Harry Potter would have smacked himself had he not been laden down with so many heavy, ancient books.
Returning to his room, Harry found it in the exact state he left it previously: an utter mess. After setting his purchases on the floor, he made to reorganize his trunk and return his school texts to their places. Harry kicked open his trunk with a toe and immediately noticed the silky bit of fabric that covered a few extra pairs of socks he neglected to unpack.
Harry really would have smacked himself if his hand were free.
Setting his books on the floor, Harry carefully removed his father's invisibility cloak, allowing the odd material to flow over his palms. How had he forgotten he owned such a valuable object? It would have saved him a full stomachache of worry as he had darted through the London park, trying to locate a spot away from muggle eyes to launch himself into the air. Harry felt downright ignorant.
He carefully placed the cloak on his knees as he reorganized his trunk. It was mostly just books now, as his summer attire was currently strewn all over the floor of his bedroom.
Shaking his head once more, Harry folded his father's cloak and returned it to the trunk.
He next made for the window, poking his head out before he drew the curtains shut. Although his Aunt Petunia wouldn't be spying on him from the window, he certainly would not put the idea past the other neighborhood housewives. What was that old muggle saying - birds of a feather stick together? Regardless, Harry felt the need to take caution. He had some dangerous books in his possession, after all.
Those, however, he set aside for the time being. He reached, instead, for a harmless book he had purchased from Flourish and Blotts. Its cover was a deep green; the crest of the Ministry gleamed up at him. He ran his fingers across the emblazoned black crest before turning directly to the index. While he intended to one day read the book in it's entirety, he had more pressing questions; in fact, he had a question that had burning relentlessly since the moment his feet had touched the pavement of Privet Drive.
Harry had taken special notice of the magic that coursed through the property of Number Four Privet Drive. Quite honestly, he had never before noticed it. It was not, in the least, as strong as the guards surrounding, say, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but it was undeniably there.
It could be one of two things: the protection of his mother's final sacrifice, carried on through her insufferable sister, or the doings of the Ministry of Magic to keep his underage self in check.
Or, Harry thought for the first time, perhaps a combination of the two.
Harry scanned the index with his fingers; he found an entry entitled Underage Wizardry, p. 3356.
Harry turned to the page in question and began skimming the paragraphs. Coming to one he thought might answer his question, he read carefully.
The Trace, developed in 1576 by Walter Grimm, activates automatically upon a child's formal training to become a developed witch or wizard. This begins almost universally at age eleven, when magical children begin their schooling. Similarly, the Trace breaks automatically upon the morn of the child's seventeenth birthday (eighteenth in areas of Russia and Slovakia). The Trace serves as a charm to help the Ministry of Magic ensure the safety of underage witches and wizards. If a child performs magic outside the grounds of their selected school, said Ministry officials are informed. The Trace cannot distinguish who cast the spell – therefore, it is the duty of magical parents to enforce strictly the rule of no underage magic upon children in their presence. The Trace was originally devised to monitor magical students of non-magical heritage. It is now used commonly throughout the rest of Europe, Asia, and North America.
Harry was not sure of his present feelings. As the Trace did not track any one person, according to the text, it explained perfectly why Harry had been blamed for the bit of magic performed by Dobby the house elf two summers previously.
This was not, however, what interested Harry.
After witnessing the return of Lord Voldemort only two weeks ago, Harry had sat down with his Gryffindor friends (those who would believe him, at any rate) and warned them to take extra care this summer. Harry was certain that Lord Voldemort would, one day, find he could use Harry's friends against him. Harry had warned how twisted and powerful Lord Voldemort could be, only to be seconded by Ginny. She went on to murmur that Voldemort had murdered his own parents before leaving Hogwarts. While it was news, it hardly came as a surprise to Harry.
On the train, Harry had mourned his loss of magical ability for the summer when Ginny's story had reoccurred to him – how had a younger Voldemort killed his parents while still underage? Did he have a magical accomplice that allowed the Trace to simply assume the magic did not belong to Tom Riddle Jr.?
Harry had posed his question to both Ron and Hermione, but they seemed as stumped as he. Although, they hardly put as much energy into the enigma: they were both still treating him as though he was as fragile as tissue paper.
Harry could not help to wonder how Riddle had completely escaped pursuit by the Ministry. If Ginny's story was true (Harry could only assume it was, as diary-Riddle had told it to her at length), Riddle had molded the mind of his uncle until he procured a confession from the unfortunate man.
Harry was so interested.
Riddle had bypassed the laws of the Ministry of Magic – why shouldn't Harry be able to find a solution as well?
It seemed to Harry there were two options. He could first find another witch or wizard in the surrounding area and practice his magic nearby; the charm would not be able to distinguish him, if he had read correctly. He crinkled his brow at this thought. From his encounter with Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge after the Dobby Incident, Harry knew no other magical beings lived in the neighborhood. He could hardly begin to waltz up to doors and ask for any magical residents, either.
His other option lay in finding a way to bypass the Trace altogether, which its function, it seemed to Harry, was contingent solely upon his age.
Suddenly, a grin grew on Harry that could rival any those of Fred or George. Speaking of the troublemakers, Harry had a letter to write.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Harry awoke that night drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. His hands lay so firmly clenched upon his sheets that they were threatening to tear. His back was arched, his shoulders digging painfully into his pillow.
It took him only moments to regain control of his body, but his mind was whirling at kilometer a minute. He had once again relived, through his dreams, the death of a friend and the rebirth of a murderer.
Harry bit back a groan as he fitted his glasses over his ears. He tried not to make too much noise in his trek to the netty, but his stumbling made that difficult. He only hoped his Aunt and Uncle was sleeping deeply. Harry fumbled for the light switch as well; electric lights were really the only things he missed at Hogwarts.
He took a good look in the mirror and groaned once more. The bruise under his eye had turned from a deep purple to a murky yellow, and his hair stuck up at angles only sleeping fitfully could produce. Harry was a site for sore eyes.
He splashed water onto his face before leaning across the sink and gripping its edges tightly. His breathing was calm once more, but the images from his dream were fresh.
He had once again watched as Peter Pettigrew drew his wand – in what seemed like a painstakingly slow manner, now that Harry new the result – and with a swish, Cedric lay lifeless on the ground. Today, the dream seemed to progress in slow motion. Harry gritted his teeth as he realized that Cedric might have survived had he only rolled out of the way. Or had Harry reacted quickly enough.
Harry raised his eyes once more. He was scrawny. Every bit of his physique screamed scrawny, teenage boy.
The skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, the result of years of limited portions or missed meals. Harry dully noted he had neglected to eat dinner the previous night. His elbows stuck out at odd angles as his arms seemed too long for his body. There was no hint of muscle or strength in his slender shoulders, or in his long legs. Although Harry fit the perfect build for a Quidditch Seeker, he was in no way fit to defend his self.
Harry looked down again. If he had been stronger, faster, perhaps he could have saved Cedric of his fate? Although he doubted he could evade Lord Voldemort without a wand for long, it was certainly not a ludicrous thought altogether.
Harry glared at the faucet – he owed it to Cedric to learn to defend himself and those around him. Maybe next time, he would be able to protect those closest to him better than he had Cedric Diggory.
Maybe next time, no one would have to die.
Set in his resolve, Harry stomped back to his room. He was beyond caring what his Aunt and Uncle thought or heard. Had he any other place to go, he would have left their home in a moment. He wanted to live with Sirius, but Albus Dumbledore had firmly put his foot down.
Harry yanked open his door and made straight for his trunk. He wrenched it open (perhaps too hard, as his shoulder protested mightily) and peered inside. It took him a moment to realize his trainers were probably buried beneath the mess on his floor. He kicked several pants out of the way before he found them. Harry dressed quickly and tied his shoes, stealing down the stairs in the hall. He glanced at the bright kitchen clock before making for the front door. It was only 6:00 in the morning – on a Saturday, no less.
Harry stopped briefly as he exited the home. He had the oddest feeling someone was watching him. He looked around the block, but finally had to admit there was no one there. Shrugging slightly, he resumed the stretching of his calves.
Harry Potter had never exercised in his life. Sure, he had run around the Quidditch pitch several times before practice, but that was mostly as a warm up; an activity designed simply to 'get his blood pumping,' as the saying went. Now, Harry felt slightly foolish as he took off at a slow jog down the neighborhood. It was only running, he continued to tell himself; there was no possible way he could bugger that up.
Harry was thinking about the incredibility of people running for sport, much less fun, when he should have been watching his path.
"Oomph!"
Harry fought the urge to rub his now very sore bum as he looked up from his new position on the walk. Staring back at him with surprised eyes was a slender girl with her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She extended a hand.
"Sorry about that! No one's ever out so early in the morning. I definitely didn't expect to run into another. Can't say I ever see people on my trip around the neighborhood."
Harry raised his eyebrows, accepting her hand politely. "You run around the whole of the neighborhood? That must be a fair six miles!"
"Six and a half," the girl said, straightening her shoulders proudly – Harry tried very hard to ignore the fact that her movement accentuated her chest, as well.
"So you're one of those people?" Harry asked, his tone teasing.
"One of those people?"
"A runner," Harry joked.
The girl grinned. "Best there is, if I do say so."
"So explain this to me," Harry began, a laugh in his throat. "How do people do this for fun?"
"You don't find it invigorating?" She laughed when Harry vigorously shook his head no. "Well, it's really good for you, for starters. And it's a lot of discipline. It also gives me a lot of time to, you know, think. What else do you do for such long periods of time?"
"Eat and sleep, for starters. Rather fun, if I do say so."
"You're funny," she stated bluntly. Her laugh had a tinkling quality to it that made Harry grin as well. "Well, mystery man, I need to get back on pace. It was good to meet a fellow enthusiast."
Harry grinned at her obvious sarcasm. "Try not to lap me now, will you?"
She winked. "Can't make any promises."
Harry waited for her to run past him before he resumed his own slow paced jog. He still had that silly grin plastered to his face. There was something about that girl that just seemed downright special - an inherent goodness, of sorts. Harry couldn't help but laugh at his own absurdity. He was certainly thankful, though, that something could still make him laugh; he was beginning to think that quality had died with Cedric.
Harry frowned. He shouldn't have thought that way. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself a little faster. His training was for Cedric and his unjust death, after all.
Ten minutes later, Harry reached the edge of the neighborhood. Not as ambitious (or physically fit, he was embarrassed to say) as the mystery runner, he turned round the way he came rather than make the full neighborhood lap.
He was almost to the Durlsey's when he veered off course to his left. He entered, instead, the small neighborhood park. Feeling absurd, Harry took several looks around before sitting on the ground and trying his hand at sit-ups. He was amazed to find how such a simple action could make his belly ache in such a way!
He moved next to side crunches and finally to push-ups. Those were the only exercises he remembered from public school physical education.
Harry made a mental note to look for some more exercises later. He thought of sneaking a look at Dudley's computer. The idea of going around Dudley's rather large back made Harry smirk mischievously.
With lack of anything else to do, he repeated the process twice more – sit-ups; crunches; push-ups. By the time Harry began his walk home, he felt sticky and thirsty. Overall, he concluded, he felt more alive than he had that week, with the exception of, perhaps, his flight into London. Harry resolved to continue this routine for Cedric, for Voldemort, and for every other wizard or witch who counted on him – which included virtually everyone, if Dumbledore's word could be true.
When he returned to the Dursley's, Harry quickly made himself some eggs (thrilled that his Aunt and Uncle were still readying themselves in the loo; Dudley, no doubt, was asleep) and returned to his bedroom. He was debating what to do when something knocked at his window.
Harry pushed away the blinds to find Hedwig staring at him. Harry grinned for what felt like the fifth or sixth time that morning – a record for the last several weeks.
"Good morning, girl." Hedwig hooted happily under Harry's fingers, graciously accepting a portion of his eggs as well. She stuck out her leg obediently, and Harry was only slightly disappointed to find she had one scroll stuck to her leg.
He instantly recognized the sloppy, narrow writing of his godfather. Harry retreated to the edge of his bed – his breakfast in one hand and letter in the other.
Dear, Harry.
I petitioned Dumbledore to see if you could stay here this summer – especially seeing as you've made your yearly trek back into the house of that wretched aunt of yours. Of course, you can imagine the answer: "Only when Harry is of age, and his mother's protection runs out, will he be free to gallivant about during the summer holidays. Focus not on Harry's absence, Snuffles – Harry paused to laugh; he could hardly imagine Dumbledore actually saying Snuffles – but rather encourage him to embrace his remaining family and use his time to study wisely. The early bird does snatch the worm, my friend."
How very proverbial of him, the old coot. (Albus, I do hope you read this before it makes its way to Harry. Have to keep me in check, no doubt.) Am I not your most loving (and handsome) family?
Don't be too bitter, Harry. You're cooped up there; I'm cooped up here. You've got Petunia; I've got my ol' mum – can't wait to introduce you. She's a real scream.
How are you, Harry? I'll skip asking if everything is all right. I won't try to fool myself into that. I can only imagine what you've been through. I'll try to have Dumbledore send for you as soon as possible. I do believe I now have Molly Weasley on my side. Did you know she and her boys are staying at my place as well? Quite the loud (obnoxious) party you're missing, Harry.
Now why is it that you're suddenly so interested in Pettigrew? To answer your question, there's nothing more about him you don't already know. He's a coward. Always followed Prongs, Moony and I around as if we had something shiny glued to our bums. It wasn't the power he wanted. He simply wanted to be liked and popular. I imagine that's the appeal his current group holds for him – the bloody wanker.
There's no news here from the wizarding world. All's quiet. Not that I can say I would be the first one to know, seeing as I'm trapped in this house. Lucky I have Buckbeak. I'll give him a pat for you. Anything else you care for? If you like, I have ample opportunity to get back Fred and George, if they've ever played a nasty prank on you. Merlin knows those two have it coming.
I'll keep you posted best I can on the mischief makings.
Take care, Harry. All my love,
Snuffles
Adorable nickname, is it not?
Harry felt himself now glaring at the parchment in his hands. Professor Dumbledore was now keeping his godfather locked up in his own home? As if Azkaban had not done enough of that for a lifetime! Harry held back a guttural growl threatening to escape; he needed to have a talk with the Headmaster about treating others with some sort of decency.
Siruis had, however, answered his question. Harry couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore had omitted some of his letter in order to keep Harry safe, or whatever the excuse was today.
Peter Pettigrew was a friend-seeking coward. Harry could hardly say he was surprised. He had wondered, however, why Pettigrew seemed especially fearful of him in the graveyard. Dumbledore had mentioned something of Pettigrew being in Harry's debt, but Harry could hardly wrap his mind around that. He wanted no such thing.
Sirius' thoughts on the matter neither confirmed nor disproved Dumbledore's suspicions.
Harry noted Pettigrew's thirst for friends, rather than power or fame. He filed it away in his mind, hoping that information might one day be useful. If there was one thing Harry had learned through his years of Voldemort, it was that power rested in knowing his adversary.
Hedwig had returned with one letter, which meant only one thing: Fred and George had sent her away without a response. They were either not planning to respond (which Harry highly doubted) or were taking their time in doing so. Either way, he could only wait. In the mean time, he might try to read that Ministry book.
First, however, sticky Harry Potter surely needed a steaming shower.
