Chapter 2: Dreams
Harry, with a tired slump to his shoulders, dragged himself to the bed in Dudley's second bedroom. Even after all these summers Harry didn't call it his. He didn't claim anything here as his... except the cupboard under the stairs. In green crayon with the scrawl of a three or four year old, the wall of the cupboard still proclaimed it Harry's room and in his childhood bedroom, all of his belongings were locked. His trunk. His school books. And his wand.
He collapsed, exhausted and sore after another long day of chores. He let out a groan which was muffled by the pillow as his body expressed its distress. Muscles and bones ached. His skin was caked with sweat and dirt from the garden. His joints protested as he straightened them out finally. And there was the ever present dull ache of hunger that gnawed at his insides. Harry hadn't earned food tonight. One of the neighborhood dogs dug up Aunt Petunia's hydrangeas in the night and the Dursley's blamed Harry for it. Dudley continued to make a mess in the living room after he moved on to another chore. Then Vernon, who was already having a bad day, was in a nasty foul mood when he arrived home. Harry had been slow today, tired and ache-y from harry hunting, chores, along with lack of food and sleep. Needless to say Uncle Vernon looked like he swallowed a particularly sour lemon as he ordered Harry to his room without dinner. Or perhaps like he had been faced with a few oddly dressed people in brightly colored cloaks.
Life with the Dursleys was hard. At least for him. Food wasn't a necessity. More like a reward when he stayed out of their way, kept the house clean, and put food on the table which Aunt Petunia took credit for if it was more then exceptional or was complemented. At the end of every school year, Harry asked Dumbledore if he could stay at Hogwarts over summer. But every time the elder wizard said it wasn't possible. He was much safer with the Dursleys and it couldn't possibly be as bad as Harry made it sound. The Dursleys were good people he had said. Harry wanted to laugh however bitter that small moment of amusement was.
But laughter, rather Harry's laughter, was not tolerated at the Dursley's. Even if it was sarcastic, he would be punished. Given an even heavier load of chores and even, on more then one occasion, a shove, kick, or punch here or there.
Didn't Dumbledore understand that this was not where he was meant to be? The Dursley's house was not his home. Hogwarts was. A small twinge in his gut told him it wouldn't be a joyous time when he returned though.
Although Harry wasn't supposed to get even the smallest scrap of news from the wizarding world, Hermione charmed her letters to tell him what was going on. How everyone was- though Harry was a bit angry that they wouldn't tell him themselves-, what was going on, where she was... She told him everything. And even if she hadn't said it outright, Harry figured his reputation was being slandered as it dropped further and further. He was seen as an attention seeking nutter who wanted to cause panic with his lies of Voldemort's return. He knew that, and if it took causing a panic to get people to realize the truth so be it. It was really all because of the Minister, a cowardly piece of scum, who allowed himself to be controlled. Exactly why he was till in power most likely.
But that would make his return that much harder. People tended to believe their political leaders over fourteen almost fifteen year old, even if he was the Boy-who-Lived.
And who would ever believe that the most feared man, who everyone well almost everyone, believed to be gone since his defeat when Harry was just a year old. Most of the world didn't know all of the details about his trials through the years while at Hogwarts. Just a general idea really. Someone tried to steal the sorcerers stone but Harry Potter stopped them. The heir of Slytherin set about fulfilling their ancestor's ideas but was halted by Harry Potter. Sirius Black escaped Azkaban to go after Harry who faces the dementors. And then last year. Harry Potter participated and, wrongly in his view, won the triwizard tournament which ended with the death of a champion and the rebirth of a monster. Lord Voldemort returned to life.
Harry had no reason to lie about his return. The man made his life hell so why would he joke or seek attention with saying he had returned? Would anyone side with him? Well, anyone other than the people in this Order and Hermione and Ron. His friends at Hogwarts would surely believe him. His housemates and professors. But the other houses... he supposed besides Slytherin who would be told to pretend to think him insane.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff would be totally different stories. He couldn't say with either of them, but if they hated him last year for being in the tournament, he could only imagine this coming year.
Harry's thoughts wondered as he drifted, finally falling asleep. It was strange though. Before he fell asleep, he mused on how tired he was and how odd he felt. He always stayed up until midnight to celebrate his birthday, but something was pulling him away from awareness.
His dreams, because that is what they were, plural, were odd and jumbled. He would be doing something with people he felt he knew, before he was pulled away into some other scene feeling more and more like he knew them. And his knowledge of them grew. He and Helga sitting under the old willow in silence as they just enjoyed the day and watched the thestrals and winged horses graze. It amazed him that the blond could coax unicorns, skittish as they were, to allow her near enough to pat them. She had called him over and he had just laid his hand on one before he was jerked away off to another scene. He was with Ro, laying in the large bed in their chambers. The fire crackled softly in the background as he stroked her hair and he murmured to her. She grinned and said he always was a romantic as she rolled over and kissed him. He and Godric sat at a tavern. He watched the red head down another mug of his preferred. He rambled drunkenly about nothing of real importance and he changed topics in the middle of others. And it continued like that. Blurred and disorienting, only slowing for a few scenes before more information was pushed into his mind. Halfway through his dreaming, he began to question himself.
'Who am I?'
