Chapter 29: What Harry Saw
If Meli had been a little more paranoid than she gave herself credit for, she'd have realized that her sudden lack of restlessness was a dead giveaway and would have taken pains to act as restless as before. Dumbledore, who had no clue of Zarekael's presence, took it to mean either that Snape had finally pounded some sense into her head, or (when he was in a suspicious mood) that she was plotting something. Snape, though still irritated about the Dementor's Kiss and annoyed at her blindness toward Zarekael's true state, did his best to nudge the headmaster towards believing the best.
Firenze had put the fear—not of God, exactly, but definitely of Sirius Black—into her, and that was more than enough to guarantee that she didn't do anything stupid until further notice.
It was just as well, really, that Meli didn't go looking for Zarekael and that, after dropping off the cauldron, neither did Snape. It was a fair bet that neither one would have enjoyed finding out what he was up to.
ooo
It was a brutally dry summer day in Little Whinging, which meant that, along with the usual holiday pastimes, the neighbors had added the sport of violating water restrictions and calling in to report anyone else in the neighborhood who did the same. It was almost as competitive as the ancient sport of moving boundary stones had been in pre-Norman Wales—and Harry Potter cared just as much about one as the other.
There was a war going on, after all, or ought to be, and as far as he was concerned, a drought that turned Muggle lawns brown was silly piffle by comparison. Let Uncle Vernon rant all he wanted; Harry, at least, had a finger on what mattered most just now. Voldemort was keeping quiet, and for no good reason Harry could see, and the fact that his friends were also keeping quiet made him nervous.
Not to mention extremely angry.
That would have been quite enough by itself, but on top off all of that stress, worry, and frustration, he had to deal with his family and their (well, more specifically, Dudley's) friends.
Meli, had she been there could (but probably wouldn't) have told him that he'd got off better than he might have done. Cedric was still alive, so he didn't have a friend's death haunting him, but since he didn't know what might have been, he figured that he'd reached the lowest possible point of misery.
When he wasn't glancing over the front page of the Daily Prophet or sneaking a listen at the evening news, he wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood, thinking angsty thoughts and avoiding Dudley and his thugs as much as possible. Even when he could stay out of their sight, he didn't much care for seeing what they did in the name of fun.
This particular afternoon he'd wandered over two miles from Privet Drive, and he had just turned back so he could find a good hiding place before the news came on. He was maybe a third of the way home when he heard someone crying out in pain.
He ran towards the sound, rounding a corner just in time to see Dudley and several of his friends gathered in a huddle and laughing ominously. The cry came again, and this time he recognized it as coming from a hurt, frightened animal.
"Poke it again, Piers!" Dudley chortled.
Harry's stomach turned, and he was almost glad he couldn't see the poor animal.
Almost.
"Leave it alone!" he called, stalking towards them. He wanted to draw his wand but had enough presence of mind to stop himself.
The teenage thugs looked up at his words, and Dudley got a self-satisfied smirk. "What's wrong, Harry?" he sneered. "Can't appreciate a little fun?"
The others sniggered, and Harry heard one of them mutter, "Nancy."
Harry bristled. "And why do you think hurting a harmless cat's fun?"
Piers suddenly howled in pain and jumped backward, and Harry saw a marmalade-colored streak shoot away in his peripheral vision. His focus turned to Piers' bare leg, now bleeding freely from three surprisingly deep gashes.
Dudley and the others gaped stupidly at it until the ringleader's brain caught up and he turned back to his cousin. "Call that harmless?" he spat. "That thing deserves whatever it gets!" He waved a hand at the others. "Come on, lads! Time we got home."
The scratches weren't bad enough to be more than an annoyance to Piers, apparently, so he strutted off with the group, already muttering about what he was going to do to the cat if he ever saw it again.
Harry followed at a discreet distance, happy to be forgotten for the moment but still hurrying to be back in time for the news. He hoped the cat would stay safely out of the way until Piers forgot his plans for revenge…
But as it turned out, he didn't need to worry about Piers for long.
Just before Dudley and his friends came to the corner of Privet Drive, Piers came to an abrupt stop. The others turned to look at him… and then he suddenly collapsed on the pavement.
Harry found himself running again before he could think, and this time when he came up to the group, none of them had anything to say. They were kneeling, faces whiter than chalk and staring wide-eyed at Piers, whose lips, Harry saw, had already gone blue.
Piers lay still on the pavement—far too still—and Harry reached out a shaking hand to feel for a pulse.
There was none.
"P—Piers," Dudley whispered, reaching out to his best friend. "Piers? Come on, mate.. C—come on…"
Harry's throat tightened, and he leaned back from Piers' still form. "Dudley—"
"Back away, Potter!" Dudley shouted, turning on him suddenly. "He's my friend—you've no place here!"
Harry stared at him, bewildered. "Dudley—!"
"Get—away!" Dudley was almost screaming now, and Harry saw the sign of tears in his eyes. Neighbors were starting to look out of windows and front doors now. "Get away from me!"
Harry was on his feet without remembering how he'd got there, and the next moment he was running, as fast as he could, away from his cousin, who knelt, sobbing now, over the body of his best friend.
ooo
Uncle Vernon, of course, was inclined to think the worst—namely, that Harry had somehow killed Piers. Harry was too distraught to defend himself, which was enough to convince Aunt Petunia, anyway, that he hadn't done it. This saved him the trouble of unwisely pointing out in his anger that if he'd gone to all that trouble, he'd have gone for someone a little closer to home. Aunt Petunia's defense of Harry was as back-handed as possible, but she did, at least, convince Uncle Vernon to back down—for the sake of poor ickle Dudders, of course.
Dudley, meanwhile, had never thought of blaming Harry; it wasn't impossible that he was too uncreative. Or it might be that he'd gone too far the other way—he was inclined to blame the cat. Aunt Petunia was anxious to calm him down, so she didn't try to talk him out of the belief, but Harry noticed in the days afterward that she made surreptitious inquiries about "someone Dudley can talk to about this notion."
In Harry's view, anyway, the only way the cat could be responsible was if its claws were poisoned. Scratches like that should only be fatal if the person caught fever from them and never had it treated, and that ought to take days or weeks. Only a poison could have acted that quickly, and bullying aside, he couldn't think of a reason why anyone would want to murder Piers, certainly not through such an elaborate method.
The coroner's report put the speculation to rest, though. Cause of death was determined to be a congenital heart defect; Piers' heart had simply stopped, of its own volition, and that was that.
Harry would probably have been less comforted by those findings if he'd known that magically-caused deaths, when analyzed by Muggle coroners, were almost always put down to congenital heart defects. Snape could have told him, if he'd wanted to, that many of the quick-acting poisons brewed at or above the Mastery level left no trace in the blood or organs that Muggle science could detect. Meli could have told him that Avada Kedavra's actual means of killing was convincing the human heart, in an instant, to stop of its own volition.
And if Zarekael had been inclined to speak of it to anyone, he could have told them the precise how and why of the matter.
ooo
Piers Polkiss was laid to rest on a hellishly hot afternoon, and Harry was left at home while the Dursleys went first to the funeral, then to the graveside, then to the Polkiss house. Harry and Dudley had come to a silent truce: as long as Harry didn't intrude on his cousin's grief, Dudley wouldn't beat him senseless. It was a more or less good arrangement that gave both boys the room they desperately needed—Dudley to mourn, and Harry to think things through.
He took advantage of the Dursleys' day-long absence to go wandering again (avoiding Mrs. Figg, who had wanted him to spend the day with her). He couldn't sort his thoughts and feelings very well right now, but he was desperate to try.
It wasn't that he was grieving for Piers, exactly, and he certainly didn't miss having him around. Piers was a bully and a thug, and after more than a week of poking and prodding at his memory, Harry still couldn't remember a single redeeming quality. By rights, he shouldn't care that Piers was dead, especially since he'd died of natural causes. If he'd had his wallet stolen and his throat cut, that would be different… but he hadn't.
So why did Piers' death bother him? Why did he feel bad about it?
For that matter, why did he feel bad for Dudley? It wasn't as though Harry had ever had a jot of sympathy from him. Why should he care?
He had thought, many times, that this would be a good subject for a letter to Hermione (Ron, of course, would never understand), but he had had it with both his best friends at the moment. No matter what he wrote, or how urgently he asked for any news at all, the only things they ever sent back were evasions and cryptic clues. If they wanted to be helpful, they could start any time they liked, but Harry was done asking. If they couldn't be bothered to tell him about something as important as Voldemort, why should they bother with something trivial like Piers Polkiss?
He wandered well into the evening, losing track of time and forgetting to be home in time for the news. He ended up at a play park off of Magnolia Road and walked listlessly over to the swings. The park was deserted—or so he thought at first.
It was only after he'd sat down in a swing to pity his lonely, confused state that he saw Dudley standing alone near the merry-go-round. He seemed smaller, softened by the black suit and shrunken by his loss. Whatever else could be said of Dudley Dursley, he valued his friends highly… and he felt this loss sharply.
A part of Harry almost pitied Dudley because he knew the pain of loss himself, but the larger part of him saw that the tables were turned and exulted in it.
As if hearing Harry's thoughts, Dudley looked up suddenly and saw him there. He might have nodded an acknowledgment, but it was too small a movement for Harry to be sure, and then he turned to shuffle slowly away toward Magnolia Crescent.
"Oi! Dudley!"
Harry wasn't sure why he called out or why he stood up and followed him, but he did. Dudley paused, but he neither turned around nor spoke.
"Going home?" Harry asked, still not knowing if he wanted to mock his cousin or be kind to him. "I can walk with you, if you like."
He'd come up beside the bigger boy, who eyed him suspiciously. "And why'd you want to do that?"
Harry shrugged. "Well, if we're going the same way—"
"Don't patronize me," Dudley said through his teeth. Harry blinked in surprise; he hadn't known Dudley knew that particular three-syllable word, or any long word, for that matter.
"I'm not trying to patronize you—"
"Then leave me alone."
Dudley started to walk away, and Harry's momentary pity turned to anger, as pretty much every other emotion did these days. He stood there a couple of minutes, grinding his teeth indecisively, then took off after his cousin, catching up just as Dudley crossed into Wisteria Walk. He darted around until he stood in front, forcing Dudley to stop and face him.
"And why, exactly, do I have to do anything you say, Duddykins?" He all but spat the nickname. "Any time I've been upset, I've had to suck it up or be yelled at by your dad and made fun of by you. So now that you're upset, you're entitled to be left in peace?" He snorted. "Just what makes you so much better than me?"
Dudley clenched his jaw and narrowed his blazing eyes. "Don't do this, Harry—"
"Do what?" Harry sneered. "Call you a fat, pathetic hypocrite?" He knew he was going too far, knew he was hitting below the belt, but he didn't care at the moment. Until now, he'd never been able to fight back in a way that could really hurt his tormentor, and now that he could, it was a heady feeling.
"Harry, I'm warning you—"
"Warn all you like, Dudders. I'm not—"
Harry broke off suddenly as a cold something that wasn't natural wind whispered down his spine. He looked up to find that all of the stars were gone, and the velvet of the night sky had faded to something both drab and ominous. The temperature had dropped from sweltering to arctic, and thick blackness had crept over them while they quarreled.
"H—Harry?"
"It's not me," he whispered. His breath came short as he tried to figure out what had happened. This was no ordinary weather change; it was magic—it had to be—but he knew he hadn't done it.
"Then what—"
"Shut up."
The chill crept into his bones, and he shivered suddenly as he understood.
It was impossible, but it was the only explanation.
"H—Harry!"
"Will you please shut up, Dudley!"
The next sound he heard was a tortured, rattling breath… and then a desperate scuffling as Dudley took to his heels.
"No, Dudley—you're running at it!"
His cousin was a Muggle—of course he couldn't see it to know which way to run. Harry scrambled after him, his wand out and at the ready now. "Lumos!"
He had taken maybe another dozen steps when another Dementor cut him off. Before he could think, he'd brought his wand to bear.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Unfortunately, a Patronus required thought; a thin silvery wisp was all that came out.
Happy thought, his mind screamed frantically, as the Dementor came closer.
Close enough that he could hear Voldemort's high voice and cold laughter.
No! Something—anything else. The Cup—remember—
He saw instead the ominous duck that had stalked towards him just before he'd grabbed the Cup.
The dragon! My Firebolt—
"Expecto Patronum!"
This time it worked, and the silvery stag charged out to drive its antlers through the Dementor's chest. The Dementor swooped away in defeat, leaving Harry to run after Dudley again. The Patronus followed him to where Dudley lay, cowering and sobbing, before the second Dementor, which was lowering its hood.
"No!" Harry looked to his Patronus then pointed at the Dementor. "Get it!"
The silver stag charged, and bare seconds later, this Dementor, too, had conceded and gone, taking the unnatural darkness with it.
Harry put away his wand and helped Dudley to his feet. They stumbled home together, their quarrel forgotten in the wake of the ordeal—one wondering how in the hell two Dementors could have come to Little Whinging, and the other having just relived witnessing the death of his best friend.
