Harry Potter: World at War
Chapter 7: Summer Daze
*****HP: WAW*****
Harry leapt over the decapitated Death Eater, and flung a Piercing hex at Lupin's opponent. The Dark Wizard twisted out of the way, but Lupin used the distraction to his advantage and landed a Reductor curse on the chest of the Death Eater.
"Get out here Harry!" The werewolf shouted. "We'll handle this: you worry about getting your friends out alive!"
Harry raced past him, not listening. He needed to warn Sirius! Lestrange was going to kill him unless Harry could get there in time.
The only duel that was still between him and Sirius was Shacklebolt against the Lestrange Brothers. Harry tried to force himself to turn away and run to Sirius instead: Shacklebolt was doomed, nothing Harry could do would be able to save him. All that mattered was rescuing Sirius.
Against his will, Harry was frozen in place, forced to watch as things played out exactly the same as before.
Shacklebolt was on the defensive, quickly losing ground as he backpedaled away from the Killing curses, and blocked everything else he could. With one smooth motion, the Auror batted a Piercing hex aside with his wand tip and back-stepped to avoid a Killing curse.
Shacklebolt threw himself to the side, and rolled back to his feet, two more Killing curses splashing harmlessly on the smooth marble floor. Shacklebolt grinned, brandishing his wand. He had no idea what was coming.
Again Harry tried to tear himself away from the duel, struggling with all of his might to even lift his legs, but to no avail.
"Fulguri Fortus!" Rabastan snarled. A brilliant white bolt of lightning sprouted from his wand tip with a thunderous CRACK!
And as he had so many times before, Kingsley summoned the familiar silver shield, a loud GONG echoing through the hall as the lightning met metal. It worked for a time, the metal gaining a soft cherry hue as the heat from Rabastan's curse warped and bent the silver. After a few seconds that seemed like hours, the bolt penetrated the metal, and impacted against Shacklebolt, tossing him high into the air.
With a manic gleam in his eye, Rodolphus followed the burning shape of the Auror with his wand. "Expulso!" He shouted, his curse detonating against the limp form of Shacklebolt.
Harry felt the hot shower of blood and gore splash against his face, and suddenly he was able to move again.
"Vercundus!" He shouted; the Bludgeoner threw Rabastan Lestrange off his feet and onto the hard marble floor. The force of the spell sent Lestrange skidding into a pile of fallen shelves.
Even as Harry fought to leave the duel and warn Sirius, his wand lifted of its own accord. "Ossum Fracturum!" He roared, the gray jet of light racing across the room. Rabastan's eyes widened, but he wasn't able to move fast enough to avoid the curse: it hit him on the cheek and exploded in a cloud of dust, blood and brain matter.
Once again, Harry strained to turn away, but was forced to follow the script exactly as it had happened. "You killed Shacklebolt." He said darkly. "You've killed so many. There isn't anything I can do for Kingsley, except to avenge him. Depulso!"
Lestrange was blasted off of his feet, but managed to twist around and land easily. "I have killed many," the Dark Wizard admitted, as he and Harry started to circle one another. "But you shall be my favorite victim."
"AvadaKedavra!" He roared suddenly.
The sickly green jet flew towards Harry.
Harry fought the turn of events, struggling to stay on his feet, and take the curse instead of Sirius. But as he had dozens of times before, he fell backwards, letting the curse pass over him towards his Godfather.
Harry flipped back to his feet, tossing a Piercer at Lestrange. He hit an angled blow, and bored a neat hole through pocket of the man's shoulder.
Lestrange laughed, as he conjured a wrap of bandages around the wound with a spell. "Nice going Potter, you've killed again. But this time... it was one of your own."
Harry tried to remain stationary, to avoid seeing it once again, but slowly rotated around against his will.
"Sirius!" He shouted desperately.
His Godfather turned, only to take the full force of Lestrange's Killing Curse; his gaunt face barely had time to register his shock, before the light left his eyes.
No." Harry whispered weakly. "Not Sirius. Not him too. He's all I had left."
Lestrange laughed again. "I can't believe it! The great Sirius Black and he didn't even see it coming. But I can't leave his body there, somebody could trip: Deprimo!"
Harry couldn't do anything but stare helplessly as Sirius' body rose in the air in slow motion. A pulse of magic rocked the room, forcing Harry to shield his eyes.
A huge BOOM echoed loudly in the Hall of Prophecy. Slowly, Harry opened his eyes; where Sirius' body had hung . . . was empty.
*****HP: WAW*****
Harry shot up in bed, his heart thudding painfully against his sternum. His sheets were twisted around him, pooled in his sweat. Shaking, Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes, wincing as he felt the sweat bead up along his many cuts and scrapes.
"Kreacher." Harry croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Water. Please."
With a soft snap, the empty glass by his bed was suddenly filled. Harry greedily gulped it down, not caring about the excess that spilled on the front of his pajamas on onto his mattress.
"Lord Black must move for Kreacher to fix that mess." The old elf grunted. "Go take a shower."
Harry blindly followed the elf's orders, hardly registering that he'd been referred as "Lord Black" rather than some insulting variation of "stupid new bad Master". He stumbled into the hallway, not even bothering to put on his glasses. He didn't even know what time it was, only that it was before dawn. Luckily his new arrangement with the Dursleys permitted him to do anything he wanted as long as he didn't disturb them.
Panting heavily, Harry pulled the door to the bathroom open, and staggered in, fumbling for the light switch. He winced at the sudden glare as the harsh fluorescent bulbs lit up the small room. He averted his gaze from the large mirror as he stripped from his sweaty clothes; he didn't want to see the bloodshot eyes and drenched hair that had become part of his morning routine since the battle at the Ministry.
Harry turned the hot water on, and stepped into the shower. He let out a sigh of relief as the pounding rush of water soothed his battered body. He let the warmth beat over his head, washing the sweat away from his limbs. He had always loved the shower, the steamy rivulets of water cascading over his flesh seemed to wash away all of his fears and pain. Before, he'd always been too afraid to enjoy the luxury of a shower, the Dursleys didn't let him use their hot water for more than 5 minutes at a time, and at Hogwarts, he'd always been afraid of someone walking in on him and staring at his numerous scars.
Now though, the Dursleys didn't care: the first night he'd been at Privet Drive, he'd woken Petunia up with his screaming. When she got to the room, Kreacher was already in there, tending to him. Harry still wasn't quite sure how he had managed it, but eventually a deal was made where Kreacher would keep the house spotless, and in return, Harry would be granted access to the fridge, the kitchen, and the bathroom.
After a last wishful moment under the blissful heat, Harry shut the water off, and pushed the shower curtain aside. Pulling a towel from the rack as he walked past, Harry toweled himself dry and wrapped it around his waist. He took a quick glance in the mirror, making sure to push his wet hair back behind his ears; although still bloodshot, his eyes were more focused, and overall he looked much healthier than he had just moments ago.
He met his reflection's eyes more closely: although the horrors of the Ministry battle still haunted him at night, during the day they weren't an issue. Logically, Harry knew there was no point in dwelling on the past, and knew he should focus on what he could do to change the future. The issue was explaining that to his subconscious that insisted on dragging up the same horrors for him night after night.
Gingerly, Harry made his way across the hall, trying not to wake the Dursleys. They may have come to a workable truce, but it didn't mean that he was willing to test the limits. When Harry returned to his room, Kreacher had already gathered his dirty pajamas and sheets, and put them in the laundry basket. His bed was newly made with a fresh set of linens, and the glass was once again full of water.
"Thanks Kreacher." Harry said mechanically, as he pulled a pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt from his wardrobe and put them on.
Kreacher waved him off. "New bad Master is not nearly as messy as Kreacher feared. Old bad Master kept that horrible bird in Kreacher's Mistress's room, and it was impossible for Kreacher to keep the beast from mangling all of Mistress's favorite things."
Harry sighed as he pulled a pair of socks on. "Can't you come up with anything else to call me Kreacher?" He asked rhetorically. "New bad Master is such a mouthful."
"New bad Master has not yet proved to Kreacher that he is worthy of being called anything else." The elf told him. "New bad Master will not get a new name until Kreacher feels that new bad Master is no longer a new bad Master."
Harry rolled his eyes as he began to tie his trainers. "What if I ordered you to call me something else?" He asked Kreacher. "Wouldn't you be forced to do so?"
The elf actually laughed. "New bad Master won't order Kreacher to do anything so cruel. New bad Master is too much of a pussy! He doesn't want to hurt poor old Kreacher's feelings."
"I think you're getting me confused with Hermione." He told the elf. "I have no issues with ordering you to do anything when you are being deliberately stupid."
A grin played on Harry's lips. "In fact, I order you to call me anything other than new bad Master for the rest of the day."
"New bad Master thinks he is so clever. . ." Kreacher grumbled. ". . . Thinking he stop Kreacher from insulting him."
Harry raised a finger warningly. "That was your last one Kreacher. Push me, and I might be forced to get creative."
Kreacher snorted. "Kreacher is not afraid of new . . . of pussy Master's punishments. Master Orion was good at punishments, oh yes he was. He made Kreacher shut his ears in the oven, and once transfigured Kreacher into a bludger for a Quidditch game. Pussy Master is nowhere near as creative as Master Orion was."
"Perhaps so. . ." Harry said menacingly. "But did Master Orion ever transform you into a Muggle kid and force you to make a child smile?"
Kreacher's eyes widened. "Pussy Master wouldn't dare. . ." He whispered fearfully.
Harry finished tying his trainer and leaned forward. "Try me. . ." He said softly, letting his threat hang in the air.
Kreacher gulped. "Kreacher's apologies pussy Master. Kreacher won't call pussy Master new bad Master ever again."
Harry rolled his eyes and got up off of the bed. "See to it that you don't Kreacher." He said, walking through the doorway. "I'll be back in an hour or so, it's time for my morning run."
*****HP: WAW*****
After what seemed like forever, Harry's watch finally beeped, signifying his hour run was finished. Gratefully, he slowed from a jog to a walk, still breathing hard. One of his goals for the summer was to follow in Neville's footsteps, and start an exercise routine. Unfortunately, he had underestimated exactly how out of shape he was. While great for toning his arms and his abs, Quidditch did absolutely nothing to help build any kind of usable muscles.
His routine did seem to be helping though. It was only the ninth day of summer vacation, and he was already doing better than he had been. The first day he had pushed himself too hard, and almost passed out from over-exertion. Barely a week later, he was able to maintain a jog for the majority of the hour, despite a brief walking period around the thirty minute mark.
The sun was barely rising over the horizon as Harry turned the corner onto Privet Drive. His breathing finally under control, Harry stripped his shirt off and used it to mop the sweat from his brow. Pulling open the door to Number 4, he quickly made his way up the stairs and into his bedroom.
He haphazardly tossed his shirt in the hamper, with a soft snap, it Vanished. "Thanks Kreacher!" Harry called out, grabbing his towel from the bed. He quickly wiped the sweat from his limbs and chest, before tossing it in the hamper as well.
"Kreacher?" Harry called. "Can I get you to hit me with a Scourgify? I'd rather not have to waste water on a second shower today."
Pop. Kreacher appeared in the small bedroom, feather duster still in hand.
"Stupid pussy Master." The elf grumbled. "Kreacher can't use a Scourgify. Doesn't stupid pussy Master understand how elf magic works?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "My apologies Kreacher. Can you use your weird elf voodoo magic to get me clean? Or am I going to need a second shower?"
Kreacher snapped his fingers, before disappearing with a second pop.
"Damn elf." Harry grunted. Thankfully the bugger had followed his orders, and he felt as fresh as if he had just stepped out of the shower. He quickly pulled his trainers off, and threw his socks and sweats in with the other dirty clothes.
He quickly dressed in a clean shirt and ripped jeans before heading downstairs to the kitchen. Something he hadn't considered at the beginning of the summer was just how much more food he would need with all the extra calories he was burning. In previous years he was able to survive despite the meager portions the Dursleys offered him, but this summer, it felt like he was constantly hungry.
He turned the stove on, and set a small frying pan on it, letting it heat up. Pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge, he cracked two of them into a small bowl and started to whisk them together with a fork.
Harry also diced up part of an onion and some leftover bell peppers and dumped them into the bowl of egg. Pulling the fridge open, Harry took a quick look around for anything else he could add to his omelet.
Seeing nothing of use, Harry closed the fridge and walked over to the sink. He ran some tap water over two of his fingers, and flicked them over the frying pan. Satisfied that it was warm enough from the sound of the sizzle, he poured his omelet mix into the hot pan and let it sit.
After a moment he spoke. "Would you like one?"
Petunia gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "How did you know I was here?"
Harry shrugged, folding his omelet over as he did so. "Lucky guess I suppose. Would you like an omelet?"
"Sure, I guess," Petunia said slowly.
Harry nodded, and flipped his omelet onto a plate he pulled from the cupboard. "Take this one." He said, setting it down on the table. "I'll make another."
"Thanks. . ." Petunia said, pulling the plate closer to her.
Harry dropped a small slice of butter into the frying pan, letting it coat the sides. "I started a pot of coffee before my run this morning. Would you like a cup?"
Without waiting for her answer, Harry pulled out a mug and filled it with the hot coffee. He stirred in milk and two sugars exactly how Petunia liked it, before placing it in front of her. "Here you go."
Petunia picked it up gratefully. "Thank you Pot- thank you Harry."
Harry nodded absentmindedly, cracking his eggs and briskly whisking them with the fork. "I'm sending Kreacher to Diagon to fetch me some more Potion ingredients, and some other odds and ends. Did you need anything while he's out?"
"Err. . . No." Petunia said finally, looking up from her coffee. "Tell him I said thank you for the offer though."
There was a long stretch of silence before Petunia spoke again.
"Pot— Err... Harry?"
"Yes Aunt Petunia?" Harry said, his eyebrow raised at her use of his first name.
"If you don't mind my asking. . ." Petunia began hesitantly. "Why are you bothering to cook when that thing would do it for you?"
Harry shrugged as he poured the omelet mix into the hot pan. "I enjoy it. It was one of the few things I was able to take pride in growing up here, and it's something that helps calm me down after my run."
Petunia flushed red at the mention of his childhood, but ignored it. "I see. . . Have the nightmares stopped? You've been much quieter during the nights."
"No." Harry said brusquely. "I've had Kreacher Silence my doorway so no sounds make it into the hallway. I didn't want to disturb you or Dudley."
Petunia paused, unable to think of a response. "Thank you for your consideration," She said at last. "You must get that from Lily."
Harry folded his omelet over and looked directly at Petunia. "Could you tell me about her?" He asked softly. "I've never heard anybody even describe her before. . ."
Petunia glanced around nervously. "Vernon is still out of town, so I suppose it couldn't hurt to tell you a little bit about your mother. Pull up a seat."
Harry grabbed his finished omelet and poured himself a cup of coffee before sitting across from her. There was a brief moment of silence before Petunia spoke.
"Lily—" Petunia started before pausing. "Lily was special. Even when we were both children I could see that. I was only about a year older than her, but Lily quickly surpassed me. She loved to read, and by the time she was ten she had read half of the library down in Spinner's End."
Petunia stared wistfully into the depths of her mug. "She taught herself Spanish, did you know that?"
When Harry shook his head she laughed. "Lily was frustrated that she couldn't understand what the people on the Spanish channel were saying, so she taught herself the language by reading the Spanish subtitles and using our Mum's Spanish-English dictionary."
Harry just grinned, taking another bite of his omelet.
Petunia took a sip of her coffee before continuing. "I could talk all day about her adventures while we were still young, but I imagine you'd like to hear about her personality instead."
Harry nodded. "I've heard a few stories of what she got up to at Hog— at my school. But nobody was really able to tell me what she was like as a person."
"She was extraordinarily quick-witted." Petunia told him. "If somebody said something harsh or cruel to her she always had a comeback ready. But at the same time, she was never rude about it either: if she ever said something harsh, she said it with a grin and a twinkle in her eye that showed she wasn't truly angry at you."
"She was always kind." Petunia continued with a smile. "She could never stand a bully. More than once when we were in Primary School, she would walk up to the biggest bully in the place and kick them in the shin and tell them off. Aside from those rare occasions however she would never even stomp on a bug, let alone intentionally hurt someone else."
A thought suddenly struck Harry, something that he had seen in Snape's Pensieve. "Did she have any friends before she left for school?" He asked, trying to sound casual.
"Of course she did." Petunia laughed. "Everyone wanted to be your mother's friend: she just had that kind of bubbly personality. When she'd laugh, you couldn't help but laugh too, it was just so infectious. But aside from me and that Snape boy from Spinner's End, she didn't really have close friends, she used to confide in me that she would rather be alone with her books than running around with all the neighborhood kids."
"Who was the Snape boy?" Harry asked, hoping he didn't sound too eager.
Petunia waved the question off with a gesture. "He was some brat that lived down in Spinner's End. His father was the town drunk, always getting intoxicated in some pub and then coming home and getting in screaming matches with his mother. It was no secret that the man beat them, but nobody could prove anything to put him away."
"Snape and your mother were close friends for a while," Petunia admitted. "He was the first to tell her that she was a fre— . . . a witch."
Harry tried not to let his shock show at her use of such an obviously magical term. "How could he have possibly known that?" Harry asked curiously.
"When we were younger, your mother had an abnormal amount of control of what she would later call her accidental magic." Petunia said. "She had a trick she used to do where she would pick up a fallen flower pod and cause it to bloom. Then it would close back down into the bulb when she closed her hand over it."
"So this Snape kid saw her do that?" Harry ventured.
". . . Yes." Petunia said finally. "And that was the beginning of the end. After that I was slowly pushed out of her life."
Harry's eyes widened. "I'm sorry Aunt Petun—"
"Don't be." Petunia said dismissively. "It was a grudge I held against your mother for years, even after her death. It was only when your headmaster sent me that awful screaming letter to remind me of my vows that I was willing to put it aside. In hindsight, I can't blame her for slowly leaving my world behind. If I had been able to do so, I'd have happily gone to Hogwarts."
"I wrote that Dubbledore of yours a letter once." Petunia said wistfully, placing her fork on her now empty plate. "I asked him if there was any way I could take a test to see if I was a witch. Or if I could at least accompany Lily so she would have a friend there."
There were tears in her eyes when she spoke next. "He was very kind when he explained to me that I wouldn't even be able to see the school, let alone attend. Unfortunately, that letter would end up being a wedge between me and Lily for years afterwards."
"How so?" Harry asked curiously. "Did you show it to her?" Privately he thought that if he had made such a request and been denied, he would have destroyed the proof and pretended that it had never happened.
Petunia scoffed. "As if. I was smarter than that; I didn't want her pity. The Snape boy went snooping around my room and found it. Lily and I were arguing once, and she used it against me. I never forgave her for that."
"For the first few years she would come home for summers, Christmas, and Easter." Petunia said. "Each time she did, I would lock myself in my room to avoid being around her. But slowly the visits stopped. First she skipped Easter, saying that it wasn't worth packing for a weekend and then having to come back. The next year she wrote right before Christmas: I found the letter before our parents did, and opened it. The first thing she said was that she couldn't stand being around me anymore, and that she was staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. Immediately I resealed the letter, left it on the counter, and pretended I had never seen it."
Harry stifled a gasp. Petunia was deeply engrossed in her story and seemingly forgot that he was even in the room.
"To get revenge, I sent her all sorts of prank gifts for Christmas that year. I put bleach in a bottle of her favorite shampoo, I gave her a fake box of her favorite chocolates. I even wrapped a stink bomb in her favorite sweater that she'd forgotten that year." Petunia said quietly, tears openly streaming down her face. "I felt that she deserved it for the awful things she had said about me. I doubted that she had even sent me a gift that year, I figured she'd rather spend her money on all her magical friends than her awful sister she didn't even want to see."
"Christmas morning, I made my way downstairs to our tree. To be honest, I remember nothing about that year, except for the gift that your mother sent me." Petunia told him. "I unwrapped a small glass jar that had a flower bulb suspended within. It was constantly opening into a full bloom, and closing back into the bulb."
"Just like she used to do. . ." Harry breathed.
"Exactly." Petunia said. "Accompanying the jar was a handwritten letter apologizing for her behavior. She poured her heart out into the paper, written with a ballpoint pen that she'd taken to school specifically for that purpose."
"All of that love and affection she had for me. . ." Petunia said bitterly. "And I threw it all away in anger."
She stood up, gathering her mug and plate and carrying them to the sink. "I'm sorry. You asked about your mother and I took you on a detour you didn't need to hear."
Harry walked over to her and put a hand on her arm. "I think I did need to hear it. I feel like I understand you a lot better now. Thank you Aunt Petunia."
Petunia gingerly removed her arm from his grip. "I assume I don't need to tell you not to mention this again. Vernon is rather violent when he hears about magic."
Harry lightly rubbed a scar on his left shoulder. "You don't need to tell me twice. I know this must have been hard for you Aunt Petunia, but I can't tell you how much this means to me."
"I have an old trunk of your mother's," Petunia said carefully. "She left it at our parent's house when she married your father. I think it's full of some of her old school things. Vernon wouldn't let me keep it, he thinks I donated it to charity years ago. If you want to have it, you'll need to dig it out of the attic, but it's yours to keep."
Harry didn't say anything, but stepped forward and awkwardly embraced his Aunt. It was the first time he could remember hugging her.
Petunia's face was frozen in a mask of shock, but slowly she relaxed, and patted Harry lightly on the back. "I'm sure you'll take good care of it." She whispered.
Harry forced himself to swallow back the lump in his throat. He couldn't describe the tangle of emotions he felt: confusion at Petunia's behavior, joy at the prospect of his mother's school trunk, remorse at the connection that could have been between him and his aunt.
Petunia shrugged out of his embrace, and walked over to the stairway before pausing. "These last few months have given me a lot to think about, Harry. But I think it was for the best that your Headmaster sent me that letter."
Without another word, she swept up the stairs, presumably headed to the bedroom she and Vernon shared.
Harry stared at the place she had been for a moment before walking over to the foyer. Hanging on a hook by the door was a set of gleaming silver keys. Harry scooped them up and looked down at them: there had been a time where he had dreaded to hold the keys to the attic. Vernon was fond of making Harry clean the dusty room whenever he had been in a particularly foul mood. The room was usually stuffed with Dudley's old toys, boxes of old clothes that Petunia had set aside for donation, and usually the remnants of Dudley's latest joint that he snuck up there to smoke. Vernon would lock him in the room with orders not leave until it was spotless, usually a 4-5 hour job.
But this time he was looking forward to spending some time in the attic, he was fairly certain he knew which trunk was Lily's. It was a heavy leather one that had been in the corner of the attic for as long Harry could remember. He had tried to open it a few times in the past, but the latch was well sealed.
Pocketing the keys, Harry made his way up the stairs. The only way into the attic was by climbing up a rickety ladder and through a small access hatch in the roof of the hallway. With a practiced gesture, Harry used the handle of the broom he had grabbed from the bathroom to pop the hatch door open, and pull the ladder down.
Harry quickly scaled the ladder: it had been a few years since he had been forced to clean out the attic, and he expected it to be horrific mess. To his surprise, it was well maintained. The dark wooden floors gleamed with a fresh coat of polish, and everything had been cleared out. None of the clutter Harry recalled filling the room before remained, except for the large leather chest pushed against the far wall.
"Kreacher," Harry called softly.
-POP-
"Pussy Master called?" The surly elf growled. "Kreacher was dusting the Muggle's kitchen, like pussy Master wanted."
"Yes, thank you Kreacher." Harry said, ignoring the elf's usual rants about being forced to clean a Muggle's house. "Did you clean this attic up?"
"Yes pussy Master. Kreacher spent hours making sure it was absolutely perfect." Kreacher said with a look of disgust.
"You did a nice job," Harry told him. "But can you help me out for a second? I need to see what is inside this chest: I think it might be my mother's old school trunk."
Kreacher rolled his bulbous eyes. "Stupid pussy Master can't do anything without Kreacher's help can he?"
The elf snapped his fingers, and the lid popped open. "Kreacher already broke the magical lock when he was cleaning the attic. Stupid witches thinking they can be matching a House Elf's magic."
Harry ignored the elf, walking slowly towards the open trunk. He knelt in front of it, and took a closer look at its contents. There were a few books stacked neatly in it, along with some clothes. He could see that the interior of the trunk was quite a bit larger than he would have expected, no doubt some kind of expansion charm.
Harry didn't know what to think: it was very clearly a witch's trunk, he recognized a few of the textbooks that were stacked inside. His breathing surprisingly calm, Harry shut the lid. "Kreacher, can you move this to my room for me?" He said softly. "I'll take the time to look through it later. I have a feeling I'm going to need to some cheering up later in the afternoon."
"Whatever you want pussy Master," Kreacher sneered, placing both of his knobby palms on the lid of the trunk. "Kreacher lives to serve after all."
Harry stood up, dusting his jeans off with his hands. "Whatever makes you happy Kreacher."
Kreacher just gave him a dirty look and popped away with the trunk.
Harry shook his head. "Damn elf." He muttered.
Harry clambered back down the ladder; grabbing the broom from against the wall, he pushed the ladder up past the hatch, and closed it with a soft thud.
He put the broom away in the closet, and shut the door. Harry took a deep breath; he had been dreading this part of the day for most of the past week.
He opened the door to his bedroom and stepped inside. He made his way over to the rickety desk and took a seat. Hedwig hooted softly from her cage; looking up at her, Harry smiled softly. "Hey girl," he whispered, poking two fingers through the bars of her cage.
Hedwig glared at him, and gave an indignant hoot.
"You're right. . ." Harry admitted, his hand dropping to the desk. "But of course I'm putting it off. I'm already reliving the Department of Mysteries every night in my dreams. Is it too much to ask for a few hours of peace during the day?"
Hedwig hooted softly and rubbed her head against his fingers. Harry smiled; Hedwig had been his first true friend, and he had hated leaving her behind at Hogwarts. Luckily she appeared at his window one night, her cage firmly clenched in her talons. Somehow she had flown all the way to Surrey from Hogwarts just to see him again.
Harry sighed heavily. "I suppose I can't really justify any more procrastination. This is too important to keep putting it off."
He glanced at the slim book sitting on the desk: Occlumency for the Occluded by Amandus McKeller. One of his goals for the summer was to learn Occlumency better. He doubted that he would ever be at Snape's level, but he needed to be able to block Voldemort's visions. Harry knew he couldn't risk being unprepared for another mental assault from the Dark Lord.
The author recommended reading through the entirety of the book first, before he actually started to perform any of the exercises. He had finished the book several days ago, and had already mastered the first step: clearing his mind.
Harry recalled the words from the book as if they had been burned into his memory.
Despite what you might think, clearing your mind is not as simple as 'do not think'. The very act of trying
not to think will quite often spark a thought in and of itself. It is far easier to focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else. Pick a simple image, one that you can conjure up effortlessly and bring it to the front of your mind. For example, I use a view of a still body of water, without the slightest ripple to disturb it. Go ahead and try it for yourself now.
Harry didn't even bother: ever since he had fought off Voldemort's possession, Harry had been able to clear his mind easily. With a simple thought, his thoughts were protected by a layer of darkness. It tinted his vision, giving everything a washed out look. It felt like the world was at a distance with his shields up: like nothing was important.
Slowly, he let them drop, everything coming into focus once again. He had step one down perfectly. He could bring the shields up instantly, he could function with them up, and most importantly, he felt a distinct personality shift while they were up, a sure sign that they were working.
The issues came from step two: McKeller claimed that once someone had learned how to bring up their shields, the next step was to dive in headfirst. Harry flipped the book open to chapter two, and skimmed the description.
A common misconception is that Occlumency's primary purpose is as defense against its sister magic Legilimency. Nothing could be further from the truth: admittedly, Occlumency does provide the best known defense against Legilimency, but its original purpose was for organization. The very existence of an organized mind prevents a skilled Legilimens from gaining access to one's innermost thoughts, simply because an outsider cannot understand the unique style of organization that one may use. To begin organizing your thoughts and memories, simply bring your shields up, and go back to your most recent memory, perhaps even your reading of this text. Take that memory, and attach whatever mental labels you first think of. Perhaps your memory of reading this book could be organized as 'Studying', or if you wish to be more specific, 'Occlumency'. What the label actually is doesn't matter, so long as it is in a way that you can understand and remember, even if it wouldn't make any sense to anyone else.
Harry slammed the book shut in frustration, and shoved it away from him. He had already sorted a significant chunk of his memories. Most of his early years at Hogwarts were organized; he had even categorized almost all of his time growing up with the Dursleys, but he couldn't bring himself to continue any further. Moving chronologically, the next major memory for him to catalog would be the Third Task of the TriWizard Tournament. He didn't want to relive Cedric's death and Voldemort's return.
Harry stood up from the chair and began to pace the room angrily. Although sorting his memories had been time-consuming and in many cases emotional, it had its benefits: overall, he was calmer, he was more calculating, and he was certainly more willing to listen. But it had its drawbacks as well: reliving his worst memories was a torturous experience, events that he had completely forgotten about made themselves known again, old grudges resurfaced. Worse than the tangle of emotions, was the constant feeling of regret: regret for how he handled certain situations, regret for the lackluster effort he put towards his schooling, even regret for the paths he had taken through life. He couldn't help but wonder how everything would be different if he had followed the Sorting Hat's advice and been sorted in Slytherin.
Harry sighed and sat back down on the bed, bouncing his leg restlessly. He knew better than to play everything back and forth in his head. He'd followed the same circles endlessly for the past several days, and it just gave him a headache.
Standing back up, Harry walked over to the window and pried it open. The cool morning breeze felt good on his skin, and he relished in the relaxation it brought. Harry gazed out the window for a few more seconds: he knew he should return to his studies, but all he wanted to do was sit at the window and stare out at the birds flying overhead.
Harry suddenly realized that a few of the birds seemed to be flying right towards him; he stepped back from the window, and opened Hedwig's cage. He pulled her food dish and bowl of water out of the cage and set them on the desk.
A few moments later, an elegant black owl swooped into the room, and landed the edge of Harry's desk; it proudly stuck its leg out, revealing the letter tied to its leg.
Harry gave the owl a strange look: it was too expensive to belong to the Weasleys, and after his reaction to Ron and Ginny's refusal to come to the Department of Mysteries, he doubted they would want to talk to him anyway. He supposed that it might belong to Hermione, but she had never expressed interest in owning an owl in the past.
Harry slowly untied the string from the owl's leg. As soon as its message was delivered, the bird flapped its wings twice and took off, soaring out the window and into the night. Harry glanced down at the letter in his hand; it was sealed with a rubber stamp, an insignia he didn't recognize.
Turning it over in his hands, Harry read the label on the front aloud. "Harrison Evans . . . " And then he saw the sender address in the corner: Pansy Parkinson, Parkinson Manor.
A/N:
Updated 4/22/2017
