to drop a plate and tell the outraged Dursleys that he had been trying out a spell.
A loud ring interrupted his train of thought. He heard a snorting noise - Uncle Vernon waddling to the door. The quiet squeak of the door handle. Then a friendly but meaningful "Good morning, Mr. Dursley."
Harry dropped the towel he was drying his hands with and hurried out of the kitchen into the hall. The front door was open. Harry smiled, delighted but openly surprised. "Hermione?"
She grinned back. Uncle Vernon, who was standing next to her, snorted again. "If she'd have come on a broomstick I'd have called the police!"
Hermione Granger waved this aside. "My parents brought me. or rather, they wanted to visit a cousin of my mother's and I asked them to bring me with them. They're picking me up afterwards. - I just wanted to see how you were, Harry."
Harry could hardly grasp the fact that Uncle Vernon had knowingly let a young witch into his house.
". and ask if you wanted to spend the last two days of the holidays with me and then with Ron. We'd go to London tomorrow to buy the new books and meet him there."
A glance at his Uncle's face told Harry enough. He seemed delighted at the prospect of getting rid of his nephew earlier than expected from his magicless house.
"If you like we can go straight away," Hermione continued.
Uncle Vernon nodded towards the stairs. "Go on, get upstairs. Pack your things."
"Great idea." Harry laughed and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Hermione followed. Uncle Vernon was watching her closely, but she seemed not to notice, or else she was very good at ignoring him.
Up in Harry's room she gave him a hand with his packing. It was important not to forget anything - all his schoolbooks, clothes, the Firebolt, his broom maintenance kit, the Invisibility Cloak. Gradually everything that hadn't been packed found its way into the suitcase.
"I see you haven't done your Herbology yet," observed Hermione, glancing over the homework that Harry had done during his time at the Dursley's. "And the essay for Professor Flitwick on the history of."
"Missing as well, I know," Harry interrupted. "I'm sure I'll have a lot more time to do that at your house, without the continual threat of my books being thrown into the fire if I leave them open - since every word in them could be so terribly dangerous."
Hermione smiled indulgently. "I doubt it. - at least I doubt you'll have much more time for your homework when you're staying with us."
When the Grangers arrived to pick up Harry and their daughter, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia regarded them with evident distaste and, at first, some anxiety. The meeting with the Weasleys last year was still too fresh in their minds. But they soon realised that the Grangers weren't a wizarding family and seemed "completely normal". They even had, much to Uncle Vernon's satisfaction, a normal, decent job.
The luggage was packed away in the car and soon they were on their way. Harry leant back seat with a sigh of contentment. It was almost too good to be true. He was escaping from the Dursleys before the start of term, and this time without any arguments or commotion. A unique experience, he thought, amused.
Disclaimer: Loads of characters © of J.K. Rowling. I'm making no profit out of this story - it was written simply for the pleasure of writing. Anyone who wants to read it should be able to spend a few enjoyable hours without having to dig too deep in his pockets. *wink*. All characters outside the HP-series are mine - except Professor Leroux. Many thanks, Martina, for this wonderful character. Oh yeah, and any similarities to persons living or dead are, of course, purely incidental. *cough*
Feedback: If you have any to share, you can be sure that I'll read and answer it, no matter whether it's positive or negative. ^.^
Dedication: To Sabine, who's to blame for the fact that I became addicted to Harry Potter and wrote a story longer than 5 sides of Word for the first time in three years. And for everyone who patiently puts up with my mania and doesn't throw me out of the house when I wrap myself in a Gryffindor scarf and rant about the latest book or film, including my parents, who let me use the PC for long enough to let my story-mania run free. ^.^
~*~
"And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth,
or he's not a real hero." ~ Schmendrick, the Magician
"The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle
1. Petunia's Secret
The ticking clock on his bedside cabinet showed a quarter past three. The sparse light from the streetlamps shimmered through his curtains, allowing him to see dim outlines in the room. As he stared with wide open eyes, these outlines turned into eerie figures - tall shadows in long cloaks which crept around his bed like predators waiting to pounce.
A gust of wind rustled the curtain and Harry gasped.
A dream. It was all a dream.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his pyjama sleeve and stared at the big cupboard against the opposite wall, which had seemed so threatening a moment before.
Just a dream.
Harry pulled the blanket higher. It made him sweat even more, but he didn't care. The blanket protected him, like a second skin. At least, that's how it seemed to him.
Hedwig, sitting in her cage, looked at him attentively with her eyes wide open. It really seemed as if the snowy owl was asking him if he was alright. Harry nodded. "I'm okay," he said.
Hedwig hooted softly and fluffed out her feathers. She was still looking at him thoughtfully.
Harry sighed and closed his eyes again. And although his heart was still hammering wildly in his chest after the last dream, he fell into a dark, restless sleep.
Sinking through a formless white mist he reached the world of the subconscious, which seldom - or never - can be seen by day. Sometimes it was a place of refuge, but sometimes it represented pain and hell. And today, as so often in the past weeks, it would be the latter. Harry stared at a double door, several meters high, which rose up in front of him, leading to a long corridor. A corridor so endless that it seemed almost abstract. Where did it lead?
A voice made him jump. A full, loud voice, coming from behind him. It was cold, loud, clear. And it was calling his name.
Confused, Harry turned slowly around and found himself in an immense courtroom, staring at faceless faces, feeling emotionless emotions that streamed against him. He shivered as an icy coldness crept up his back, dancing over his skin and seeking a way inside his body to freeze his heart.
The men before him knew no mercy. Expressionless, yet expressive, alive and yet dead, rigid, and yet so swift.
Thoughts flew.
A blur of tangled thoughts.
Who were they?
Who were these dark figures that stood before him, terrifying in form and appearance? They were black, completely black, and masked so that no inch of skin could be seen beneath the blackness. Only their eyes were visible, and cold. An indefinable moan rose hoarsely from their throats, seizing every inch of Harry's trembling body.
Creatures of the darkness.
A face appeared among the faceless - white, grotesque, mocking in the gloom of the darkest of all nights. The spiteful face of a clown with a grin so terrible that it alone could have been enough to turn life to death. The white, mocking face became contorted with a guttural, devastating laugh.
And it was laughing at him.
Desperation, cold wind against his back. Harry felt more helpless than a chick fallen from its nest, more cornered than a hunted fox staring into the deadly jaws of its executioners.
It was worse. Beyond all cruelty.
And he had to get away, had to wake up from this nightmare.
He spun around and ran, but everything moved as if in slow-motion. Slowly, so slowly, but smoothly he ran, inch by inch, looking behind him to see the white-faced monster of darkness rushing towards him in the endless corridor. Yes, it was rushing - nothing seemed to hold it back. It was rushing like the wind and he, he could hardly move as he fled from the creature in black. However hard he tried, his legs refused to carry him as they should, and all his muscles seemed to fail him. The beast had reached him, struck him to the floor. Nothing softened his landing and he fell hard, but the slow-motion had ended just as abruptly as it had begun.
Half faint with pain he looked up. He saw eyes that looked straight through him, heard a voice that was hardly audible, little more than a soft hiss. And yet he understood what it was saying.
And what it said filled him with a feeling beyond all fear.
Completely paralysed, he stared at the unearthly face rising towards him from the depths of the nightmare. And he felt that He had always been there. He, Lord Voldemort, nearer now than ever before, was showing him his face, openly.
And he saw what couldn't be.
Eternity is a long time to spend with such hatred in your eyes, but He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named had done it.
And the demons of confusion and fear had a place for him, far beneath the earth, where flames consumed any soul that was not like His.
The black mask of death bent down towards Harry, and its claws scratched his face, marking him across his forehead with the wandering red mark of death.
Mystery and confusion.
Where there were no answers, neither were there questions.
A wand was raised, and like a distant hiss Harry heard the words "Avada Kedavra". And at the same time, something grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him upwards, into the blackness.
Screaming, he woke up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open. - and saw a large face, red with anger, directly in front of his nose.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Uncle Vernon thundered, beside himself with rage. "What do you think you're doing, screaming down the house in the middle of the night?!"
Although Harry could still feel the horror of the dream in every limb, he couldn't resist the sarcastic thought that his uncle was doing exactly that which he had just accused him of. He stared at him in silence.
Vernon Dursley had turned the colour of an overripe tomato, and, since his neck was verging on the non-existent at the best of times, he looked rather like one, too.
"Petunia is beside herself!" he hissed. "You've frightened her to death, screaming like that! She already has enough nightmares thanks to you, boy! I don't want to hear another peep out of you! Have I made myself clear?"
He didn't wait for an answer, simply turned on his heel, stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Harry sat motionless in bed. He hardly cared about his uncle's lecture. The good thing about it, although Harry was reluctant to admit it, was that Uncle Vernon had freed him from his nightmare. He sighed and looked at the clock. Half past three. Almost morning. He could hear the first birds twittering outside. Determined, he threw back the blanket and stood up. He was more than happy to go without any more sleep. It was too likely that the dream would come back - the terrifying pictures were still too clear before his eyes.
He pushed open the window and leaned out. In the east, a band of light across the horizon showed that it would soon be sunrise.
Quietly Harry pulled up a chair and sat down, staring thoughtfully at the sky. Since Lord Voldemort had regained his body and called his Death Eaters to him, this recurring nightmare had haunted him. He needed no help interpreting it. Harry knew full well what it meant. And this knowledge filled him with dread. The cold, faceless figures in the courtroom were Voldemort's Death Eaters. And the grotesque white face that had pursued him along the corridor was Voldemort himself. And the mark.
Automatically Harry felt for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The wandering red mark of death.
His parents, Lily and James Potter, had been murdered by Voldemort. Only Harry had survived, protected by the love of his mother who had died to save him. All that Voldemort had been able to give him was this scar, and his power had been scattered on the wind the moment he had laid hands on the one-year-old boy. Since then, Harry had found out that Voldemort, against his will, had instilled some of his own powers into Harry. And besides, there were many parallels between one of the greatest wizards of all time, the murderer Lord Voldemort, and Harry, the boy who lived. The ability to speak Parseltongue. The same wand. The young Voldemort had even looked quite similar to the way Harry looked now.
Harry stared into the small mirror which lay amongst the various other things on his desk. He sighed, took off his glasses and looked more closely. Slim figure, dark hair. like Tom M. Riddle. And his eyes. what colour did Voldemort's eyes use to be?
Harry shuddered, and angrily he pushed the mirror aside. The sudden movement made Hedwig flap her wings loudly in her cage.
"I'm not like him. We have nothing in common," Harry snorted. "Not really."
As if for reassurance, he pulled his school uniform out of his half-packed suitcase. The red-gold emblem of the Gryffindor House gleamed back at him.
"Gryffindor, not Slytherin," he thought fiercely, "Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor!"
"Because that's the house you chose, remember?" said a second voice in his subconscious mind. "And because of the Prophesy."
Angrily Harry stared in front of him. The Prophesy. to be honest, he would have been happier if he had never known about it. He might not have understood why Voldemort never stopped hunting him, why he was always after his blood. But he would have been free from the knowledge that he must become a murderer if the Dark Lord were ever to leave this world for good.
"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
This seemed to be the truth. Harry could hardly describe his life so far as normal. Not even considering that he was a wizard. He, like Voldemort, was a prisoner of the Prophesy. And the Dark Lord seemed much more determined to clear away his 'problem' than Harry was.
The door to his room opened once more, interrupting his gloomy train of thought. Aunt Petunia entered and fixed her eyes on her nephew, who silently answered her gaze.
"I waited until Vernon was asleep." Petunia Dursley quietly shut the door behind her and leant against the wall next to the window. "He wouldn't want me to speak to you. let alone understand what I'm about to say." She bent over and hissed: "And you won't say a word to him about my being here!"
Harry bit back an ironic remark about not speaking to Vernon any more than was necessary, and nodded. He was curious to see what his aunt wanted.
"You were talking in your sleep," Petunia said.
Avoiding her eyes, Harry said quietly: "I often do."
"I've heard you." His aunt looked at him thoughtfully. "Why were you dreaming about You-Know-Who?"
Now Harry could scarcely contain his surprise. He stared at her in astonishment. "How...?" he gasped, "How do you know about him?" The memories of the previous summer flooded back and he pressed her further. "How do you know about the Dementors, and that they guard Askaban? How do you know what kind of place that is? How do you..?"
Aunt Petunia raised her hand, and he paused. "Keep the noise down, or do you want your uncle to wake up again?"
For a few seconds neither spoke a word and they listened for sounds in the next room. But only the regular snores of Mr. Dursley could be heard through the wall.
"You don't know about your grandparents. You don't know about everything that happened after my sister started going to that magic school and met.that..Potter." She positively spat out the name. "You don't know what happened when she made the mistake of following him. Her blind, naïve love brought ruin on us all. Your wretched father was to blame!" She was speaking quietly, but every word resounded like a scream of anger in Harry's ears. "She would never have got involved with those people if it wasn't for him. That wizarding scum would never have bothered about us if she'd have listened. Your grandparents would still be alive - both of them! You'd never have been born. Oh how I wish things had turned out that way."
Harry stared at her in bewilderment, trying to process these small scraps of information. "Voldemort killed them.?"
"Two of his Death Eaters. Shortly before your parents were killed. No one should be left, who knew. No one. But you survived. And so did I. The good thing was that none of those monsters knew about me." She jabbed her pointed finger into Harry's chest. He could feel her fingernail digging through his shirt and into his skin. "Why do you think I want nothing to do with your world? Why I never wanted you here? Because my family's important to me, and your very presence is putting them in danger!"
"But you had no choice," Harry growled, pushing her hand away. "Dumbledore forced you to take me. Because this house is the only protection I have."
"And our ruin!" Petunia snapped, looked up in alarm and lowered her voice again. "Listen, I don't want anything to do with this magic nonsense - not because I'm intolerant but because I have good reasons. This world that you," she snorted, "love so much destroyed my family and I'm not going to let that happen again because of you!"
"As soon as Voldemort is dead, you'll be rid of me for good. I won't have to stay a minute longer," Harry hissed back angrily.
"If he were dead I wouldn't be half as afraid as I am now!" she spat back.
"Then we have something in common." Harry stared pointedly out of the window. His mind was reeling with a flood of new information, answers to questions that he had been to afraid to ask, and anger at his aunt's hostility. The last thing he wanted was to be able to understand her and her vehement rejection of the world of magic. And it annoyed him that he did.
Petunia crossed her arms. "Until he dies. When's that going to be? Someone would have to kill him to make him disappear for good. And who's going to do that?"
Harry continued looking out of the window. He found it easier to talk when he didn't have to look at her. "I'm the only one who can."
His aunt made a noise that was something between a hiss and a snort. "You? Why should you of all people be able to do that?"
Harry dropped his head and ran both hands through his hair. "If I knew.", he murmured, "if only I knew."
***
Harry was silent at breakfast, as usual. The Dursleys didn't like it when he talked. They knew he was forbidden to do magic during the holidays - and the thing they were most afraid of was that he would - but still. you never knew what unforgivable words might slip off the tongue of this abnormal boy who had no place in their orderly world. Uncle Vernon tapped Dudley's chubby finger as he reached for a second helping of bacon.
"You're still on a diet, my boy," he said, taking the slice himself. Harry gave a quick grin. The "diet" had had no effect whatsoever on Dudley. Even when Aunt Petunia kept her beloved son on a course of fruit and vegetables for weeks (much to Dudley's disgust, of course) he never lost a pound. Harry suspected that he stocked up on sweets at school or with his friends. As a result, the only physical difference between Uncle Vernon and Dudley was that Vernon had grey hair and a moustache.
Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, had something her husband and son lacked: an incredibly long neck, especially useful for peering over fences into the houses and gardens of her neighbours.
And Harry? He wasn't that much shorter than Dudley any more. He was still thin, almost delicate, but his once childish face had taken on a new maturity. In his behaviour and the way he spoke he seemed much older than Dudley, but the Dursleys would never admit this or even, least of all Uncle Vernon, notice it at all. This didn't bother Harry much. As usual he had to clear the table and wash up after the meal. For a moment he wondered if it would be amusing to drop a plate and tell the outraged Dursleys that he had been trying out a spell.
A loud ring interrupted his train of thought. He heard a snorting noise - Uncle Vernon waddling to the door. The quiet squeak of the door handle. Then a friendly but meaningful "Good morning, Mr. Dursley."
Harry dropped the towel he was drying his hands with and hurried out of the kitchen into the hall. The front door was open. Harry smiled, delighted but openly surprised. "Hermione?"
She grinned back. Uncle Vernon, who was standing next to her, snorted again. "If she'd have come on a broomstick I'd have called the police!"
Hermione Granger waved this aside. "My parents brought me. or rather, they wanted to visit a cousin of my mother's and I asked them to bring me with them. They're picking me up afterwards. - I just wanted to see how you were, Harry."
Harry could hardly grasp the fact that Uncle Vernon had knowingly let a young witch into his house.
". and ask if you wanted to spend the last two days of the holidays with me and then with Ron. We'd go to London tomorrow to buy the new books and meet him there."
A glance at his Uncle's face told Harry enough. He seemed delighted at the prospect of getting rid of his nephew earlier than expected from his magicless house.
"If you like we can go straight away," Hermione continued.
Uncle Vernon nodded towards the stairs. "Go on, get upstairs. Pack your things."
"Great idea." Harry laughed and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Hermione followed. Uncle Vernon was watching her closely, but she seemed not to notice, or else she was very good at ignoring him.
Up in Harry's room she gave him a hand with his packing. It was important not to forget anything - all his schoolbooks, clothes, the Firebolt, his broom maintenance kit, the Invisibility Cloak. Gradually everything that hadn't been packed found its way into the suitcase.
"I see you haven't done your Herbology yet," observed Hermione, glancing over the homework that Harry had done during his time at the Dursley's. "And the essay for Professor Flitwick on the history of."
"Missing as well, I know," Harry interrupted. "I'm sure I'll have a lot more time to do that at your house, without the continual threat of my books being thrown into the fire if I leave them open - since every word in them could be so terribly dangerous."
Hermione smiled indulgently. "I doubt it. - at least I doubt you'll have much more time for your homework when you're staying with us."
When the Grangers arrived to pick up Harry and their daughter, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia regarded them with evident distaste and, at first, some anxiety. The meeting with the Weasleys last year was still too fresh in their minds. But they soon realised that the Grangers weren't a wizarding family and seemed "completely normal". They even had, much to Uncle Vernon's satisfaction, a normal, decent job.
The luggage was packed away in the car and soon they were on their way. Harry leant back seat with a sigh of contentment. It was almost too good to be true. He was escaping from the Dursleys before the start of term, and this time without any arguments or commotion. A unique experience, he thought, amused.