Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies.
A/N: Dumbledore's letter to Harry is originally from HBP (credit goes to Jo Rowling); it is here, in this chapter, very slightly tweaked to reflect the changes already wrought in the canonverse by the events in Chapter One.
Still looking for a beta-reader. Once again, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!
– CHAPTER TWO –
A Grim Beginning
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-X-X-X-
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In Little Whinging, behind a row of blockish, white houses and pedicured, green lawns, there was a street most ordinary and mundane. This street, Privet Drive, contained only those with spotless reputations: every morning, the men of Privet Drive would drive their Sunday-washed cars off to work, and the women of Privet Drive would prepare their breakfasts. Several slices of crisp bacon (four minutes on each side), with occasional pale, scrambled eggs. Every two days, sausages and toast would appear, accompanied by an assortment of store-bought jams and marmalades. Orange juice was optional, while coffee was not.
These breakfasts would be seized by the varying children of Privet Drive, who would brush their teeth, pack their backpacks, and kiss their mothers good-bye. Then, school: Stonewall High, Magnolia Elementary, Smeltings Grammar, Devisham Preparatory. This was the routine for all inhabitants of Privet Drive. No freaky business, nothing out of the ordinary for them, thank you very much.
Except for one family, and their most curious nephew. Miles away from the sealed vaults of Clarence Securities, at the dawn of a mild Tuesday morning, a bespectacled, teenage boy was frying bacon in the spotless kitchen of No. 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys, the very ordinary and boorish owners of No. 4, and the boy's only living family, weren't even awake yet.
This boy, Harry Potter, was a highly unusual boy, most assuredly by Privet Drive's standards. For the first ten years of his life, he had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs and make breakfast, instead of his Aunt Petunia. He had never kissed his mother goodbye before going to school; in fact, Harry had neither been kissed by anyone before going to school, nor been kissed by his mother, in his living memory.
Moreover, Harry did not go to Stonewall High or Smeltings Grammar or any other school in the area. No, no, Harry Potter went to a special boarding school in the north, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he was a wizard.
Not just any wizard either; he was the only one to have faced the Killing Curse, from the Dark wizard Voldemort who killed Harry's parents, and survived. 'The Boy-Who-Lived', other witches and wizards called Harry. A walking miracle, surely something special and not the norm for Privet Drive.
Harry flipped the bacon in the frying pan. He really didn't have to make breakfast, at least not only more. Mad-Eye Moody's threat to the Dursleys ended all the chores and slave labour Harry once had to do.
But cooking calmed him, kept his mind off darker matters he didn't wish to dwell on. Besides, he couldn't sleep.
The first member of the Dursley household groggily entered the kitchen.
"Morning, Petunia, what are you doing up so early – you!" choked Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, when he saw Harry in the kitchen.
"Good morning to you too, Uncle Vernon," Harry said brightly. "Bacon?"
Vernon staggered back, clearly surprised at seeing his nephew making breakfast, a chore which Harry had not performed for the better part of five years. The man then narrowed his beady eyes in suspicion, and his cheeks tinted dark-puce, like an uncooked blood pudding, as he began to form dark, untrue conjectures.
"What the ruddy hell are you doing in our kitchen? I told you, I won't stand any funny business – "
Harry grimaced at the spittle that was egressing from his uncle's beefy, quaking face. The others in the house must be waking now, although it was only dawn; Uncle Vernon's roaring would have knocked all the sleep out of them.
"No need to be suspicious, I'm just making breakfast," said Harry. He wiped the spit off his glasses. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it when I was ten, I remember."
For good measure, Harry grabbed a cream-coloured plate and plopped two, delicious pieces of bacon on it. He pushed it towards the still shaking Uncle Vernon.
"Here," Harry said calmly. "Eat it while it's still hot. I'll even get you some coffee, if you'd like."
Catching whiffs of the mouth-watering bacon, Uncle Vernon began to relax. His face lost its angry, puce colour. He eagerly seized the plate, reminding Harry of a rabid gorilla he once saw on television.
"I want scrambled eggs with this, Boy," Uncle Vernon said, as he sat down at the kitchen table. "And, for my coffee, I want black with – "
" – Two sugars, yes, I know," Harry muttered. There was a soft hiss as he added another slice of bacon to the pan. "Like I'd ever forget what I had to do for ten years of my life."
When Harry was grabbing eggs from the fridge, a bony woman with twice the usual amount of neck drifted into the kitchen. She gasped and clutched at her lilac dressing gown.
"Relax, Petunia. The boy's just practising his old routine, from the old days when he still knew what was best for him," Uncle Vernon said. He shovelled a piece of bacon into his mouth; grease clung to his bushy moustache.
Petunia Dursley pursed her lips disdainfully. "I still don't trust him with my kitchen, not after the pudding incident with the Masons."
Harry smiled as he thought about Dobby the house-elf, who had dropped Aunt Petunia's pudding on Mrs Mason. The kind but misguided elf had been trying to deter Harry from returning to Hogwarts for his own safety, because a secret chamber underneath the girls' bathroom was to be reopened. Harry still went back to Hogwarts anyway, and defeated the giant, fifty-foot snake which resided in the said chamber.
Hogwarts was his only home, more of a home than Privet Drive ever was. That was where he met all his friends – his best friend, Ron Weasley, the smart Hermione Granger, even the gamekeeper Hagrid, the first friend he ever had. Harry couldn't dare abandon it.
Harry swirled the frying pan and mixed the eggs, watching them coagulate into a delicious, pale yellow. Turning to Aunt Petunia, who was still wary, he placed a plate of fried bacon.
"I refuse to eat what you've made. I've seen what your kind can do. Lily and that horrible boy used to talk all the time about all the different kinds of poisons," said Aunt Petunia, sneering at her plate.
"What's there to say that you didn't slip us one of your vile potions? Freaky Lily probably did so all the time. It's no surprise that her freakishness came back to haunt her in the end, and got her blown up –"
Harry dropped a plate of scrambled eggs. Slowly, he turned to his frozen aunt and pulled himself to his full height. He knew he must have looked imposing at that moment: with his recent growth spurt, he was finally as tall as the near-sixteen year-old he was, and leaned over Aunt Petunia; his dark hair was unruly and stuck at the back, giving him a dangerous edge. And, even though he was still on the skinny side, Harry had gained some muscle lately. All of this must have added up to an image of a young but very capable boy.
He narrowed his startling green eyes, the feature which perturbed Aunt Petunia the most. The eyes of his mother, Lily.
"Aunt Petunia, you can insult me all you want, and make me do all the chores in the world," Harry intoned. He clutched his fists tightly, until a faint scar on his right hand became visible: I must not tell lies.
"But if you ever insult my parents again, especially my mother, I will hurt you," Harry said coldly.
Uncle Vernon lunged and grabbed Harry's neck with his sausage-like fingers. "Don't talk to Petunia that way, boy! We know about your world, and you can't do magic outside of school – "
Even through the choking pain around his neck, Harry managed to laugh. He stomped on Uncle Vernon's foot. The bulging man howled and released his nephew.
"Uncle Vernon, I don't need magic to hurt you," Harry wheezed. His pale face twisted into a dark, terrible expression, which was rather sad, considering his young age.
"You have no idea what I've been through. I can make your worst nightmares seem like kids' daydreams. Don't test me."
Harry grabbed Uncle Vernon's coffee, viciously added two sugar cubes, and stirred. He thrust the coffee mug and a plate of bacon onto the kitchen table.
He said to the stunned Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, "Eat your food. I'll clean up the mess on the floor and make another plate of eggs."
And he turned around and grabbed a brush and dustpan from the mantel place, to clean the floor. As Harry picked up the biggest shards of egg-strewn porcelain, he heard a shuffling behind him. A chair was being pulled, and someone was sitting down to eat. Aunt Petunia. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her pushing some slithers of bacon into her horsey mouth.
Harry binned the last of the broken plate, wishing at that moment that he could use his wand. A simple Reparowould have avoided the messy task of picking up food-splattered glass. But his friend Hermione always said that"wizards have to learn to do some things the Muggle way, Harry; magic isn't the solution to everything".
Whatever that meant.
Footsteps were heard, and there was a yawn at the kitchen entrance. A large, blond boy traipsed into the kitchen. He goggled at Harry, who was aggressively scrambling eggs in a frying pan, and at his parents, who were eating in odd silence.
"What's going on, Mum? Why is Harry making breakfast? He hasn't done that in ages," said Dudley, Harry's cousin.
Aunt Petunia shot Dudley a bitter look. "Just eat your bacon, Duddikins."
Dudley gaped, making his huge head look like that of a masticating killer-whale. He peered at Harry and at his parents again, shocked at this unusual silence and lack of "Harry Mocking". After Uncle Vernon gave him an impatient snarl, Dudley sighed.
He pulled himself a chair and began shovelling bacon onto his plate. While Dudley inhaled his food, Harry scrapped the new scrambled eggs off the frying pan, placed them next to Uncle Vernon, and sat down at the table. He ignored the glares from Aunt Petunia, who sat beside him.
The four of them ate breakfast in awkward silence. Occasionally, someone would ask to pass the orange juice or the morning paper, but other than that, no one spoke; there was only the sound of stilted chewing (or in Dudley's case, fervid inhaling), forks scraping plates, and quiet breathing.
Harry was beginning to prefer this, though, to the usual cacophony of Dursley mornings. At least Uncle Vernon wasn't calling him "worthless" every five minutes, and Aunt Petunia wasn't upsetting his stomach by simpering about "my grown-up Diddydum" and "Duddikins's charming new girlfriend".
This temporary reprieve didn't last long, however. When Aunt Petunia was pouring herself some orange juice, a plume of orange fire suddenly burst over the dining table, and a large, scarlet bird with golden feathers and tunnelling, sentient eyes materialised. Aunt Petunia dropped the juice carton with a scream.
"Fawkes!" Harry said happily, grinning at the red phoenix. "What are you doing here? Did Dumbledore send you?"
The bird nodded and lifted one of his legs. There, in the right talon, Fawkes gripped a tight, pastel scroll. Harry took the scroll and unravelled it, immediately recognising the thin, slanted writing within.
Ignoring the outraged shouts from his relatives, Harry read the letter:
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Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to The Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.
If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to The Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.
Kindly send your answer with Fawkes. Hoping to see you this Friday,
I am yours, most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
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Harry looked up from the parchment. With a speed only he could possess from his Quidditch training as Gryffindor Seeker, Harry snatched a ballpoint pen and a bit of blank paper from the living room. He quickly scribbled something down on the paper:
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Professor Dumbledore,
I'm always ready to go to The Burrow. I'll try my best to help you with your task along the way, though I don't know what exactly you expect me to do.
I haven't had any "nightmares" since last week. I guess he's happy right now.
Harry
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"Here, Fawkes," Harry said, as he folded his letter. He stroked the phoenix's head and attached the letter to the right talon. "Make sure Professor Dumbledore gets this as soon as possible, okay?"
The phoenix trilled. After Harry petted his head once more, Fawkes unfolded his brilliant wings, soared up to the kitchen rafters, and disappeared in a burst of flame. Uncle Vernon choked again at this "freakish" sight.
The Dursleys stood in blank silence, agape and blinking at the spot where Fawkes had just disappeared. Then, Uncle Vernon recovered from the shock of witnessing a self-immolating phoenix and snarled at Harry.
"Boy, you promised no freakiness and then, that-that overgrown turkey just appears on our table!" yelled Uncle Vernon. His moustache bristling, he grabbed Harry with one of his enormous hands. "Care to explain this? Look at me when I talk!"
"I have nothing to explain to you, Uncle," said Harry, his green eyes gleaming. He batted away his sputtering uncle and placed the empty plates in the sink. Then, without another word, he waltzed up the stairs to bedroom.
Before he closed the door, he heard the racketing bellows from downstairs: "I am a respectable, stand-out citizen; I don't deserve this freaky business, I'm a good person – Boy, you are good for nothing, good for nothing!"
"If respectable citizens lock children in cupboards and inhale their food, you're definitely the most "respectable" one of us all, Uncle Vernon," Harry mumbled.
Shaking his head, Harry tried to focus on Dumbledore's letter. Harry was very glad that he would meet the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts earlier than expected, Dumbledore was one of his favourite teachers, but he couldn't help but feel a little troubled. It was odd that the Headmaster himself was escorting him to the Burrow, instead of Tonks, Lupin, or another member of the Advance Guard; Harry thought that Professor Dumbledore had more important things to do, especially since Voldemort was getting more and more restless...
Shouldn't Dumbledore be personally leading the charge against the Death Eaters, the giants, and Voldemort's other servants, instead of retrieving a mere schoolboy?
Also, the fact he sent Fawkes instead of a standard owl was unusual; if Harry remembered it correctly, Fawkes was only used as a messenger in emergencies and other cases of extreme urgency. The phoenix ferried crucial intelligence to and from Dumbledore's Anti-Voldemort organisation, the Order of the Phoenix. But Dumbledore used Fawkes for this? A simple notification? To a student?
Harry fished out a savoury treat from his trunk and gave it to Hedwig. After nipping his fingers affectionately, the snowy owl swallowed the treat and hooted. Recognising that Hedwig was probably feeling a bit stifled, Harry unlocked the iron-wire cage and freed his owl.
"Hedwig, you should fly around the neighbourhood a bit, get some fresh air," Harry said to the owl.
He opened and gestured at the bedroom window, smiling sadly. "You look like you need some flying. Sorry I haven't been the most attentive lately. Had a lot on my mind."
Hedwig ruffled her feathers, as though she accepted Harry's words. Giving Harry one more friendly nip, she then spread her wings and flew into the sky, away from Privet Drive.
As Hedwig disappeared from the windowsill, Harry rummaged his Hogwarts trunk. Pulling out his Fifth-Year Transfiguration textbook, and the Holly wand from under the floorboards, he sat himself at the edge of his bed. Here, he had a decent view of the window and the front lawn; Harry always liked to think of the outdoors when he studied. It reminded him of Quidditch, his favourite sport.
"'Inanimate to animate Transfiguration is more energy-consuming and time-consuming than the reverse, because of the lifeforce one must imbue into the object'," read Harry, turning the dusty pages.
"'The incantations for many spells of this category involve the suffix '-fors', as demonstrated in the incantation for Avian Transfiguration Spell – 'Avifors'."
Harry yawned. He looked up from the textbook and found his mind drifting away from Transfiguring birds and back to the topic of Dumbledore. Perhaps Dumbledore was paying so much attention to him because of the events at the Department of Mysteries. Only last month did Harry and his five of his friends did what many adults failed to do and faced Voldemort and his Death Eaters, barely escaping with their lives. Self-loathing took that moment to pierce Harry, like a sharp rapier.
It was his fault that his friends – Hermione, Ron, and the others – were hurt as they were. Harry could still remember the way Hermione collapsed like a discarded, rag doll under Dolohov's purple spell, the blood gurgling from Ron's mouth as he laughed manically...
If he had just listened to Hermione that Voldemort was tricking him, that those visions in his minds weren't real, then none of his friends would have gotten hurt and, Harry swallowed, he wouldn't have died.
Harry threw one of his nearby books – One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi – at the wall. All of this was because of that stupid prophecy, the jabbering of that half-drunk fraud, Trelawney. 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... neither can live while the other survives'. In short terms, he had to destroy Voldemort with some previously unforeseen power; he was the 'Chosen One', the saviour of the magical world.
That was why Dumbledore had sent Fawkes, that was why Dumbledore was being extra cautious with him. Maybe something else happened as well, but the prophecy had to be the main reason.
Harry rubbed his lightning-bolt scar. He certainly didn't feel like a Chosen One or Dark Lord Vanquisher; what he saw in the mirror was a scrawny teenager with decent grades, who was completely out of his depths. Definitely not dashing messiah-material.
"I'm not ready, I'm not ready to be a hero," said Harry, gripping his wand tightly.
He noted wryly that he wasn't even ready to enter NEWT-level Potions, if his OWL results – and Professor Snape – would allow him.
As Harry absentmindedly flipped through his Transfiguration book, from this corner of the bed, he noticed something odd in the window. A strange, silvery light, not unlike the light often produced by Patronus Charms, seemed to be clinging outside. Curious, he hopped off the bed, edged towards the wooden sill, and peered out at the Dursleys' front lawn.
Harry froze and dropped the Transfiguration textbook.
On the front yard of No. 4 Privet Drive stood a large, silvery dog, the source of the mysterious light.
The dog, great and hulking, loped between Aunt Petunia's wilting hydrangeas, yet did not leave any paw prints behind in the soil. Even through the orange glow of dawn, which obscured some of the silver light, Harry could see the dog's wide, gleaming eyes; they were glinting with mischief and glee, as though they had witnessed a particularly good prank.
"The Grim. Padfoot – Sirius," whispered Harry.
Memories of Sirius Black, his godfather, flickered through Harry's mind: Sirius promising to give Harry a home after subduing Pettigrew; Sirius grinning at Harry in the cave during the Triwizard tournament; Sirius showing Harry the Black Tapestry at Grimmauld Place; Sirius falling through the Veil of Death, surprise drawn lankly across his dying face...
Wiping his eyes, Harry checked the window again. The silvery Grim still stood there, panting next to a row of rose thorns.
However, it began to turn around, as if to leave Privet Drive.
As though in a trance, Harry stood up from the bed. His heart pounded furiously, like a beating drum, as he grabbed his wand and ran out of his bedroom, down the stairs two at a time, and out of the front door. He dimly registered Aunt Petunia shrieking at him, asking where he was going at dawn, but he didn't care; everything in his mind was now focussed on the silvery dog, the dog that was Padfoot.
Padfoot wagged its tail and gambolled down Privet Drive, stepping over the lawn-beds with silvery, misty paws. His wand-hand shaking with emotion, Harry followed. Dumbledore always said that it was impossible to raise the dead, but everyone, even Dumbledore, was bound to be wrong sometimes. Was it possible, Harry considered, possible that Sirius wasn't really dead?
Reaching the end of Privet Drive, Padfoot turned left at a house with lofty rafters. His brightness shone against the pavement, which grew rougher and coarser when Padfoot crossed Wisteria Walk. An uneasy hope flushed in Harry's heart; only Sirius would wag his tail like that, in such an untroubled, outrageous manner. Moreover, Patronuses, such as this silver dog, were stalwarts of purer, good magic, nothing Dark.
It was in his disposition to trust this dog, thought Harry in a daze, to trust Padfoot.
Padfoot frisked along the road, through the dimming street-lamps, and panted at Harry, who staggered after him. The dog paused, and his soulful, glassy eyes met Harry's green ones, which widened in pain. Those eyes were almost sentient in their mirth, so very much like Sirius's.
"Padfoot," Harry said, trembling. "Please wait. I – I have so much to say. Please, wait."
The dog gave a soundless bark and darted into the narrow alleyway which joined Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. Harry ran in close pursuit. This was where Harry first met Sirius and, later, where he saved Dudley from Umbridge's Dementors. Many, many memories. Padfoot's moon-like aura glinted from the other end of the alley, almost mockingly.
"Stop, Padfoot, just let me talk to you," panted Harry, stumbling forward.
The sun was rising more rapidly now, spraying the shadowed streets with a golden glow; the strengthening sunbeams made Padfoot's silvery figure harder to see, but Harry didn't give up. Soon, Padfoot would stop, and its owner would speak. Harry would be able to ask his questions and maybe, he imagined with choked excitement, talk to Sirius... explain how sorry he was, for everything.
When Harry reached the end of the cramped alleyway, he searched desperately for Padfoot's silvery figure. Relief flooded him when he spied the massive, moon-light dog traipsing down Magnolia Road, towards the Park. From his spot, he could hear the soft, grumble of cars from Begonia Avenue; Harry was close to the playground with the swing-sets, which he was almost sure was Padfoot's destination.
Harry's heart, emboldened by his trust for the silver Grim, was now bursting with bright anticipation. He sprinted after Padfoot. He could almost hear Sirius's loud, barking laughter, almost see his wide smirk, telling him that his death was all just an elaborate prank and a funny hoax.
Eventually, Padfoot came to a stop. The shimmering dog stepped between the swings of the Park's playground and wagged his tail. Then, as Harry vaulted over the park gates, the dog gave him one last, silent bark, a gesture uncannily like Sirius's wracking laughter, and disappeared. Heart hammering against his chest, Harry rushed to the playground, apologies and questions flitting on his tongue's edge, and grappled at the swings.
But it was too late; the Patronus was already gone. And Sirius was nowhere to be seen.
Disappointment cleaved Harry in half, like an axe from a horror movie. His hopes that he could finally get to apologise and ask Sirius those many unanswered questions – once again, futile. He'd never know whether Sirius had a girlfriend, or if he had a favourite colour, or if he liked playing Beater or Keeper or even Quidditch itself, or –
Half-blind with shock, he stumbled onto one of the swings.
"'He won't come back, Harry', 'it is impossible to raise the dead, Harry', 'I'm sorry, he's gone on, Harry' – I never listen to anyone, do I?" Harry placed his head in his hands. His throat was parched and dry for some reason; he was finding it hard to breathe.
"I never listen... and look what that gets me. Everyone around me, hurt or dead. DEAD. DEAD, BECAUSE OF ME!"
A hot wave of air pulsed outwards, stripping the nearby maple tree and the adjacent, aged oak of their leaves; the metal-bound, slippery slide shaped like an Emperor penguin crumpled slightly, as though it had just been hit by a heavy mallet. His magic was acting up again, as it did when he was upset. Anger mingled with self-disgust and reeled in Harry's stomach, like a vicious maelstrom.
"I let this happen to me," Harry muttered to himself. "I let myself be misled by Voldemort, then by Kreacher, and now by a Patronus. This can't keep on happening, I have to do something –"
Harry wiped his face and took a few calming breaths. Although his experiences with Occlumency were far from pleasant, he even tried Snape's mind-clearing exercises. He thought about Quidditch and his Firebolt, soaring high above the Hogwarts grounds, the crisp wind in his hair and nothing but the sound of flying in his ears. Free, with no boundaries or prophecies to be fulfilled...
Slowly, the horrible weight on Harry's heart lifted, and the memories of Sirius slithered back into the recesses of his mind, repressed once again.
Harry closed his eyes and gripped his wand. He had honestly thought that he was finished mourning for Sirius, that he wouldn't lose his composure like this again; he was nearly sixteen, not six. The shock of seeing the Padfoot Patronus and gaining a modicum of hope, only to be proven wrong, had brought back the worst memories, though. If Hermione were here, she'd admonish him for exploding like that...
A cold chill fell over Harry; something felt wrong – and raw, like danger. The playground became muted, and the thin breeze which was caressing the swing sets died. Golden wisps from the breaking dawn suddenly grew dull against the Penguin Slide and the rest of the play equipment, as though colour had been sapped from the playground. It was as if the park and everything within it – including Harry – had been sealed off from the outside world.
Harry gritted his teeth. Could it be that he had stepped into a Death Eater trap? That he had been hoodwinked by Voldemort again? He whipped out his wand and cautiously scanned the area.
"I knew you'd be here," called out a voice.
Harry wheeled around and attempted to find the source of the voice, but an unknown force – perhaps a spell – made it nearly impossible.
"The Queen of Spades didn't believe that you'd be foolish enough to follow her Patronus," continued the voice. A guy, Harry decided, definitely a guy.
"But we both know that we're weak-hearted. You're not the hero who the Wizarding World needs; you're just a kid."
"Who are you?" Harry shouted, brandishing his wand. "Are you a Death Eater? One of Voldemort's followers? Show yourself, you coward!"
There was a faint ripple, as though one was pulling the cover off a portrait, and a cloaked man materialised beside the swing set. He threw back his hood, and Harry reeled back: the newcomer was older than him, around Tonks's age, and was pale under his fringe of thick, black hair. It was the eyes which shocked Harry, though; they were wide, and a striking grey. Just like Sirius's.
"Funny that, you calling me a coward. I'm definitely going to remember that one," said the man. Harry noticed that he was fairly handsome, and carried himself with a laidback, experienced gait. A strange badge, inscribed with a black Spade and the letter J, gleamed on his cloak.
"Who are you?" Harry repeated, narrowing his eyes.
Muttering under his breath, the man pulled out his wand, a long stick made of a strange, hardy wood, and waved it. A bouquet of exquisite lilies, their petals pure-white and radiant, blossomed out of the wand.
"In memory of your mother," the man said, before Vanishing the bouquet. "I doubt that a Death Eater could produce something as untainted and innocent as that. Remember Harry, that not everything is what it seems. There's always more than what meets the eye."
Then, without warning, the man pointed his wand at Harry and cried, "Stupefy!"
Harry flung himself sideways, as a red beam soared over his shoulder. He jumped under the Penguin Slide, barely dodging another Stunning Spell.
"What do you want?" Harry shouted. When the Slide groaned ominously under a Cutting Curse, he aimed his wand at the man and yelled, "Expelliarmus!"
The man rolled harmlessly out of the way. He saluted Harry, much like one of those parading soldiers in the Edinburgh Tattoo.
Realising that he was being toyed with, Harry growled and shouted again: "Expelliarmus!"
This time, the man flicked his wand; an iridescent shield emerged and deflected the jet of red light with a hollow clang.
"Don't rely on the Disarming Charm so much, Harry. You want to use other spells too," the man said brightly, as if they were discussing the weather. "How about I give you one of my names, when you perform a more commendable feat of magic?"
The man fired two more spells at Harry. The first was another Cutting Curse, which the Penguin Slide weathered through intact, but the second – a sinister jet of violet light – was far more potent. The Slide creaked and, with a terrible boom, exploded in a squall of metal.
Following his instincts, Harry hastily immobilised the falling debris with a Freezing Charm, but some small shards managed to pass through, cutting his left knee. Pain shot through Harry.
Wincing, he pointed his wand at the metal fragments caging him.
"Depulso," he whispered. With a clank, the remains of the Penguin Slide hurled off him, banished by magic.
"Great work, Harry," said Harry's opponent, giving him a thumbs up. "But is it that puny spellwork all you've got?"
"I'm not finished yet," Harry said. He aimed his wand at the iron shards surrounding him. "I'll show you puny."
He tried to remember the Transfiguration textbook he read earlier. Intent drives magic, Mr Potter, instructed Professor McGonagall's voice from his Fifth year. The greater the willpower and intent, the stronger the spellwork.
"AVIFORS!" Harry bellowed, channelling his magic and intent into the metal debris. To his great relief, the shards and fragments soared upwards and twisted into large, black birds. He concentrated on the birds and tried to memorise their shapes; tried to sense their lifeforce, which was connected to his magic.
With a stab of exertion, he waved his wand. "Oppugno!"
Two birds swooped down on the grey-eyed man, rupturing in a burst of black feathers against an iridescent shield. Harry thrust his wand in one, long motion; more Transfigured birds zoomed, like winged bullets, towards the man, who was forced to shift his shield sideways. The rest of the flock collapsed to his protective spell, but one bird managed to pass through and nick the man's ear.
When the man smirked and fired a blue light at him, Harry yelled, "Patrocino!"
The last Transfigured bird plunged in front of Harry, absorbed the blue spell, and exploded with a loud squawk.
"Offensive Transfiguration? Finally, you're learning," the grey-eyed man said, loping between the swings, as though he was playing Catch or Tag with Harry, instead of duelling. "This warrants a reward. As a treat, you may call me the Jack of Spades, or just Jack, if we're buddies."
Harry, panting and drained from the exhausting Transfiguration, still managed to shoot the man a poisonous glare.
"You still have much more to learn, though. Be more aware." The man – the Jack of Spades – smiled and flicked his wand at the oak tree whose leaves Harry had accidentally stripped earlier.
"For example, what happened to the person who cast the Padfoot Patronus?"
When Harry stiffened in realisation and lunged aside, a green-haired woman wearing a black cloak had already materialised by the oak tree and was aiming her wand at him.
"Arsomnus," she said, and Harry buckled under a green spell. A paralysing lethargy gripped his limbs, as he fell to the floor. His eyelids felt as heavy as bricks; he was struggling to stay awake.
"Excellent work, as usual, from the Queen of Spades," said Jack, smiling at the scowling, green-haired woman, who was waving her wand at the demolished play-equipment; the Penguin Slide rematerialized with a flash of purple, and all other evidence of their duel vanished. "Sorry that I had to drag things out like that, though. I wanted to teach him a few lessons."
They were playing with him from the very beginning, Harry recognised with disgust. He had no chance of surviving even from the start.
Walking over to Harry's motionless form, the Jack of Spades pulled out a vial of thick, brackish water from his robes.
"You're probably wondering who we are, and why we're doing this to you," he said, flipping open the vial. "You're right in that you've done nothing wrong to us. Right now, you're completely innocent."
The man grinned, as if he was recounting a particularly funny joke. "We're doing this because of what you might do, the threat you might cause."
And he shoved the black potion down Harry's throat.
"The poison you've just ingested is a new prototype from our organisation," the green-haired woman, the Queen of Spades, said. She pursed her lips, as though she'd rather be somewhere else. "It'll leave no traces behind. Nobody will know what killed you."
"You should be passing away any second now. Proof of what comes when you upset the Alucard Cooperative," she said to Harry, who was now screaming in agony. With one last, inscrutable look, she Disapparated with a faint pop.
The Jack of Spades lingered for another second. "Remember, Harry, trust nobody but yourself. Trust nobody."
And he too Disapparated, leaving Harry to die alone in the playground.
Harry shuddered and writhed, while golden sunlight returned to the park, and a frail breeze began stroking the trees once more. He choked; his body was hot, and every limb burned, as if his skin itself was on fire. Pain beyond imagination struck his scar, pain beyond even the Cruciatus Curse – and Harry knew Voldemort was feeling this too, every part of his body screaming... His bones cracked and jolted, as though they were melting and liquefying.
At least I'll see my parents – and Sirius again, Harry thought, as he closed his eyes, and knew no more.
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" – And we found his body in the playground, the one by Begonia Avenue. My word, were we surprised!"
"Of course you were. His knee was sliced open, and he was splayed over, clothes all bloody and dirty – you'd think he was dead. His condition is stable now, though, thankfully. But now we have to find his parents."
So tired... Everything feels so hazy...
"I have half a mind not to! Who would do that to a child? Beat him up and leave him to die?"
A grey-eyed man and a green-haired woman. A black potion. Bones burning, and pain. Pain– pain, everywhere... Am I still alive? Shouldn't I be dead?
"It's appalling, I know. But he's just a little boy... We need to contact his legal guardians, before anything."
Where am I? I feel cold... why am I wearing just a gown? Urgh, bright lights – my eyes hurt.
"Look! He's waking up! Son, son, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for us, little boy?"
Little boy?
Groaning, Harry bent up and opened his eyes. He fumbled around blindly, and someone thrust his glasses onto his face; strangely, his thin-wire glasses felt big and clumsy, as though they were too big for his head.
"What's going on?" he muttered, as he squinted at his surroundings. It was obvious that he was in a Muggle hospital: a friendly, round-faced doctor and a young policewoman hovered over him, concerned; bright floodlights hung from the ceiling, and there was a disinfected cleanliness which hung in the air. He was even wearing a flimsy, oversized gown, while lying in one of those rigid, starchy hospital-beds.
Wait... oversized gown? What –
"M-Mirror. C-Can I please have a mirror?" Harry asked wildly, panic pooling in his stomach. Even his voice, it sounded familiar but different.
"Now, now, you've just woken up. Are you sure that –"
"Mirror! J-Just give me a mirror!"
The doctor shuffled forward and pulled out a small, silver mirror from a bedside table. Trembling, Harry snatched it and stared at his reflection.
There, he saw his telling lightning-bolt scar. His eyes were still almond-shaped and striking green. Skin: still pale-white, although covered with a bit of blood. Even his hair was unchanged, unruly and sticking up at the back. This was, most definitely, his own face.
But Harry felt his world collapse around him; reverberating from shock, he nearly dropped the mirror.
The reflection: the face of a ten year-old Harry Potter stared back at him.
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-X-X-X-
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A/N: Edited in 28/01/11, thanks to the astute folks at DLP