Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places or situations that are J.K. Rowling's original and wonderful creations. I just have them stuck in my head, borrow them and put them through their paces.
Strange Days
Dawn came and went; Days and nights succeeded themselves; dishes with aging, cold food cluttered the door; Hedwig went hunting and returned, and Harry's overworked brain only registered dimly these changes were taking place when Hedwig pecked him hard on the forehead, reminding him, lost as he was in his own memories, his scar prickling continually, that he had to send a note to the Order.
"I'm coming, Hedwig," he grumbled irritably, squinting through his filthy glasses for a bit of parchment and a quill.
Eventually, he cleaned them on his t-shirt and replaced them with a scowl; if anything, he'd only succeeded in rubbing the grease and dirt in a little more.
He could not remember sleeping, nor being truly wakeful. The void inside him remained nonetheless. Alongside it, a new grim determination grew, momentarily stronger than the emptiness left in the huge chunk of his soul that had been - that still was and would always be - the space occupied by one Sirius Black.
He found an old Potions essay (graded 'D', by the way), ripped off a section that was devoid of writing, and dipped his quill into the inkwell he'd left on his desk after sending his first note. He'd left it open, and the ink had all but dried out, he absently noticed, suppressing the urge to groan in frustration, roll over and just forget about the stupid Order and letters. He just wanted to sleep. He yawned and slumped against his pillow, staring blankly at the piece of parchment in his hand.
It had an irregular shape, and parts of Snape's biting remarks could still be seen on the back (the word 'dolt' stood out clearly in poisonous green ink). The parchment was smudged, old-looking, torn, and frayed.
Just how I feel, he thought. Frayed. Harry yawned again, dipping his quill in the inkwell and withdrawing a thick, sticky paste. A Liquefying Charm would fix this... too bad I can't do magic here.
In this dazed state, he nevertheless scribbled a short and blotchy:
"All's well. I'll write again in three days - Harry" to the Order, and he was just about to tie it to Hedwig's leg when a high-pitched, panicked shriek carried from downstairs.
It had roughly the effect on Harry of a bucket of ice-cold water thrown on a person sleeping in the sun.
Still clutching the note to the Order in his left hand, he grabbed his wand, leapt out of the room in three quick strides and poked his head cautiously around the landing, his heart hammering fast, and feeling very alert all of a sudden.
Death Eaters. That was sooner than expected, Harry's mind supplied sarcastically, speaking in Sirius' voice. He squinted at the scene developing in the immaculate threshold to his relatives' house.
A dark-robed, hooded figure towered commandingly over a cowering Aunt Petunia, who shook in a manner that reminded Harry dimly of Neville during a random Potions lesson. He could not quite make out who it was, but he was certain it was a wizard by Petunia's reaction alone. The figure was talking to her in a low, menacing voice - he couldn't understand the words. He strained his ears --
Who cares what he's saying? the voice in his head prompted, unbidden. Hex now, ask questions later!
Yes, that would be more sensible, he decided.
He raised his wand even as aunt Petunia flinched visibly. He opened his mouth to whisper the incantation to stun the newcomer, when someone grabbed him quite roughly and unexpectedly by the scruff of the neck and sent him flying down the stairs.
Backwards.
Unexpected as this was, Harry managed to break his fall with the reflexes born of years of Quidditch and somehow managed, after slamming his elbow against a step, to roll around in the air and land catlike at the foot of the stairs, his wand in hand, still aimed with astonishing accuracy at the cloaked figure.
"There you have him – N-now leave my family alone." A trembling voice Harry recognised as belonging to Vernon Dursley said from the upstairs landing, before he could speak. Anger flared up inside him. Uncle Vernon had handed him over faster than blinking!
Quite a sensible thing to do, really, his mind unhelpfully provided. He commanded it to shut its trap.
"Who are you?" Harry snarled, surprised at how steady and firm his voice sounded in his ears, even as Aunt Petunia whimpered and scuttled towards Uncle Vernon as fast as her spindly legs would take her.
"Why, Potter, it's good to see you too." The hooded figure growled in a nearly pleasant voice Harry recognised at once.
"Mad-Eye?" he asked cautiously, still training his wand on the figure all the same.
"Yes. Now let us in and show some sense for once." Another, quite exasperated voice snapped from behind Mad-Eye.
"What are you doing here?" It was Harry's turn to snap. His wand remained aimed at them, but his eyes darted to the windows on either side of the house. He saw nobody else.
"As much as you feel like you can freely abuse our time, Potter, I have more important things to do than baby-sit your sorry backside. Let us in, now!"
"Prove you're you." Harry answered flatly.
"You think you can order us about, you insolent little -"
"Oh, put a lid on it! Potter, I showed you a picture of the original Order of the Phoenix last year. Aberforth Dumbledore was on it." Mad-Eye interrupted with a harsh laugh that sounded a lot like Hagrid with a bad cough.
Harry nodded shortly, but his stance did not change, nor did relief at not being attacked by Death Eaters cross his face, which nevertheless washed over him. Instead, he kept his wand aimed at the newcomers.
"Okay, you're clear - what about you?" Harry asked the second figure in an exaggeratedly polite tone that did not, however, suffice to hide his loathing for Snape. He had to resist the urge to bat his eyelashes at the Potions Master, just to irritate him further.
He found it was a good alternative to letting out his anger at the present situation.
"I will have none of this nonsense, Potter. If you choose to act like a little imbecile -"
Harry barely managed not to roll his eyes.
That's Snape, definitely.
"Come on in, Mad-Eye, Professor Snape." Harry said curtly, lowering his wand and sticking it in his jeans pocket.
"T-they a-are not entering my h-house!" Uncle Vernon stammered from the upstairs landing, where he had been joined by a shaking Aunt Petunia. "The boy is fine! Why don't you just leave?" he added, anger seeping through.
"We are here to ensure Mr. Potter is being properly treated," Mad-Eye growled, lowering the hood of his cloak. The sight of his scarred face and uncanny magical eye were enough to send the Dursleys flying to their room. He chuckled. It was a raspy, guttural sound. "Muggles."
His magical eye rolled in all directions a few times, to fix itself on Harry, who was glaring at his Potions Master with an expression of pure contempt. Snape glared back, an equally intense loathing in his eyes. Harry felt Mad-Eye's gaze, and was made suddenly acutely aware of his disheveled state - he was only wearing the old, baggy jeans and t-shirt he'd left Kings Cross in, not having had the time to slip on any shoes - and his red-raw, shadowed eyes were standing out clearly against the sickly tone of his skin.
"So Potter, how are you?" Moody asked in what sounded faintly like a conversational tone.
"Fine." Harry said shortly, without losing eye contact with Snape. "What are you doing here? What is he doing here, at that? I'd thought during the holidays I wouldn't have to put up wi--"
"Your letter, Potter." Snape sneered, interrupting Harry's rant before it even started.
"What's with it?" Harry snapped back, not giving the slightest indication he understood the Potions Master.
"You did not send it," Moody explained calmly, and Harry blinked.
"I did send you..." he began forcefully, trailing off lamely as he became aware of the crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He dropped his defensive stance immediately.
"You sent one four days ago, Potter," Snape said angrily. "If you are unable of the simple task of counting up to three, then you're thicker than Longbottom."
"I... I was just going to send it - I must have overslept," Harry muttered, his pale face reddening slightly.
"You're not resting much, are you?" Moody cut in.
Harry shrugged dismissively and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, catching on with what he had really caused by not sending Hedwig off on time.
"Not really, no. Er... would you like a drink?" he said, feeling suddenly very tired, not to mention uncomfortable.
"A drink. How appropriate."
"Severus. I'd like a glass of water, Potter." Moody said, his magical eye fixed warningly on Snape, who scowled most eloquently.
Harry led the way to the kitchen, where he dropped his crumpled-up bit of parchment on the table and poured Mad-Eye a glass of water from the tap before slumping on a chair.
"You had us all in a right state last night when your owl didn't make it," Moody commented, while he extracted his magical eye with a squelch and poked it around in the water, where it swiveled and spun madly. "And when Arabella reported she had not been allowed to see you last night, we thought those Muggles needed a little reminder."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you." Harry mumbled, only then noticing his hands were trembling and his left elbow hurt like it had been trodden on by a rampant Hippogriff.
"Sorry. That word fixes everything in your little world, doesn't it, Potter?" Snape scoffed from the kitchen door.
Not really, it doesn't. Otherwise I'd be saying it like a bloody mantra, wouldn't I.
Harry chose not to answer and stared blankly at the spotless kitchen table.
"I'm sorry sir, I just had to go and poke my overlarge nose in things I was specifically forbidden to. Sorry, headmaster, I thought Dumbledore's Army was a good name for my little fan club. Sorry, I didn't mean to nearly get my friends expelled and killed by Death Eaters. Sorry, I didn't mean to get my godfather killed -" Snape simpered in a mocking voice, then his expression hardened. "Weak, Potter. That's what you are. Weak, reckless, inconsiderate, but oh, so full of yourself -"
"Enough, Severus!" Moody's hand slammed down hard on the table, making the glass he'd set on it jump. His face was turned towards Snape, but his freshly-replaced magical eye was watching Harry closely for any reaction nonetheless.
Harry clenched and unclenched his hands, his eyes flashing in rage. He then did something that came as quite unexpected to Snape: he took a deep, steadying breath and met his black, fathomless eyes.
You're not getting to me anymore, you overgrown impersonation of a giant African fruit bat!
The furious glint was still there, but there was something else as well, something the Potions Master could not quite put his finger on.
"I said I was sorry. I forgot to send the letter last night, I must have fallen asleep. What more do you want? Sir?" Harry said in a low growl that would have made Remus Lupin beam with pride any day.
"Remembering your sole responsibility to the Order would be quite some achievement, don't you agree? Or does your wallowing in self-pity fill your schedule so intensely we need to run here every three days?"
"If you feel so inclined, Sir, you may come visit as often as you like," Harry answered acidly. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore won't mind. Although I believe I am quite capable of learning to count to three, if that spares me from seeing you over the holidays again. Sir."
Moody actually gave a barking laugh at this, but Snape only narrowed his eyes.
There it is again - what is different now? He still could not tell.
"Does that fat uncle of yours usually push you from the top of the stairs, Potter?" Moody asked, his eye fixing itself on Harry's rapidly swelling elbow, which Harry held pressed against his body.
Harry gave him a grim, cheerless little laugh.
"Only when I get visitors who are on a hurry to see me."
"I believe you have a broken bone there. Here, let me check -" With this, Moody unceremoniously grabbed Harry's arm and fingered the swollen elbow, stretching and flexing the joint several times in quick succession.
Harry, taken by surprise at the sudden roughness, made no sound other than a sharp intake of breath - his attention was wholly focused on the searing pain that seemed to have spread from his elbow to crush his lungs, because he found that he couldn't breathe all of a sudden.
The more callous part of his mind was however, more interested in the actual feeling of the broken bones grating against each other, and he forced himself to concentrate on it, since its odd detachment from the pain was more convenient to cling on to than passing out in front of Snape, of all people.
"Yep, Potter, you've got your elbow broken all right. In three places, too - I believe we have to go to St. -"
"B-but..." Harry began to splutter in protest - he did not want anybody to get 'in a right state' because of him again, especially not at that particular moment, seeing as his carelessness had caused more unneeded worries.
"There's no need for that, Alastor, unless you wish to make the injury worse by crushing it more than you already have," Snape interrupted tersely, eyeing Harry with a calculating look that was only too familiar. It was the same look Harry had received when everyone found out he was a Parselmouth, when his name was pulled out of the Goblet of Fire, when he tried to tell him about Sirius being held captive by Voldemort. Harry held his breath, torn between causing a commotion among the Order and trusting Snape.
Moody promptly released Harry's arm, which the latter held gratefully to his chest, cradling it with his right hand. The pain he had managed to hold at bay for a few moments returned, quickly spreading to his chest, and even breathing became a difficult matter indeed.
"I can get the necessary potions to mend the bone," Snape went on, in a tone that revealed he would much rather eat undiluted Bubotuber Pus than help Harry in his present state. "But it will take me about an hour. By then, your dear Golden Boy will most likely be running a fever. Better get him to lie down before he collapses." he said, smiling quite nastily.
Harry bristled visibly at Snape's address to him, but wisely kept his mouth firmly shut and stood up, swaying a little. Moody immediately tried to steer him toward the couch, but he shook his head resolutely.
"They'll want to come down," he explained in a low voice that betrayed his weariness. "The Dursleys, I mean. I guess I'd better go up to my room."
"Suit yourself," Snape shrugged indifferently.
Moody and Snape followed Harry to the upper floor of the house, and exchanged a confused look when he stopped in front of a battered door, on which four padlocks and a cat flap had been fitted. He struggled a bit with the doorknob, pushed the door open - and stumbled on the dishes half-full of old food that had been adding up since he had arrived at Privet Drive.
Mad-Eye cut a grimace at the smell of rotting food that reached them, and Snape raised an eyebrow.
"Argh - stupid, effing, bloody dishes!" Harry muttered angrily, narrowly avoiding a fall and pushing the plates and stray bits of food aside with his bare foot before letting himself fall heavily upon his lumpy, unmade bed with a groan. Hedwig gave him a soft hoot and fluttered onto his stomach, sticking out her leg.
"Sorry, girl - I guess there'll be no letter today... unless you want to send a message?" he asked Moody. "What is it?" he added, when he noticed that both wizards had not moved from the door and stared at him as if he had grown an extra head and matching tail. He sat up again in confusion, letting Hedwig flutter back to her cage.
The sight would have been funny, had Moody not looked outright murderous.
"Potter." A growl.
"Yes...?" Harry asked wearily. His whole arm was throbbing now and felt very hot. He doubted he could move his fingers if he tried.
"What is this?" Moody pointed at the dishes littering the floor.
Harry blushed a little, but it could be due to the sudden bout of sweating that seemed to overcome him now.
"Well, I didn't feel very hungry, you see..." he said, sounding very lame to his own ears. "So my aunt...er, leaves something for me here."
"Through the cat flap." It was not a question.
Harry nodded mutely, stifling a yawn.
"And the locks?"
"Oh, those. Uncle Vernon fitted them before my second year. Same with the cat flap." A half-hearted shrug.
Snape raised an eyebrow. So this is where the Golden Boy spends his summers... Pathetic.
Moody gave an exasperated sigh and vanished the dishes and rubbish littering the floor with a flick of his wand.
"Why didn't you tell us, Potter?" The tone was accusatory now.
"Tell you what?" Harry looked openly drowsy.
"About this."
"Oh, that was in my second year. They haven't used any of it since -" Harry stopped short. He didn't know how much was known of Mr. Weasley's flying Ford Anglia. He was spared, however, by Moody's next words.
"Except for the cat flap."
"Well... yeah."
"Are you comfortable with this?"
Harry shrugged indifferently.
"It's not like it's for such a long time anyway," he said nonchalantly. Although every day in here feels like forever Moody, thanks for reminding me.
"Well, Severus, you go and get the potions. Send someone else if you're so busy. I'll have a little chat with the Muggles." With this, Moody turned on his heel and made his way to the master bedroom.
Harry could not believe his ears. He sat up again, eager to see what Moody was going to do to the Dursleys, but black spots began to dance in front of his eyes. He shook his head to clear it, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself face to face with Snape.
Instinctively he drew back, wincing a little at the stabs of pain the movement caused.
Funny, how my arm seems connected to my backside...
"Do lay still, Potter." Snape snarled, handing him a cloth. It was ice cold. "Keep this against your elbow and wait for me to come back. Can you handle that, or should I get a house elf to do it for you?"
Harry nodded dazedly, decidedly not rising to the bait, as Snape turned on his heel and hurried down the stairs, looking every bit as the feared and intimidating Potions Master at Hogwarts he was. Harry pressed the cold cloth to his elbow and repressed a moan.
No weakness, remember? Weapons cannot afford to be weak. And you're a weapon. Don't forget that, the voice that spoke in Sirius' tone reminded him unnecessarily. Harry leaned back against the wall, focusing on the pleasant feeling of coldness fighting the swelling of his arm instead of the sharp pain that didn't go away. He could hear Moody's angry voice from the master bedroom.
"...Bleeding cat flap! He was entrusted to your care, and you feed him through a cat flap! When I told you to take proper care of him, Dursley, I did not mean you should feed him like an animal!" Moody was really getting into swing, to judge by the booming shouts and whimpering noises that trailed to Harry's ears.
Over the years, he had wished someone came and took him away from the Dursleys, but this urge for justice had somehow ebbed away in the face of his more pressing problems. He hated to admit it, but what Mad-Eye was doing did not make him feel happy or even satisfied; he felt awful.
The racket made him deeply uncomfortable, and he sincerely doubted the Dursleys would treat him any better after this. He'd have to pay for Mad-Eye's defence, and he would be forced to take his meals with the Dursleys in the future - not something to look forward to, for sure.
He got up slowly, pressing the icy cloth to his arm, and dizzily made his way to the end of the hallway, where Mad-Eye was still yelling at the Dursleys about how important Harry was to the world.
"Mad-Eye... Mad-Eye," he began, but Moody didn't listen. "MAD-EYE!" That had the intended effect. Moody turned his head, his magical eye still watching the ashen-faced Vernon closely.
"What is it, Potter?" Moody snarled, in a tone that was positively friendly for him, but which had to sound quite menacing in any outsider's eyes.
"Just... just stop yelling at them, Moody. They got the point; There's no need to bother them further," Harry said calmly, as if his relatives had just been having a friendly discussion with an old friend. He felt quite dizzy now.
Surprisingly enough, Moody did not argue further, but cast them a last withering glare, shrugged and turned away, ready to follow Harry back to his room.
"Remember, Dursley," he growled audibly at the very last moment. "You are being watched - and not just by me. Don't you dare forget that even for a moment."
"Gibberwubblegibber," was the only noise Harry discerned coming from the depths of the master bedroom. He made his way back to his own little room, slumping tiredly into his bed. Again.
"I believe that'll be enough for them," Moody growled, looking quite pleased with himself. "At least for the time being."
Harry managed a humourless chuckle.
"Potter, try and lie down properly. Snape might take a while to arrive."
"I'm fine, Mad-Eye... Just sleepy," Harry muttered, sounding both unconvincing and irritable.
"Potter, lie down."
"Whatever you say..." Harry reluctantly moved, his every muscle apparently connected to his elbow, to judge by the way it hurt to lie down as Moody had instructed. His eyes were definitely drooping now. He gave in to the feeling, and everything went black.
"Potter, wake up." Strong hands shook him, making him want to get away from them.
"Unghh," Harry groaned in response, without opening his eyes.
There was a derisive chuckle from somewhere nearby.
What the hell...?
"Sit up now, I do not have time for this."
Snape's back, then...
Harry obeyed, cutting a grimace as he did so, only to feel something cold and hard against his lips. He turned his face away from it as its pungent smell wafted to his nose. A hand supported his neck, turning his head to the glass again. Harry didn't open his mouth, though.
"Drink." came the snarled order.
So he did, only to recoil further at the taste and smell of the potion. A burning sensation filled his mouth and throat, and he gagged, fighting the urge to spew all over himself.
"Don't you dare, Potter. Now drink up."
Harry swallowed with some difficulty, and felt the grip on his neck relax slightly for a moment. The potion felt red-hot in his stomach, like a bad case of heartburn. He cut a grimace. The lingering taste of vinegar and liver remained, but he couldn't dwell on it - the hand was back, and the glass had seemingly been refilled with another concoction.
"Drink."
He did as he was told. This potion wasn't as evil-tasting as the other had been, but Harry sincerely doubted anyone would drink dishwater willingly.
The hand released its grip completely, allowing him to fall back onto his pillow with a low moan. He ignored the shuffling sounds of movement around him and did his best to ignore the mounting pain in his scar.
A blanket was thrown over him, but his foggy mind couldn't catch the words they were telling him. He wasn't even wholly sure who they were, at that...
The heartburn stopped gradually, but the pain in his arm didn't lessen. He felt groggy and sleepy, though, so he allowed himself a deep sighing breath, tuned the voices out, and drifted off to sleep.
TBC.
Revised May 2004