Chapter Seventy-Seven: To The Burrow!

Ron most likely arrived back home after sunrise of the next morning, and was probably summarily punished by Mrs. Weasley, which was a strange thought. After that, Sirius was filled with boundless excitement towards the idea of the coming World Cup. He kept talking about (what seemed to be) every quidditch match he'd ever attended, professional and not, speculating as to how long this match would last, and going over the rosters of the two teams involved (this involved a few more quiet disappearances, but they were in the middle of the night; he refused to leave Harry alone whilst the Dursleys were awake).

Sirius thrust a book of quidditch techniques into his hands, and Harry, bemused and a bit alarmed at Sirius's enthusiasm, did as he was asked, and studied quidditch "trivia and tactics". Quidditch through the Ages was quick to follow, and Harry thought of Hermione, in first year, preparing for the first flying lesson, with a pang. He'd been exempted from flying lessons after that; he rather thought that everyone else at Hogwarts was still taking those classes, which seemed rather unfair. Think of all the basic knowledge he was being denied.

But, hey, owing to his position on the quidditch team, Sirius seemed to think him ready to learn not only how to perform complicated aerial manoeuvres, but the names of these, as well. Combine that with analysis of the statistics of the Irish and Bulgarian teams….

How did Sirius keep track of all this? Were all sports fans this…thorough? Did Sirius have an entire compartment or his brain dedicated to this knowledge, untouched by the dementors? Of course, he knew that James, his dad, had been a chaser on the gryffindor quidditch team…but he'd never gone pro, had never had the chance to try half of these moves. Still, a part of him couldn't wait to try some of the trickier moves against Malfoy. Why was that, exactly?

At least Sirius was keeping busy, and was spending time with him, without even moping. Sirius had gone into town to buy his own tickets, full of that casual confidence, the certainty that the world would part for him, that everyone would go out of their way to please him, the last heir to the House of Black, that Stark had. It was what came of being born and raised in privilege, even if your family was as messed up as the Blacks. And was that family ever a tangled mess!

Somehow, he'd managed to secure seats in the Top Box with the Weasleys. And he must have realised beforehand that he'd be able to do just that. Unfortunately, he returned from his excursion to inform Harry that Malfoy would also be there. Well, you couldn't have everything, and it made sense: the Malfoys were a powerful, and prominent, family, who quite enjoyed flaunting their wealth. Still, both of their moods soured at this little fact. Harry contemplated shoving Malfoy off the height of the stands if he spoke even a word ill against the Weasleys, Remus, or Sirius. Malfoy was bad enough in school, but to see him at an event that Harry would otherwise enjoy….

Sirius, though subdued, nevertheless continued Harry's impromptu quidditch lessons with feigned cheer and energy. It meant that they spent less time around the Dursleys, so Harry humoured him.

Harry quite expected to have dreams filled with quidditch teams after that. Instead, he was alarmed by a dream involving the murder of an elderly muggle man who dared to stand up to Riddle. Perhaps it was merely an echo of the last few days of memories from his dreams, or perhaps it was another instance of Fate's cruel resonance in this life. He had to admire that muggle man—Frank Bryce (a name swift to leave his memory after he woke), who, despite not knowing who or even what he faced, died defying Voldemort.

Harry had no idea how he knew his name, but he wrote that down, with everything else he could remember of the dream, on a blank sheet of notebook paper, careful to be as quiet as he could, lest he wake Sirius. Sirius was hovering enough as it was, thank you. He didn't need another Ron.

He did, however, tell Sirius what he'd written down once Sirius woke up. He wasn't expecting Sirius to lecture him about "why didn't you wake me up and tell me, Harry?", or to treat the dream as some sort of important sign of the future.

"And that traitor was in the dream?" he spat. "That traitor" was what Sirius usually called Peter Pettigrew. Harry nodded, trying to figure Sirius out. Sirius ran his hands through his hair as if trying to finger-comb it. He was pacing back and forth in uneven lines. It reminded Harry of something, although he had no idea what. Perhaps the fact that he tended to pace whenever he was agitated, and trying to think. Or agitated. Or trying to think.

"Sirius?" he asked, more than a bit bewildered at Sirius's current actions.

"We should send word to Dumbledore," Sirius said, firmly. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. Harry had had no notion that the dream was that important.

"Whatever for? I've had plenty of strange dreams," Harry said.

"Dreams that mesh this well with reality? With this much continuity? Dreams are usually full of flux, inconsistent, erratic. This one seems consistent with external reality—what we know of it. Pettigrew rejoined his master, has prepared some sort of solution to give Voldemort a semi-corporeal form—a possibility—and is back in Britain. No longer in Albania. You hear that he murdered a witch named 'Bertha Jorkins'—I've heard of her, by the way—and that he's planning to murder you somehow after the World Cup—but you aren't concerned?"

"He's always planning to murder me," said Harry, shrugging. It certainly seemed true. Sirius's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned razor sharp. But there was more than a hint of worry in it, too.

"I'm with Ron: stop making light of your own death! Don't you realise that there are people who care about you? I, and Ron, and Hermione, and Remus, and Tonks, and the entire Weasley clan, if I can judge, not just Ron. You're not going to get anywhere if you never plan ahead. You've got some notion of what's coming: use it!"

Harry blinked, stunned as if stricken. That sounded like the sort of advice he'd give to Thor.

"Hey, now, I'm not saying that I'm not planning ahead, " he replied, feeling rather defensive. "I just don't see how much Dumbledore could make of what we've said."

"He would be able to find out if Bertha Jorkins has gone missing, as your dream suggests. That would be enough to validate it. He'd increase security at the castle—"

"How? Hogwarts is smothered in protective magic—even You-Know-Who can't get through! There's nothing Dumbledore can do that he hasn't already—except forbid me come back to Hogwarts, I suppose. But I can't hide here at Privet Drive for the rest of my life, either—the prophecy is the prophecy, and you're the one sure it will find a way to be fulfilled. Defying it only prolongs the inevitable. I'm not rushing into danger; I'm being realistic. Except for this last year, the school year ends in a battle between me and Riddle, and I pull through in the end. If there's prophecy involved, perhaps it's even inevitable.

"Suppose Dumbledore checks up on the facts. Suppose he confirms that Bertha Jorkins is missing, that Riddle is nearby, that Peter Pettigrew is in Britain, too. Then what? I think you overestimate Dumbledore's abilities. What could he do? With such limited information—I don't even know where that dream took place! Riddle is a disembodied wraith, one that, apparently, only I can defeat. There's a reason Dumbledore's only been keeping tabs on him since his disappearance the night when—the night of his fall.

"But, fine! I'm not saying you shouldn't send him a letter—you know best. I only don't understand why you think this is important…. But…I suppose you're right. It wasn't very like the dreams I usually have."

In fact, its stark vividness had him thinking of the dreams that had come to him when he'd been ten. There was that same sense of super-reality to them. That they were more than mere creations of his subconscious, but depicting actual events. He had to concede that fact.

"Thank you, Sirius," he said, bowing his head, and looking down at the floorboards under his bed. He was an ingrate, wasn't he? He should be glad, grateful that he now had a guardian who cared about him living in the same house at him—someone who could send messages to Dumbledore. Someone who cared about Harry enough to worry about him, enough to contact Dumbledore at the mere hint that he was in danger.

"I get it, kiddo," Sirius said, resting a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. Harry managed to mostly suppress his flinch, but Sirius must have noticed. His grip tightened, and his face drew taut. "I've been where you are. Don't forget that. I understand where you're coming from."

Is that what you believe, Sirius? But you do not know my biggest secret. Harry raised his eyes to look at Sirius, but had to close them at that pained expression. He'd caused that.

I should tell him, Harry thought, yet again. Yet again, however, he did nothing.

The letter arrived a few days after Ron's visit, delivered by the mailman in person, who thought that the envelope's coating of stamps was amusing. Aunt Petunia was personally offended at the mailman's humour at their expense. She bristled, snatching the envelope from the poor man's hands, and storming over to Harry to thrust the envelope into his, with a huff. With Sirius watching, it was all that she dared to do.

Harry opened the envelope with some care, after thoroughly examining it. It was drowning in stamps, which created a waterproof coating around the letter, save for a tiny corner in which Mr. Weasley had squeezed in the Dursleys' address. Despite that, the letter voiced the Weasleys' concerns that they might not have put on enough stamps. He could just picture Ron biting his tongue to keep from informing them of this fact…unless he'd never seen muggle post, either. The Earth (Midgard) he'd encountered twenty years hence had been more technologically advanced. He didn't think they used the post anymore—at least, not as much. It was possible that Thor had never encountered it…hard to imagine Stark using something so old-fashioned.

"We'd best send a reply to Mr. Weasley," said Harry to Sirius, as if they were the only two people in the house. "Let him know that we're coming, yeah?"

Aunt Petunia looked as if her grapefruit had rotted before her eyes, and she had lost her appetite. Harry smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room to pen the reply, leaving Sirius to do what he did best: annoy the Dursleys. This time there might be some substance couched in his insults, but they'd probably never find it.

They were to spend the next few weeks at The Burrow. Unfortunately, those weeks did not include Harry's fourteenth birthday, but Sirius had gone out of his way to make that day memorable, anyway, taking Harry into London and Diagon Alley. They'd raided Quality Quidditch Supplies and Flourish and Blotts. Those hours spent far from the Dursleys were gift enough. But this gave Sirius the occasion to reveal, in the most casual way imaginable, that he'd been the one to give Harry the Firebolt. Hermione had been right, again.

Harry had more fun in that outing than he recalled ever having. Sirius's casual confidence ensured that they received the best service without even trying, and his slightly sarcastic sense of humour had a way of restoring the novelty of ordinary experiences. Sirius was just a fun person in general, and his sense of adventure and enthusiasm were catching. It was the closest Harry had ever come to having an opportunity to just be a child.

Unfortunately, this kept the reminder of his past lurking in Harry's mind. How very contrary of his mind, to sabotage him, thus.

Did he truly qualify as being a child? Of course, he did. He must….

How exactly had Ron managed not to go mad with his identity crises?

-l-

A couple of days later, the Weasleys arrived, as threatened, via floo. Harry's attempts to forewarn Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia only served to ensure that they were covered in soot from the false fireplace (or, he supposed that that white stuff was plaster). Uncle Vernon went all purple under his thick coating of white dust, and rubble. Aunt Petunia swayed on her feet, but otherwise stood still as a statue. She looked pained. Dudley scuttled through the house crabwise, remembering Hagrid's assault on him prior to first year—the only experience he had with an adult wizard before Sirius had arrived, and, quite possibly, made things worse. Were it not Dudley, Harry might have been inclined to pity.

While Arthur Weasley was very apologetic, the Twins, who had been invited along for reasons unknown, ruined the effect by snickering behind his back at the proceedings. Harry raised an eyebrow at their antics. They didn't even have the excuse of being giddy on account of being in the presence of one of their idols to justify their actions: Harry had left it up to the Marauders to introduce themselves to the Twins, and the Marauders had yet to do this. The Twins were just…themselves.

Ron glanced over at Harry to ensure that Harry had no new injuries, and Sirius smiled, nodding his acknowledgement, hands in his black jeans. "We have everything we're bringing, and I remembered to place defences around the dangerous stuff I took from my childhood home that I left here. I think we're good to go."

Aunt Petunia swayed more violently at the mention of dangerous wizard contraband stuck in her house, and closed her eyes, as if about to faint. Uncle Vernon grabbed hold of her shoulder, and she clutched his arm as if to keep herself upright.

They left, one after the other, Mr. Weasley repeatedly issuing instructions to Harry on how to use floo powder. The Twins preceded him into the fire, and he half-expected to be shut out. But apparently, they'd spilt some sort of prank candy on the floor, "Ton-Tongue Toffees", which had swollen Dudley's tongue to a size that he could barely even breathe, and they'd wisely waited to coincide this with their departure.

Harry decided that this was a sign, if anything was, that he should be wary of the Twins. Never before had he realised that they might accidentally kill him. And hadn't Ron mentioned the Twins as the originators of his arachnophobia, in second year? They were not to be underestimated. Either wizarding pranks were inherently more malicious than muggle ones, or they had a bit of a mean streak…. He decided not to get on their bad side, which… should have occurred to him before.

In a time before, he might have been inclined to challenge them to a prank war, but that was neither here nor there. Perhaps, when all was said and done…if everyone were still alive after Thanos had done with them….

Ah, yes. Happy thoughts. Sirius might have had to stay behind to help Mr. Weasley set Dudley right, but, as an ex-prankster, Harry had the greatest faith in his ability to undo what the Twins had done. After all, the Marauders were the Twins' idols.

Ron seemed a bit out of sorts following the Twins' newest pranks—this couldn't dredge up the pleasantest memories, although there might be a bit of nostalgia to thoughts of less desperate times. Harry sat beside him, and quirked an eyebrow in his direction. Ron started, as if he'd just remembered that Harry was in the know. Entirely possible. Harry smirked, and Ron shuddered, and then Ginny entered the room.

"Hi, Harry!" she cried, an odd spring in her step as she approached, beaming at him. "I wasn't expecting you so soon!"

Ron gave his most puzzled frown, successfully distracted from bittersweet memories. Harry smiled.

"Ginny, we arranged Harry's retrieval days ago," Ron said, brow furrowed in evident confusion.

She blushed scarlet, looking down at the ground, and shot Ron a glare, aside. "I know that, I just thought it would take longer, or something…. I dunno, it just feels like a surprise, to see Harry here. A good surprise, though."

She regained her steam at the end, as she turned her attention to Harry, who was unprepared to receive it.

"…Hello, Ginny," he said. "Have you had a good summer?"

Ron stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. And possibly a third. Ginny sat down across the table from both of them, but ignored Ron.

"Mum won't let me play quidditch," she huffed, crossing her arms in a pout. "But I suppose I've got the World Cup to look forward to. Still, you'd think that since I was reserve seeker last year…."

She gave a helpless little shrug.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You seemed an excellent flier on the tryouts," he said, smiling at her. She blushed and looked down at the floor.

"I hadn't realised that you were paying attention…I mean, you seemed pretty absent all last year on account of…you know, the dementors. I thought—"

"Well, I had to see if you were any good, didn't I? Half of your family have been on the quidditch team, after all…."

Ginny blinked. "…Is this going to be one of those days when you're inexplicably nice to me?" she asked. He frowned at her, and then realised he was frowning, and leveled his expression out. He was distantly aware of the fact that he had an audience, which increased when Mrs. Weasley entered the room. Mostly, though, he was trying to understand where Ginny was coming from, which was quite a task at the best of times.

"I thought we'd been getting on well enough," he said, cocking his head, analysing her. She refused to meet his gaze.

"I just…what you said last Valentine's Day…and everything you did the last time you stayed here!"

He had no idea what she was talking about. He did remember making her cry, which had hardly been his goal, so what was she upset about? He decided that apology was the best route, anyway.

"I'm very sorry about my behaviour before second year—before your first year. I never meant to make you cry."

Ginny's eyes narrowed, and she uncrossed an arm to point at him. "See, like that! You were friendly when we went to Diagon Alley, and then you teased me on Valentine's Day…and then you ignored me all last year—"

"I was hardly in my best frame of mind last year," he said. He shouldn't have to remind her of that: she'd just mentioned it.

"Are you going to tease me and prank me or make me cry?" she asked, still pointing, eyes narrowed. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, and glanced aside at Ron, who seemed almost smug at their interaction. Eh, whatever.

"I only did that because you were treating me like some sort of freak; I get enough of that at the Dursleys'. I'd love to say 'let's start over, and let bygones be bygones', but then you'd go back to hiding from me and not saying a single word to me that you didn't have to. I'd rather not have that, either. I suppose I shall have to suffer your wrath, instead."

Ron was somehow succeeding in keeping them both in his field of vision—probably those battle reflexes at play, again. Harry scowled at Ron, and then leveled his expression out again before he turned to Ginny.

"Ginny, I've done my best to be polite to you whenever we've met," he said. He was not about to remind her that he'd offered to listen to her should she ever need to talk about what had happened with the diary. Now was not the time and place: Ron didn't know about it, and Mrs. Weasley was bustling in and out of the kitchen with such energy that she had to be eavesdropping. He knew gossipy behaviour when he saw it, grace of Aunt Petunia.

She huffed. "Oh, politeness! What better way to say that I'm not interesting enough to be your friend!" she said, which was so unfair that Harry stood up, putting his weight on the table to push himself upright faster.

"Now, come on, Ginny, that wasn't what I was saying at all!"

"It took a while, but we managed!" Mr. Weasley said, emerging from the fireplace, beads of sweat covering his face from either the heat of the fire or recent exertions. "Those Twins have really done it this time—that poor boy, he could have choked, just wait until I tell their mother—"

"Tell me what?" Mrs. Weasley asked, hands on her hips, as she returned from the kitchen.

"Ah, er, nothing, Molly dear," Mr. Weasley said, cowed.

"Your sons played a bit of a prank on that Dudley boy, is all," said Sirius, with a casual shrug, as he, too, emerged from the fireplace. He looked as if a lucky shard of porcelain had cut his exposed forearm. Mrs. Weasley was torn between the need to reprimand her children, and the need to see to that wound—the quintessential nurturing mother instinct, especially as she was older than Sirius.

The former won out when Sirius continued, with a little apathetic shrug. "Can't say as I blame them, honestly. I've been trying to live with them for the past two months."

Mrs. Weasley was more than willing to disapprove of anyone who could fail to disapprove of her sons' pranking habits. She frowned, bustling out of the room to find Fred and George, who were taken by surprise in eavesdropping on word of their success.

Neither Sirius nor Mrs. Weasley seemed to realise that they'd just interrupted an argument; clearly the tension lacing the air must not be as obvious as it felt to Harry, who slowly unclenched his fists.

Ron glanced back and forth between Ginny and Harry. "Shall I remind you of the location of your room, then?" he asked.