"A fire that dances in the night"
It was 16 July 1995 when a trail of smoke, as black as the night that enveloped it, flew over the skies of Surrey, Little Whinging, with its epicentre at number 4 Privet Drive. The house was now inexorably engulfed in flames, the tops of which extended out of the house, pointing towards the sky. Two ground-floor windows exploded, spilling glass into the driveway leading to the front door. The pungent smell of carbon dioxide was strong in the air, and in the silence of the night, the creaking of burning wood could be heard. In the distance, the sirens of the police and fire brigade were screaming.
The tongues of fire had been defeated by the firemen. The fire was gone. All that was left to remember it by was a house almost falling apart. The roof had succumbed to the flames carrying away most of the first floor bedroom. The walls of the house were blackened, as was the interior, of which nothing remained but a few pieces of burnt furniture.
The men of the forensic police, equipped with white overalls and gas masks, entered the house to find the origin of the fire and any survivors or victims.
Up the lane on Privet Drive, under an old streetlight that gave off its dim light intermittently, Minerva McGonnagall and Albus Dumbledore stood by, observing the scene in a silence thick with questions and concern.
"Albus" Minerva said, in a slightly tremulous voice.
The Transfiguration professor was wearing her usual clothes: a long green tunic over a black turtleneck dress and her distinctive pointy hat that had always set her apart. Although she looked ready for class, she was tired.
"Go ahead, Minerva" Professor Dumbledore replied.
Despite the fact that the professor's personality had always been one of the liveliest, there was a great deal of concern shining through his eyes at the moment, though partly concealed by his half-moon glasses.
"What do you think happened? Is Potter going to be okay?" asked Minerva, watching Dumbledore out of the corner of her eye.
"Ah, I don't know, Minerva. I am unable to answer that question of yours. I can only hope that young Harry is well and can return to Hogwarts for the normal course of classes. And to taste my new lemon sorbet, obviously".
Where was Harry? Was he okay? Was he a victim or cause of the fire?
Professor Dumbledore finished his short speech with a sad smile. The last sentence seemed to be almost superstitious, a desire to escape the situation before them, in the hope that the boy would be able to live his life like that of any fifteen-year-old boy.
Minerva looked at Dumbledore with a frown, but deep down, she too shared the headmaster's thoughts. It was common knowledge that despite his severity, he loved all of his students, bar none.
The forensic team left the house and headed for the service car, in which a tall, sturdy man, who appeared to be the police lieutenant, waited impatiently.
The latter, after being briefed by his colleagues, announced by radio: "Gentlemen, we have found three bodies inside the house. Although disfigured by the flames, we were able to identify them: they are Mr. and Mrs. Dursley and their son. Mr Potter, who appears to be living with them, is missing. We have found no cause for the fire at this time".
A sigh of relief mixed with resignation escaped the professor's lips: the boy was not dead, but they still had no idea where he was.
Professor Dumbledore held out his arm to her with a hint of a smile: "Shall we go, Minerva?".
After one last look at the destroyed house, she grabbed the headmaster's arm and together they vanished.
The Leaky Cauldron was chaotic that night. Not that it was anything new, any self-respecting pub would come alive after dark. Many wizards, dressed in bizarre outfits of unthinkable colors were raising their glasses, toasting to whatever event just for the joy of being able to start drinking again. Their cheeks were flushed with alcohol and there were shouts of general elation. The place had a very rustic feel to it: almost everything was made of maple wood, from the chairs to the round tables that could seat up to six people. A few feet from the entrance, continuing straight across a long carpet with pictures of beers spinning in circles on a table, was the innkeeper's wide counter.
In the midst of the revelry a young man could be distinguished, making his way through the people standing all over the place. He wasn't trying to be conspicuous, but his clothing prevented him from doing so: he was wearing a black fleece sweatshirt one size too big, the sleeves were too long and the hood wrapped around his sweat-soaked face, preventing anyone who saw him from being able to recognize him, light-colored jeans ripped at the knees and white sneakers. In the Muggle world it could be considered just another outfit. But not in the magical world: it was conspicuous. Also, over his shoulder with his right hand pointing upwards he balanced a bulky trunk.
"Ough! Be careful with that damn trunk, *hic* you jerk! Watch where *hic* you're walking!" said a middle-aged man, in the typical voice of one who had definitely had a few drinks that night.
"Sorry," replied the boy dryly in a cavernous voice.
The man could tell by the tone that he was picking on the wrong person and that it wouldn't do any good: "Ahm, *hic* never mind! In fact, would you like a beer mate? *hic*" he said in a concerned voice, in an attempt to avoid an inevitable rift.
The boy continued towards the bar, not even bothering to answer.
The innkeeper, Tom, was chatting with some customers who seemed to be in a celebratory mood. He was distracted by hearing a knock on the counter. When he turned around he saw the figure, about six feet tall, his elbows resting on the wooden counter, his bowed head covered by the hood that covered his face. He was waiting to be served.
"Good evening" said the innkeeper, after squaring him from head to toe, "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, may I help you?" he finally concluded. He couldn't recognize him, he kept his head down.
"Hello, Tom" the boy spoke again in a dry, clear voice, though quieter than the drunken inconvenience. "I'd like a mug of ale and a room for the night" he finally concluded, pulling himself up, straight.
"Ah, young Potter" Tom relaxed, he knew the boy, "What's with all the secrecy? New fashion among the teenagers? Or is there some girl around here you're ashamed to talk to? Can I help..." but he was interrupted by Harry.
"No fad, much less girl" Harry replied hastily. "As for secrecy I have a good reason. I'd appreciate anonymity while I'm here".
"Boy," said Tom apologetically, "you know that everyone staying here has to provide a docum..." he interrupted himself at the clinking of a few Galleons on the wooden counter.
"Come on, Tom," he said impatiently but with a hint of amusement in his voice, "are these enough?" asked Harry therefore with a grin, sure of the answer that was soon to come.
"Well... Hm, I mean, you haven't been up to any mischief, have you Potter?" the innkeeper asked as he looked around, worried that someone from the Ministry, or worse, the headmaster of Hogwarts, would come asking for an explanation as to why an underage boy had been staying in one of his rooms.
"Absolutely not" Harry replied mellifluously. Tom's look became inquisitive, as if to find something wrong with the situation in front of him.
"Well, you know what?" he announced in a mocking tone, "Don't give me any trouble, for the rest of it, what you get up to is none of my business" and having said that he picked up the galleons and slipped them into a trouser pocket. "Room twelve boy, you know the way. Up the stairs at the bottom left. I'll take your beer to your room."
Tom held out his hand with the keys, which he held between his forefinger and thumb.
"Thanks" Harry said hastily. He grabbed the keys and headed for the stairs, heading for his room. He put his foot on the first step and froze, "Tom?".
"Yes, boy?" he asked questioningly, raising an eyebrow.
"You wouldn't happen to have a cloak?" asked Harry. "I have an errand to run and around here my clothes are too conspicuous".
Tom thought about it for a few seconds, then a smile broke out on his lips, "You have dumb luck in that regard as well" he sneered at him, "Just a few days ago, a young boy not much older than you forgot a Hogwarts uniform that had yet to be altered, and he never came back for it. I'd say it suits you when it comes to anonymity. I'll bring it up to your room along with the beer".
The Hogwarts uniform was a long black robe with a hood, reaching down to the knees. It was marked with the crest of the house you were sorted into. It was perfect.
"Thank you Tom. Have a good night then" he concluded, walking up the stairs. Tom greeted him with a wave of his hand.
He had befriended Tom over the summer when, trying not to get caught by the Dursleys, he would go to the inn for a drink and a change of scenery from the hole in the wall room he was used to. He had recognized him right away, but his fame had not mattered to him. In fact, he immediately gave him a good tirade:
"I mean Potter, you're underage! What are you doing here, boy? You shouldn't be drinking at your age"; but everything he scolded him for, he did with a smile on his lips, all the while telling him how much worse he was at his age. Harry liked Tom at once. Besides, the beer was good at the Leaky Cauldron.
Arriving at the door Harry inserted the key and turned it. The room was very rustic, like everything else in the inn on the other hand: the roof was oak with a wide archway supporting it. As soon as we entered, there was a coat rack on the right, while, on the left, was the bathroom. The floor of this one had white tiles and a fairly spacious shower with sliding doors.
After entering, Harry set down his trunk by the desk, opposite the French bed. It contained the bare essentials for school and some money so he could be independent. The parquet floor was midnight blue. The room even had a small balcony overlooking the narrow streets of London. He sat on the edge of the bed, allowing himself a moment of peace and reflection. He undressed, headed for the bathroom and, looking in the mirror, noticed soot smudging his face right up to his eyes, and a burn on his right arm.
There was a knock at the door, it was Tom, "Harry, the beer and the uniform!".
"I'm washing up, leave everything on the desk please" having said this he stepped into the shower, rubbing himself hard to clean any residue from the fire.
He had time to think about the night that had just passed, but all had happened very quickly. He would have bet that everyone would be asking him a lot of questions, but the truth was that he didn't remember much. Even though he hated the Dursley with all his hearth, he would never go so far as to wish them dead.
Harry turned off the hot water and grabbed the robe he had prepared. Coming out of the bathroom he noticed the things Tom had left for him on his desk. He glanced at the Hogwarts robe: it was perfect. It would give him the momentary discretion he needed. He glanced down at the fresh mug of ale and took a sip of it.
He threw himself on the bed, making a resounding thud, 'Holy Morgana, that hurts!" he cursed, "Of course they could have put a slightly softer mattress..." and massaging his aching back, he adjusted his pillow, crossing his hands behind the back of his head, closing his eyes for a few seconds.
Last year he had heard some Slytherins talking about a place in Nocturn Alley where, for a considerable amount of galleons, one could remove the Trace from the wand. Without Trace he would be able to keep himself magically incognito and would have the ability to defend himself without anyone's help. He was tired of being considered the last of the dumb ones. He wanted to prove to Dumbledore that he was a well above average wizard, and to that obnoxious Snape as well. He wanted to excel at everything. He wouldn't have to rely on Hermione's homework anymore, he didn't need her.
But he missed Hermione more than he wanted to admit. She was a great friend and was always there in his time of need. He wondered where she was and couldn't wait to see her again. Over the summer, Harry had pondered what he could do to escape as much as possible from that hole of a room he was locked in every three months of the year and stay away from the Dursleys and his obnoxious cousin Dudley. He later discovered (and Hermione would have been proud!) that the best way, was to study! And luckily, since he had never concentrated harder than any other student in previous years, he came to the conclusion that he was damn good at it! He had developed a thirst for knowledge for everything. He believed it was time to really be Harry Potter and a little less the 15-year-old who needed help from others.
In his free time, which was basically all of the summer that had passed, he re-studied all of the books from his four years at Hogwarts and carried on (after asking Flourish & Blotts to send him the books) with the entire fifth year. Within some of the books he noticed topics that had never been done by the professors, they probably preferred not to do them, but they turned out to be extremely useful and interesting. One in particular would certainly have been useful to him from then on: "ibis evanescet". It was a spell that, if cast on his owl, made it so that it would no longer deliver the message in case someone tried to intercept or follow him. That way no one would know where he was unless he wanted them to.
A rustle of wings awakened him from his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Hedwig, who had just landed on the balcony of his room, waiting for Harry to let her in. In her beak she carried a letter with a wax mold of Hogwarts.
"Well, looks like it's just you and me left" Harry said, opening the window to his owl, who came in trilling. "Have you managed not to let anyone see you?" asked Harry more to himself than to Hedwig. The latter gave him an affectionate peck on the fingers, almost in assent. "Good girl".
Harry opened the letter and read it slowly:
From Minerva McGonnagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dear Mr. Potter,
This letter is being sent to you because we are aware of what has happened tonight. It is the hope of all of us that you are well. However, we are also in a hurry to receive news from you soon and would like you to promptly notify me or Professor Dumbledore of all your movements. Given the incident at your residence, it is our firm belief that the safest place for you to live from now on is at number 12 Grimmauld Place, where your godfather, Sirius Black, awaits you. Finally, I would like to warn you that this year you will have to take the OWL, which are of vital importance for the auror career you seem to want to pursue. I hope to hear from you soon,
Minerva McGonnagall.
Harry had always wanted to move in with Sirius, but Dumbledore had never let him. Now he clearly had no other choice left. This could be an opportunity to live with someone who would really love him. He put the letter down and bent down to open his school trunk, from which he took a quill and parchment, to write.
Dear Professor McGonnagall,
I wish to inform you that I am well. At the moment I prefer not to tell you where I am, I need to be alone. On the other hand, don't worry, I share with you the idea of going to stay at Grimmauld Place. In the next few days I will be joining my godfather and you can ask me anything you want.
Just for now, goodbye Professor.
Harry Potter
"Well that's that done," Harry said aloud, "I will now warn Sirius so that he knows when to expect my arrival".
Dear Sirius,
how are you? I want to reassure you about what has happened. I can swear to you that I had nothing to do with the fire. The higher ups at Hogwarts have already taken care to give me guidelines to follow, but don't worry, I was already planning on moving in with you. I have some chores to do and I need some time to myself. But I think you'll be able to see my pretty face by tomorrow. I will be happy to see you again.
See you soon, with love,
Harry
Once the letter was finished he tied both missives to Hedwig's little paw and after giving her a few affectionate pats on the head, he opened the window and said, "Go on baby, and be careful" Hedwig trilled, then flew out.
Harry returned to the bed, putting his mind to it. Maybe he did it too deeply, or maybe tiredness took over, because before long, he fell asleep.
The black hood of his Hogwarts uniform covered him completely, only his emerald eyes could be glimpsed. He had just entered the narrow streets of Nocturn Alley. Having a mysterious and shady air was the norm there, so no one paid any particular attention to him.
After about fifty yards, Harry turned left, and immediately opened a shabby black wooden door to his right. The shop had no sign. It appeared very unremarkable. It looked like an old cellar: there was dust and cobwebs everywhere. Most of the furniture was covered with white sheets and the wooden floor creaked under his feet. He approached a long dirty counter, on which, there was a small silver bell. It seemed to be the only new thing in the whole shop. Harry rang the bell. He noticed movement in the back room, the entrance to which was covered by a dirty curtain.
An elderly man with long white hair and a wrinkled face popped out. He had a large wart on his nose and a glass eye. As he moved the curtain to come forward, Harry noticed what that one was trying to hide: a wall full of silver masks that he immediately associated with Death Eaters.
"I doubt you're here for those" the old man, who had noticed where his gaze led, told him grumpily, "What do you want?"
"I need to get rid of the Trace" Harry said quietly.
"Ah well!" he shouted madly and euphorically, "Another stupid underage student who wants to screw the Ministry of Magic. Well well. So... that makes two hundred Galleons".
Harry began to pull a leather pouch out from under his uniform, which he had strapped to his belt. "I heard," Harry said in a firm, cold voice that didn't hide the anger that was growing in him, "that the price was 150 Galleons. Times of crisis?" he finally made wryly.
"Listen to me, you asshole," the old man warmed up, "I don't know where you heard this crap, but you better watch your mouth," he warned him in a scornful voice. "The price is two hundred galleons. This, or you can fuck off."
"I get it," Harry said suddenly calm, as if nothing had happened. He placed the gold coins on the counter divided into two rows and waited.
"I see you made the right choice. Give me your wand. It will take two minutes" she informed him. Harry very slowly handed him his wand. The old man grabbed it roughly grumbling and watched the boy for a good minute without him moving a muscle. "Well, I'll be right back" he finally said. And disappeared into the back of his shabby shop.
Harry waited a few minutes, after which the old geezer returned and handed him back his wand: "Here. Now get the fuck out of here" he said contemptuously.
"Well," sighed Harry, "one" he pronounced with disarming tranquility.
The salesman raised a doubtful eyebrow and clenched his teeth. "Are you by any chance insane?" he asked.
"Two" continued Harry.
"Perhaps you misunderstood" a vein pulsed at the old man's temple, he raised his wand and pointed it at Harry. "YOU NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! Before I beat you to a pulp that not even your wretched mother..." he raged.
"Three" and as if it were an everyday occurrence, "Stupefy! ".
The spell was very powerful, and the old man crashed somewhere in the back room, breaking through the wall. Harry, walking slowly, joined him in the back. He retrieved his galleons from the small table on which they had been resting. "I'd say at least we haggled over the price" the chosen one said in a voice not his own. "Obliviate" he pronounced therefore, erasing the old man's memory. He slipped on his hood, and before he left he said: "Thank you very much, and have a nice day!".
He had ascertained that the best way to get to Grimmauld Place inconspicuously was one: not by magic, but by Muggle transport. After returning to the Leaky Cauldron, he had dressed in his normal Muggle clothes (in this case in the middle of London, they would have come in handy), retrieved his things and walked out the back of the club, after saying goodbye to Tom. "Show up soon, you wretch!" laughed the innkeeper. "Count on it, thanks again" replied Harry sunnily.
It was 5:30 p.m. when he looked at the digital clock on the bus he was sitting on. On the surface he might have looked like a normal city boy who had gone to run a few errands and was now on his way home. Harry wasn't stupid, he knew something had changed about him. People knew him as a hero, as the one who had saved the Wizarding World. But he didn't feel like that. Just think about that morning: he had attacked a shopkeeper, robbed him and erased his memory. Not that he was a great person, but that didn't matter. However, deep down, these actions had made him feel good, powerful. He wanted to feel that way again. Letting go of that anger that pervaded him was the only way he could feel better. He might as well have allied himself with Malfoy for the way he was acting. He couldn't tell if he was possessed by Voldemort or if it was the residue of post-traumatic stress from the fire. All he knew was that he needed to talk to someone who wouldn't judge him, and Sirius or his friends could do that.
*New stop, Grimmauld Place* announced the recorded voice on the bus.
Harry pulled himself up, and walked to the doors, ready to get out. The bus station was very close to number 12. Just a hundred yards and he would be able to see the building.
"Number 11 and 13... So where's number 12?" he wondered.
Suddenly it was like an earthquake: everything began to shake, the lamps inside the apartments in view swayed conspicuously, and the street lamps began to flicker on and off. But in all this Harry did not move a bit. Not that he had any incredible balance, but even though all the revelry was going on, it was as if he was a stranger to it all. Like magic.
The din ceased, and now number 12 Grimmauld Place stood in plain sight, much older and shabbier than the houses next door. Harry opened the door and immediately heard shouting, "Filth! Scum! Byproducts of filth and abjection! Hybrids, mutants, monsters, away from this place! How dare you defile the home of my fathers..."
"And cut it out, mother!" Sirius emerged from around a corner, and promptly covered his mother's picture, who remained mumbling until she quieted down. "Harry, it's so good to see you again!" his godfather said, after turning to him, his eyes glistening. "It will be a pleasure to have you here; you must make yourself at home. In fact, this is your home from now on" he said beaming. "Oh, holy Merlin, you're looking more and more like James, you know?"
"Sirius... It's good to be here" Harry said, genuinely pleased to finally be home. He collapsed faster than he should have. As warm tears began to slide down his cheeks, Sirius lost his trademark smile.
"Harry, what's going on?" he asked him worriedly.
"I'm just happy to be here. My whole life I've never lived with anyone who loved me" he whispered, hugging his godfather, who promptly returned the hug. "Besides, I've had a few problems on the trip, as you may have heard. I've got a lot to confide in you about" he concluded, chuckling though with tears in his eyes.
"Come, have a seat," Sirius smiled at him. "The house may not be super clean, let alone a palace. But it's comfortable and it's all ours. We'll take care of it tomorrow. Let's sit in front of the fireplace and tell me all about it over a nice cold Butterbeer, shall we?"
"Well," said Harry looking at his godfather, "I'd say I don't mind the idea at all".