Author's Notes: My dearest readers and reviewer(s), it is with regret that I must inform you that I will be away for a solid week hereafter and will not be able to update in that given amount of time. However, an update will be forthcoming upon my return next Saturday, as I have the next chapter already structered and prepared for writing. For now, please enjoy this chapter and, as always, please, please, review!
Without further ado, then, I give you...
Chapter II: The Unexpected Guest
Harry lingered in the hallway, hand flat against the wall, head bowed, until the fierce pounding in his scar faded to a low, thrumming ache that was easier to overcome. With one shaking hand, Harry moved with the pretense of brushing his untidy black bangs aside, taking a moment to check and see if the scar really was burning. As always after an attack of this kind, there was little change to the skin on his forehead—if anything, it was a degree or so cooler than the rest of his head.
" Mad." Harry muttered to himself, the echo of his voice seeming to be a confirmation. " I'm going absolutely mad…"
But no matter what, I can't lose control like that again. Harry reminded himself sternly…so sternly, in fact, that he was reminded of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House. I have to close my mind…they were all right, Ron and Hermione and everyone else, I have to close my mind, I can't let Voldemort get a foothold…I can't fail Dumbledore…
A warm sense of calm and relief filled Harry's heart at the thought of the Hogwarts headmaster with his twinkling blue eyes and wise, kind voice. It was as though a bit of Dumbledore's commanding presence had entered the brightly-lit hallway to stand beside him…to guide him…
And as if a faint voice was speaking in his ear, Harry knew exactly what needed to be done. Exactly.
Ignoring the sounds of his aunt and uncle pottering about downstairs, Harry moved swiftly to his bedroom, wrenched the door open, and entered. Closing the door much more loudly than was necessary at his back, Harry paused just over the bedroom threshold, waiting with bated breath to see if his rude noise-making had attracted any unwanted attention from the other residents of the house.
There was no alteration in the humming of noise from below. Relieved, Harry hurried to his desk. Ignoring the fact that a delivery owl was perched on top of Hedwig's cage, hooting angrily around a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in its beak, Harry pulled out a scrap piece of parchment from the drawer of his desk, and, not bothering to seat himself, he scribbled a hasty letter with his hand still trembling.
Professor Dumbledore,
I'm really sorry to bother you, sir, because I know you've said you'll be busy this summer. But I wanted to write to you to tell you that that thing that was happening last year, that I was getting special lessons for, is starting to happen again. I haven't been sleeping. I don't know how much you know but I really think I need help, sir. Because I'm really afraid that what happened at the end of last term is going to happen again, only maybe with different people this time, you know. I need some advice, but I haven't been in contact with the others since we got back. Please reply quickly.
Harry
After signing his name, Harry checked to make sure that his hasty scrawl was legible and that no one could deduce exactly what had been referred to in the letter. Satisfied, after nothing more than a cursory glance, Harry began to seal the letter—and then paused midway through, reality catching up to the brief spurt of insane action that had guided him thus far.
In his mind's eye, Harry could once more see Dumbledore's face as he knew it best; ancient and careworn but smiling, his eyes bright and soul-searching behind his half-moon spectacles. And then, as though he had turned to face a mirror and the whole image had been reversed, Harry recalled Dumbledore as he had seen him last; his powerful shoulders hunched within his traveling cloak, his rolling tones muffled, the light in his eyes somehow dimmed, deadened, as he had gazed at Harry with no more familiarity than one might warrant a burn-mark on the wall.
And Harry began, suddenly, to doubt.
What if Dumbledore didn't reply to his letter? Certainly this would be a rejection worse than Ron's or Hermione's or Sirius's, because Dumbledore had always seemed to take a keen interest in him, and Harry felt strangely—and sensed Dumbledore did, too—that, beyond the normal wizarding expectancy to be invited to Hogwarts, their meeting six years prior had been by no means chance, their destinies somehow entwined, perhaps before Harry himself had ever known, before even Dumbledore had.
And what if that strange, elusive something—whatever it was that had caused Dumbledore to gaze at him so mistrustfully at year's end—what if that had served to sever that strange tie between them?
But what other choice did Harry have? He could think of only one other person who knew about his dreams, but it was not a person that he by any means trusted; Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts and, until quite recently, Harry's Occlumency teacher in secret, was also Harry's least favorite person in the Order, possibly in all of Hogwarts…possibly just below Voldemort himself, although Snape's position on Harry's list of dislike was almost equally shared by Draco Malfoy. Regardless, Harry knew that the barely-existent link of trust between Snape and himself would not withstand the strain of Harry's most recent visions…not when it was Snape who had been coaching him for the past six months on how best to close his mind to such things.
And so that left Dumbledore; the only one who would understand, without laughing or mocking Harry or being angry with him…in essence, his last hope.
Clutching the letter delicately between his teeth, Harry dropped onto his stomach, reached beneath his bed, and extracted a large purse full of coins from a pile of discarded old socks that he had forgotten to put out with last week's laundry. Hurriedly Harry extracted five bronze Knuts from amongst the golden Galleons and silver Sickles, and dumped them rather forcefully into the carrying-pouch on the delivery owl's ankle. Ignoring its incessant hooting—assumedly scolding him for his delayed response to its presence—Harry tugged the Daily Prophet from the owl's beak, picked it up in one hand, and all but threw it out of his open window.
" Okay, girl." Harry muttered as he turned back to face Hedwig's cage; Hedwig glanced up, looking alert, though slightly affronted for having been woken from what must have been a decent sleep. " I've got a job for you. C'mere."
Hedwig obeyed at once, ruffling her feathers importantly as she perched on Harry's windowsill. Harry passed the letter into her sharp beak, then placed his hands gently on either side of Hedwig's domed, downy head, forcing her to meet his eyes.
" I need you to find Albus Dumbledore for me, okay, Hedwig?" He demanded in a whisper. " He's the only one who can help me, so…if you still want a master next year…fly hard. I don't know where he is but you have to find him, okay? Find Dumbledore, Hedwig, find him!" These last ordered words emerged as a shout as Hedwig took wing and soared from the window.
Harry stood for a moment, gazing into the late morning as his owl rapidly faded into the distance, and then, abruptly, was swallowed by the lilac-blue berth of the horizon.
It was several long minutes later that Harry realized he was shaking, shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering together. A shiver racked down his spine, then another, and for a moment Harry attributed this unexpected fit of chills to the appearance of Dementors. His eyes raked frantically, fearfully, over the street, but there was no sign of the tall, hooded fiends, guardians of the wizard prison Azkaban, and already the chills had tapered. It took Harry a moment to realize that it had been anxiety, and not any magical interference, that had had him shaking like a brittle leaf in a dry October wind.
Harry knew he could deny it no longer; the visions were getting worse. He had been walking that same, strangely dark corridor for days now in his visions and dreams alike—when he had still been sleeping, that was—but it had never before been so clear. There was only one conclusion he could make, and it was a terrifying notion in itself. Yet it explained the sudden clarity of the formerly elusive vision perfectly…as though a line had suddenly snapped taut, sending out two electrical pulses that collided at the center…
Voldemort was looking for the Room of Requirement, and in his intentions he had inadvertently allowed Harry a good look into his own misted desires. The question that now plagued Harry was the why. Why, why would Voldemort be looking for the Room of Requirement…and how could he ever hope to come close? Hogwarts, home to that special room, was under the personal attention and protection of Albus Dumbledore, said to be the only wizard the Dark Lord had ever feared.
But Dumbledore's not there now, is he? A small voice of reason broke through the confused swirl of Harry's thoughts. He's gone now, doing whatever it is Dumbledore does. He's not there to defend the school, Voldemort can do what he pleases…
An icy hand closed over Harry's heart.
Then…
No. He interrupted himself firmly. It wasn't Voldemort standing in front of that door, it was me. I was in my own head. Maybe, I don't know, I needed a bit of magic moving through me to make everything clear, and now it has, I know what I need to do…
There was only one possible meaning to that vision, excluding the angle of Voldemort. In light of all that had and could happen, including the rise to power of this new Minister of Magic, Harry would have to return to Hogwarts and rally the remnant of Dumbledore's Army, to continue the training they had begun the previous year,
But it wouldn't be easy. Every member of the D.A. had witnessed Ginny's capture on the train and the terrifying power of Voldemort's hand. Harry sensed, instinctively, that not all of them would be quite so eager to stand against an enemy that, until now, might have seemed nothing more than smoke and legend.
But it's what has to happen. It's what people want. Harry reasoned with himself. It's what Dumbledore would want…what Ron and Hermione want…what Sirius probably wants, too…what Ginny would have wanted, if she were here…
A terrible, hollow ache pounded in Harry's chest as he thought her name. There was only a small amount of relief in the fact that his newly-clarified visions had not, as they usually did, entailed Ginny suffering a horrible and painful demise at the hands of Voldemort. At least it hadn't been that. Nothing could be worse than seeing that with such lucidity, nothing.
Unless it really happens.
Harry shook that traitorous thought away before it could consume him.
Hoping to distract himself, Harry returned to his bed, and sat down heavily on its edge, unfurling the Daily Prophet across his lap. He skimmed past the main headline—Minister of Magic Declares New Legislature—and he was proceeding to the second page when a single word on the cover of the newspaper caught his eye, seeming to leap out from the rest of the text as though it, like the headline, had been bolded.
Werewolf.
Perhaps Harry's instinctual reaction was due to the fact that the words 'Ministry' and 'Werewolf' in the same article could not, under any general circumstances, bode well for Harry's friend and former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Remus Lupin, who was himself a werewolf; or perhaps his response was to be attributed to a horrible memory of something he had heard months ago, while on Christmas holiday in Grimmauld Place…something Arthur Weasley, Ron's father, had told him…
Nasty man, Fenrir Greyback. One of the most vicious werewolves ever to live, the exact opposite of our friend Remus, in fact, he's the one who gave Remus the bite in the first place…anyway, he's nothing short of a savage, exactly the reason why the Ministry tries to pass registration laws for werewolves left and right…just last month Greyback attacked a little Muggle girl, absolutely savaged her, nothing much left really…
Whether it was his worries for Lupin or his memory of the accusations against Greyback that brought on Harry's reaction, it mattered little; all he knew was that sweat had begun to dew his upper lip and he was trembling slightly once more. His eyes flickered hurriedly across the page, and more and more words seemed to leap out at him as he read on…
Minister himself to push legislation demanding registration…attendance not available to contest…all centaurs, half-bloods, werewolves, half-giants, and Animagi to be marked…
For a moment, Harry thought the force of his rage was bringing tears to his eyes, causing the page to blur before him; then he realized that he was shaking, truly shaking now, wave after wave of hot anger pulsing through his body, making him nearly feverish with hatred.
The new Minister of Magic had only been in office for three weeks and already he was attempting to pass legislature that had long been banned by wizards of all races, ages, and credence! He was essentially and entirely denying the right to privacy held fast by the magical community, for the sake of…of…
Of what? Harry wondered, his confusion giving momentary pause to his anger, so that he grew quite still all of a sudden. What good could possibly come of this? What does the Minister want?
" Power." Harry muttered into the near-absolute silence of his empty room. He had found oftentimes that thinking aloud helped him to spot some sort of pattern in thoughts that were otherwise, when left in his head, a distinctly jumbled mess. " He wants to keep everyone under his thumb…like he's taken a page straight out of Fudge's book. That means he'll have to know where everyone is and what they're doing…or at least, anyone who isn't a full-blooded wizard…"
Anxiously, Harry wondered if this new legislature might include Muggle-borns, as well…Muggle-borns, referred to by some as Mudbloods, encompassed a great portion of the wizarding community, and it was a category which Hermione fell under. Harry imagined her being branded with a symbol similar to the Dark Mark, emblazonment of the Death Eaters…and he shuddered.
No. They've got to veto this, this…this whatever, however he's planning to do it. They can't let Finch get away with this.
But Harry had to admit, if only to himself, that the Ministry was, essentially, a weak group of wizards whose prize was always diplomacy and good show. Though many wizards besides Fudge had seen Voldemort on the night that Harry had nearly lost Sirius to the world beyond the veil, none had thus far come forward and attested to what they had seen. Fear—either of the Ministry itself or of retribution from Voldemort and a similar fate to Fudge's—was keeping their tongues tied, and the voice of reason was once more going unheard.
Harry scanned the article again, reading through the list of those who would be forced to bear a mark for simply being who they were.
Centaurs…Bane, Firenze, Ronan…Half-bloods…Werewolves…Lupin…Half-Giants…Hagrid, Madam Maxime…Animagi…Sirius...
In almost every category Harry would find someone he knew that would suffer. But he was also well aware that some…nearly all of the centaurs, certainly Sirius, and more than likely Hagrid…would not submit to the Ministry quietly. Of course, there was no way anyone could possibly know Sirius was an Animagus, and few people remaining in the Ministry still knew that Lupin was a werewolf…unless…
Harry stared down at the paper, unseeing.
Unless someone let leak to the Ministry the names of certain people of interest…it would all come crashing down on the members of the Order before too long. If someone rolled on their old friends…if…
Wormtail.
Harry realized than that he was shaking again.
Peter Pettigrew, known to his friends during school-years as Wormtail, was Voldemort's greatest supporter…and the man who had betrayed James and Lily Potter to their deaths. He had framed Sirius for their murders, sending an innocent man to twelve years of mental torture in Azkaban…and then he had deprived Harry of the chance to escape the Dursleys forever…
And Pettigrew had the power to strip away the defenses of Lupin and Sirius—his once-closest friends—and of Hagrid…he had known them all before…
It was too much for Harry's already-overworked mind to handle. He cast the Prophet aside and stretched out on his bed, laying with his arms straight as ramrods at his sides, his breathing shallow as he attempted—and failed—to clear his head.
It'll be fine. Wormtail won't risk showing himself to the Ministry, it would tarnish his so-called record…supposed to be dead, stupid git…nothing will happen to Lupin or Sirius or Hagrid…and besides, the Ministry doesn't know where to find them…
Harry's mind drifted into a stupor, then, his last truly intelligible thought being the uneasy one that the Ministry had a way of dealing with traitors…
The passing hours chafed strangely against the corners of Harry's conscious mind; twice he felt that he stood on the very doorstep of a sweet, dark sleep, only to be snatched from the threshold within seconds by the sound of a car backfiring or a dog barking down the lane. Resigned, after his second failed attempt at sleep, to simply lay like one dead, Harry did just that—his chest barely rose and fell as he turned his head aside, gazing at the wall, and allowed the restraining floodgates in his mind to unleash the full force of his tormented thoughts back into the realm of his still-functioning brain.
Several times, Harry toyed with the notion of sending Hermione a letter, asking her what she thought about the legislation mentioned in the Prophet. He could almost imagine her indignation now—Oh, really, what do they think they're doing? The Ministry has been trying to do this sort of thing for years, I've read all about it, there's simply no legal standing whatsoever—but Harry could not restrain a guilty little twinge of his mind that traitorously recalled the sins of Fenrir Greyback…and he shuddered.
Not all werewolves are bad. Lupin's not…he's one of the greatest wizards I know. Why should he have to suffer just because some slimy git can't keep his teeth to himself? It was perhaps a callous thought, but Harry clung to it abstinently. Hermione's right…well, she would be, I know she'd say it was stupid…they've got no case…
He was soothed, fear overcome by mental reassurances, but Harry was not so lulled to peace that he could sleep. He simply rolled over to face the wall, and continued to think, watching the sunlight playing and dancing across his wall, twisting itself into strange shapes—here a tree, there a cat, and what looked to be a crumpled little broomstick….
A strong sense of sadness welled in Harry that was so painful it stopped his breathing entirely.
What he wouldn't give to be at Grimmauld Place, sharing steak-and-kidney pie with his friends, teasing Hermione about her obsession with the liberation of house-elves, joking with Ron about what devil-spawn teachers might arrive this year, being regaled by stories of Fred and George's just-begun business, inside the wizard-square Diagon Alley…or to be sitting in front of the fire, discussing whatever deep matter arose with Lupin, or to be hiding away in Sirius's room, back-on to the door, listening raptly as his godfather told him story after strange and funny and wonderful story of the parents Harry had never known…or to be sitting in the din of excitement that was Grimmauld at mealtimes, and catching Ginny's eye across the table, seeing her special, mischievous smile…
And with the gut-wrenching memory of Ginny the illusion dispelled; Harry was in his room at Number Four Privet Drive, the least magical of places in the world, it seemed, and he had never truly left his bed, only wished that he had…
The afternoon dragged by in a strange, sluggish lull; several times Harry leaped to his feet and began to pace around his room, arms crossed, eyes cast moodily onto the floor. Often he began to formulate letters to his friends in his head, but he could never seem to find a way around the subject of Ginny's capture, and it wasn't something he could simply gloss over, like the unfortunate death of a childhood pet or something of that nature. It was also not something he felt he could address with them yet…not so impersonally as through owl post. It had to be discussed…if it was discussed at all…face to face.
This small and reasonable argument did nothing to quell the restlessness brimming in Harry's heart. He was certain he had paced a track into the carpet when he finally gave up on attempting to clear his jumbled thoughts and flung himself back onto the bed.
" This is getting stupid." He mumbled, watching as the late-afternoon sunlight sliced through his window; he hadn't realized how much time had passed, and couldn't help wondering what Ron and his family were doing now. Were they thinking of him, separated by more than just miles, but by what seemed like time and space itself? Did they feel the same chasm yawning inside of them at his absence as he did in theirs?
Loneliness washed over Harry in a great, suffocating tide.
Slowly, without consciously making the decision, Harry rose from the bed. He paced over to his desk, lowered himself carefully onto the wooden chair, then pulled out one of his numerous quills and began to run the tip of it beneath his chin, his mind racing. He stared sightlessly downward, thinking, thinking.
Then, pulling out another scrap of parchment from his drawer, Harry began to write; not to Ron, or to Hermione, or to Sirius, or even to Lupin.
Instead, Harry wrote to the one person who would not receive any letter he sent, and he poured his heart into every word as the one he was writing to had once poured her soul into a cursed diary…
Dear Ginny,
I have no idea when…or even if…you'll read this. Assuming you are…reading it, I mean…I think you should know that it's been three weeks since you were captured that I'm writing this. Things are pretty quiet here at the Dursleys. Dudley…my cousin, you know…shot off his mouth about you and I let him have it. My Aunt and Uncle were downright furious. I thought it served him well.
Anyway, that's not why I'm writing. I really don't know why I'm writing, to be honest. But I don't have anyone else to talk to. Ron's not contacting me, and neither is Hermione, and as for Sirius…well, I said some pretty awful stuff to him on the train and I'm pretty sure he can't stand me now. Nothing I can do about that.
Harry was surprised by how easy this was, writing a letter that Ginny might never read, as though he had cut a deep tract in an infected wound and was watching the poison bleed from his system…
Anyway, it's been happening again. My curse scar, acting up. And I've been having visions. Sometimes about Voldemort, or if I'm lucky, I get to go back to Hogwarts and look for the Room of Requirement. But when I see visions, they're mostly about you. And they scare me. To be perfectly honest, Ginny, I've never been this scared in my life. And I can't help feeling like this is all my fault, like I forced you to go back with me to save Sirius and I damned you. And I'm sorry. If you're reading this, wherever I am, and wherever you are, I want you to know that I am so, so sorry. And a lot of the time I wish I could take it back. But that'd probably just slime things up more, wouldn't it?
I hope you get to read this, Ginny. Because that means you're okay, and I think if you're okay, then everything will be back to normal. And I promise, I'm not going to hurt you anymore. Ever.
Stay safe,
Harry
And then, feeling that that was too impersonal of an ending, Harry added a small postscript in the corner. Folding the letter over thrice, he hurried to his trunk and stuffed the letter into the pocket of his school robes for safe keeping. Then, feeling somehow lighter, though nowhere near cheerful, Harry set to the task of cleaning out Hedwig's much-neglected cage.
It was nearly an hour and a half later that Harry completed his self-assigned chore and straightened up, his back muscles protesting mightily, to see that the sun was already sinking below the horizon. Harry's heart did a vastly similar impression of it, because at that moment he realized that time had slipped away all too quickly, and that Dudley and his gang would soon be home.
Groaning lowly, Harry tossed a dirty wet dishrag—his only means of cleaning Hedwig's cage—into the laundry heap at the corner of his bed, and stretched luxuriously, listening to the satisfying popping of various ligaments and joints as they eased from their cramped positions.
Harry watched the sun complete its downward descent, and then, as it slid completely out of sight beneath banners of magenta clouds, Harry sighed. He had been half-hoping to see Hedwig returning, and knew that it would take him quite some time to resign himself to the fact that it could be days, possibly weeks, before his faithful owl returned.
If she does. Harry thought, with a shiver.
A great clattering and rustling echoed up the stairs at that moment, causing Harry to leap slightly and spin around. It had been relatively quiet in the house since early that morning, and Harry knew the commotion could only mean one thing: Dudley's gang had arrived.
Harry took a moment to lean his shoulder against the door and take deep, calming breaths. He reminded himself that, no matter what Piers or Dudley or the rest of them said, he needn't lose his temper. They were only ignorant, stupid boys, unaware of how dark a magic surrounded Harry, hunting him. He couldn't allow himself to be baited by their sneering, thoughtless remarks.
I don't want the Ministry after me again. Harry admitted, if only to himself. Then, inhaling deeply and squaring his shoulders, he flung open the door and marched downstairs.
Loud, strident laughter wafted from the sitting room as Harry entered the kitchen; Aunt Petunia was pulling a steaming casserole from the oven, her pallid cheeks slightly flushed, and Harry could hear Uncle Vernon chatting with Dudley's friends in the next room, evicting false snorts and derisive laughter from them every few minutes.
Slightly disgusted, Harry turned away, and, without being asked, began to set the table. It was an automatic reaction, to give his shaking, clammy hands something to do.
What is wrong with me? Harry wondered as he banged a plate down with unnecessary force onthe table, causing Aunt Petunia to flinch and give a small yelp of fright. Why can't I control myself? I'm a better wizard than this…
Just as Harry had set the last fork down at his own placemat, his scar gave an odd, pulsing throb, and Harry clapped a hand to his forehead. In the second that he, stunned, blinked, he could see, behind his eyelids for a mere half-second, a man crouched on bended knee, long hair falling down his back, his face obscured by shadow.
And then Harry was back in the kitchen, and whatever emotion he had felt emanating from his distant enemy—anger, maybe, or something like suppressed delight—was fading fast. Cursing lowly, Harry flung himself down on his chair, tilting it back on two legs and staring at the ceiling.
" Chair down, boy!" Aunt Petunia hissed, and Harry was forcibly reminded of a scene he had witnessed between two people at Grimmauld Place the previous year. Snickering to himself, he let the chair fall back with a clatter, and, as though the thudding resonation had been a cue, a group of boys filed in from the living room to attend the meal.
Harry did not recall the names of every boy in Dudley's gang, nor did he care to know them. He loathed the very sight of them—a feeling born not of fear, but of spite. He had seen them abusing neighborhood children who had done nothing more than cross paths with them, and they reminded Harry forcibly of young Death Eaters. In fact, were they not Muggles…
" Hey, freak." Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best mate, waved nonchalantly to Harry as he thudded down in the chair across the table. " What you been up to lately? How's that school treating you, what was it, Saint Brutish or something stupid like that?"
Dudley's gang sniggered behind their hands. Harry glared at Piers coldly.
Just a Muggle…
" It's fine. We get to beat the living daylights out of people. And we can curse whenever we want." Harry's lips twitched at the double meaning of the words, enjoying the sight of Aunt Petunia flushing even more deeply and Uncle Vernon turning a curious shade of plum.
Dudley quickly changed the subject, and from then on Harry might have been no more than a fly on the wall for all of the attention he was paid. Occasionally Dudley or one of his cronies made a jab at Harry that didn't cut any deeper than a broken wand. He kept repeating his letter to Dumbledore in his head, over and over, to stave off the anger bubbling beneath the surface.
After Aunt Petunia had served a generous helping of ice cream, which she offered to Harry stiffly, who refused with equal stiffness, the conversation subsided slightly. Harry could see Piers watching him and, feigning nonchalance, he ran his hand unhurriedly through his hair. As he did so, a flash of a memory sparked in his mind; a boy with thick-rimmed glasses and hazel eyes, sitting at a lakeside with his three best friends, watching the girls down by the water and mussing his hair periodically…
Harry could not restrain a smile of affection for his father, whom he had never known, and his spontaneous display of enjoyment seemed to awaken something inside of Piers. He pushed his half-eaten ice cream aside and rose slowly to his feet, his eyes fixed on Harry's face.
" What are you smiling about, freak?" He demanded.
" Nothin'." Harry replied offhandedly. Something inside of him squirmed with pleasure at the look on Piers' face; it was as though he was caught between one thing and another, wanting to impress Dudley by taunting Harry but having nothing to go on, nothing to use to bait Harry along.
And then Piers and Dudley exchanged a loaded glance, and Harry felt awareness prickling down the back of his neck. He straightened in his chair, his hands curling into iron fists against his knees. When he glanced down, he could clearly see the pale white scars on the back of his hand, scars that had not faded with time: I must not tell lies.
" So, freak." Piers lowered himself back to his seat, but he did not return to his ice cream. Instead he watched Harry, and there was something strange about his stare, something hungry, intense. " I hear from Dudley that you've got a girlfriend."
Harry blinked, his mind going momentarily blank; he opened his mouth to speak, but someone else beat him to it.
" What did you tell them?"
Uncle Vernon sounded panic-stricken and livid, and Dudley shrank back slightly as his father leaped form the chair and leaned toward him across the table, mustache rippling, eyes wild. Harry, stunned, stared at his Uncle open-mouthed. He had never seen Uncle Vernon act this way when Harry was taunted…in fact, he usually seemed to enjoy the entertainment. But now his expression was truly petrified and he was exchanging hasty glances with Aunt Petunia, who looked equally as thunderstruck as her husband.
" I-I did…didn't…" Dudley spluttered fearfully. " I didn't tell them…I mean, she was just a girl, I told them…he m-met her at school…you know, Saint…"
" Oh." Uncle Vernon seemed to deflate, to sink back into his chair, and his face paled slightly. " That…that's good, Dudley, carry on." And he fell silent, pretending to read the remnants of the newspaper situated at the center of the table. Harry, relieved though he had been a moment before for the pause in conversation, was now beset once again by Piers, who looked a bit less certain but still oddly intent.
" Well, freak? Got yourself a pretty little girlfriend?"
Harry didn't reply. Instead he got to his feet, carried his dinner-plate to the sink, and began to wash it, keeping his back to the others.
He heard a chair scrape backward, heard one of the boys mutter, " Geeze, Piers, what's wrong with you? Leave it, mate."
" Well, freak?" Piers repeated, a bit more fiercely this time. " What's her name?"
Harry watched the white water frothing around his hands.
Calm…
" Dudley says she got kidnapped."
Professor Dumbledore, I think I'm…I'm…what did the letter say?
He couldn't remember…
" Little freak like you, she probably…"
Before Piers could finish the sentence, there was a loud, firm knock at the door. Dudley, who had been watching his best friend advance on Harry with an almost gleeful expression, rose and spat sourly, " I'll get it, you lot stay here." Harry turned off the water and listened to his cousin lumbering to the foyer. He heard the door wrench inward, heard Dudley's voice snap, " What do you…oh." And then his tone changed. " Hello."
Harry repressed a groan.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia still seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that, whenever it was just Dudley in the house (well, just Dudley and Harry, to whom Dudley paid no mind whatsoever) there were frequent female guests about. Harry had come to recognize the tone Dudley took when faced with a beautiful girl. He wondered which one it was this time…perhaps the rather portly blond, or the skinny one that resembled Mrs. Norris, the emaciated cat belonging to Hogwarts caretaker Argus Filch…
And then Harry wondered—with a spurt of his own private glee—how Dudley would explain an unannounced female presence at this hour. He picked up a towel and began to dry his hands as he listened for the conversation in the foyer to continue.
" Hey, pretty, what can I do for you?" Dudley's voice was simpering. Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
And then a voice responded to Dudley's inquiry that made Harry literally drop the towel in surprise.
" Hello, m-my name is Hermione Granger, and I'm here to see Harry Potter."
