Chapter Fifteen – Ascending Downs

Three days passed, and Harry was no closer to breaking his way out of the bedroom than he'd been before. He had tried picking the locks on both the door and Hedwig's cage to no avail. Once, when he heard the Dursley's go out, he had spent the afternoon throwing himself against the door, thinking to bust it open. But he was a small and scrawny twelve-year-old. All he had managed to do was develop a magnificent bruise on his shoulder. Trying to coax his Aunt Petunia was like talking to a brick wall, so that was out of the question. He considered tricking his cousin into letting him out, but so far Dudley had given Harry's bedroom a wide berth. Harry figured he was under strict orders to pretend that his cousin simply ceased to exist.

Harry, in his desperation, and settled on a plan. He would feign an illness, think that then the Dursleys would be forced to take him to a doctor, or at least open the door to see that he wasn't dead. But on the very day he decided to enact this brilliant plan, he heard from below a knock at the front door.

The Dursleys usually went out rather than bring guests over, wanting to avoid any possibility of Harry being observed by their friends and acquaintances. This was especially true after Harry's imprisonment began, and even sleepovers from Dudley's friends had been suspended. Harry listened attentively, wondering who it was who could be dropping by, and prepared to scream for help at a moment's notice.

He heard Vernon's deep voice speaking to someone, but Harry couldn't make out what was said. He crouched by his bedroom door, putting his ear near the plastic cat flap, straining to hear better.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought that was the voice of Mrs. Zabini. But surely he had to be imagining things. A diet of nothing but cold soup still in the can must finally be taking its toll on his mind.

Vernon was speaking again. Harry could make out the words, "He doesn't live here."

Suddenly a third voice rang out, clearly calling his name. Harry's heart swelled. There could be no mistake this time.

"Blaise!" Harry shouted at the top of his voice, "I'm here! I'm upstairs!"

He heard Vernon give a yelp and the sound of quick feet rushing up the stairs. Harry pounded on the door to signify which room was his, and a moment later the knob was jiggling back and forth.

"What are you doing, Harry?" Blaise asked, his voice slightly muffled by the door, "Let me in!"

"I can't," Harry said, "It's locked from the outside."

"MUM!" called Blaise, and a moment later Harry heard the smooth voice of Mrs. Zabini join that of her son.

"Harry, dear?" she called softly, "Could you stand clear of the door, please?"

Harry obediently jumped back, and the door blasted open enough force to slam into the wall, knocking out a large chunk of plaster where the knob had struck. Mrs. Zabini stepped calmly into Harry's bedroom, as if she hadn't nearly knocked his door off its hinges. Harry thought she looked more grand and beautiful than ever in her long purple witches robes. Blaise was close at her heels, greeting Harry with a wide grin before casting his eyes around the bedroom.

Mrs. Zabini was giving Harry's room similar scrutiny. Harry had no doubt that she observed the bars on the window and the lock on Hedwig's cage. And if course, there was Harry himself, looking skinny, pale, and generally miserable.

Mrs. Zabini's lip compressed into a thin line, and when she spoke to Harry, he could tell it was taking all of her self-possession to keep herself under control.

"Harry," she said with forced softness, "Gather your things. You're coming with us."

Harry was bursting with joy, but he tried to contain his emotion, thinking his excitement would contrast too sharply with Mrs. Zabini's calm demeanor. He and Blaise could celebrate his rescue later.

Instead, Harry simply replied, "I can't. All of my things are locked in the cupboard downstairs."

"We'll get them," said Blaise confidently. He had already slipped farther into the room and was lifting Hedwig's cage from the desk. "Where's the cupboard?"

"Under the stairs where I used to sleep," said Harry.

The words escaped before he considered the effect they would produce. Mrs. Zabini uttered an involuntary sound of disgust, then immediately left the room. Harry and Blaise exchanged a glance, then Harry led the way down the stairs, pausing only to collect his treasured letters from their hiding place. Blaise carried Hedwig's cage himself, with the owl hooting to him in appreciation. Even she seemed to realize what was happening, and was grateful for it.

Mrs. Zabini stood at the base of the stairs near the open front door. She was loudly berating Vernon and Petunia, while Dudley poked his head around an open doorway, obviously intimidated by the imposing witch. Harry and Blaise paused halfway down the stairs, listening as Mrs. Zabini threatened to contact the Muggle authorities and report the Dursleys for child abuse. Vernon blustered and made several futile attempts to argue, but Mrs. Zabini drowned his pathetic attempts with her righteous fury. She appeared to notice that Blaise and Harry were waiting, and she broke off mid-sentence, turning to the boys and saying, "Harry, lead the way" with the same oddly calm voice she had used upstairs.

Harry jumped down the last few steps and showed Mrs. Zabini the door to the cupboard, locked against his entry. Mrs. Zabini pointed her wand at the lock, saying "Alohamora," rather more sharply than the spell required. The lock gave a swift click and the door swung open quickly, as if terrified of keeping her waiting any longer. She next waved her wand at Harry's trunk, full of all his school supplies and robes, and it vanished. Harry wondered if she'd sent it directly to her home.

He thought they would leave immediately, but Mrs. Zabini paused a moment longer, looking at one of the lower shelves of the cupboard. Harry followed her gaze and realized she was starting at a row of plastic toy soldiers – forgotten remnants of Harry's days sleeping below the stairs. She said nothing. She simply placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently guided him away from the cupboard door back down the hall.

"What is it, mum?" Blaise asked as his mother swept toward him, pushing Harry in front of her.

But Mrs. Zabini ignored his question, guiding him as she had Harry, and pushing them both out the front door, past the cowed Dursleys. Harry could see Mrs. Zabini's black car parked on the street. Once again, the driver was not immediately visible, until he saw that it was Torsh sitting behind the wheel, so short that they could barely see over the dash. He didn't realize how starved he'd been for the wizarding world until he felt a sense of overwhelming relief seeing the familiar little elf.

"Er... See you next summer?" Harry said awkwardly as he took one last look through the open front door at his dumbstruck muggle relations.

"No, Harry. I don't think so," Mrs. Zabini said before the Dursleys had even a moment to respond.

An instant later, Harry was being bundled into the car. He stopped Mrs. Zabini before she could place Hedwig's cage in the backseat with him, staying, "Wait! She's been cooped up all summer. Do you think she could fly to meet us?"

Mrs. Zabini unlocked the padlock with a flick of her wand, and Hedwig soared out, hooting with pleasure and spreading her white wings. Harry smiled. He understood exactly how Hedwig must feel.

Soon they were speeding away from Privet Drive, and then Little Whinging was left far behind. Mrs. Zabini sat in the front seat next to Torsh, a chilly silence surrounding her, but Harry understood that she was not angry with him. It was something of a new experience for Harry – to have someone mad at the Dursleys instead of the Dursleys being mad at him. Harry tried to calm her, feeling that he had to say something to minimize the effect of what she just witnessed.

"It's nothing, really," Harry said, "They're always like that."

"Harry, nothing about that was normal," Mrs. Zabini replied shortly, and that was all she said for the rest of the drive.

Harry and Blaise sat in the spacious backseat together, happily spending the drive chatting relentlessly about their summers. Of course, Harry didn't have much to share, as the first part of his summer was spent languishing for some word from his friends, and the last few days were spent in solitary confinement. He preferred to listen to Blaise talk about the numerous dinner parties at magical homes his mother had dragged him to, the Quidditch match he'd seen in person, and shopping trips to Diagon Alley.

"But why didn't you respond to any of my letters?" Blaise finally asked when he'd exhausted all other topics, "I've been writing, and I even got a letter from Millie, but nothing from you. I was really worried. Millie said you hadn't written to her either. I told mum we could use the phone to call, but I realized I didn't know your number."

"The Dursleys would never let me talk on the phone, anyway," said Harry, "And I would have written, but Hedwig was locked up, remember?"

"You could have sent a letter back by my owl," Blaise said petulantly, "There's nothing wrong with Mephistopheles."

"That's the thing, I never got your letters."

"Liar, I see you carrying a stack of them right now!"

"No, you see... I didn't get the letters until three days ago."

Blaise looked at Harry curiously, but Harry shot a telling glance at the back of Mrs. Zabini's head. Her silence and chilly atmosphere suggested that she was probably lost in her own rage-fueled thoughts, but Harry still worried that she might be listening in. He knew that she was friends with Draco Malfoy's mother, and he didn't want to say anything to implicate the Malfoys in the incident of the house elf in her presence.

"Later," Harry mouthed silently, and Blaise understood. He abruptly changed the subject back to Quidditch, and they were able to carry on their conversation comfortably and enthusiastically for the rest of the drive.

Harry wasn't sure what the distance between Little Whinging and Ascending Downs was, but it seemed to him that the drive was rather shorter than it should have been. They were soon zooming through the sleepy muggle village, and cruising down the private country road leading to the Zabini's stately home.

Harry sprang out of the backseat behind Blaise, laughing about something he said. Hedwig had beaten them there, her wings carrying her faster than even a charmed car could go by road, and she swooped down to land on Harry's shoulder, rubbing her feathers against him affectionately. She gave an indignant hoot as Harry dragged the cage out from the backseat, but Harry reassured her that she wouldn't have to go back in the cage now that they were here.

As it turned out, Harry's trunk was in the boot of the car, and Torsh was hopping out to carry it upstairs. Harry insisted that he help carry his things to his room, though Blaise laughingly told him that Torsh could simply send it upstairs with a snap of their fingers. Harry shook his head, saying he wanted to do it himself, and asked Blaise to carry the cage up with him. Blaise caught on to Harry's intent, and soon the two of them were dashing up the stairs as fast as their heavy burdens would allow, while Mrs. Zabini swept off to the study, closing the door behind her.

Blaise led Harry to the same room where he'd stayed during his visit last Christmas. Harry waited until his trunk was safely stowed away before plopping onto the bed and eyeing Blaise seriously.

"Have you ever heard of a house elf named Dobby?" Harry asked without preamble.

"Dobby?" Blaise repeated, wrinkling his nose in thought, "No, it doesn't sound familiar."

"It's Malfoy's house elf," Harry explained, "He's been stealing my letters all summer. I only just got them when he appeared in my bedroom a few days ago."

"The Malfoy elf?" Blaise said, aghast, "What would Draco want with your letters?"

"I don't think he wanted them," Harry said, though the comment had suggested a sudden horrifying possibility. Had Draco been reading his mail?

Harry decided not to consider the thought, and pushed it aside, instead adding, "Dobby said he was trying to keep me from returning to Hogwarts. He thought if he stole my letters, then I would feel bad and not want to go back to school."

Blaise pondered this information for a moment, then he smirked. "Did it work? Did you miss me?"

"Who would miss your ugly face?" Harry retorted, throwing one of the bed's pillows in Blaise's face rather than admit that yes, he'd missed his friend terribly.

"Ugly!" Blaise exclaimed as he tossed the pillow right back, "I'll have you know that my personal beauty has grown tenfold since you last saw me! It's true, I didn't think it was possible for me to look more glorious, but apparently there's always room for improvement. What will the girls say this year?"

Harry made retching noises.

When they'd finished tormenting one another, Blaise put on a pensive expression and resumed their former topic of conversation.

"But you know, I bet Malfoy is trying to keep you from Hogwarts so he won't have any competition. You know he wants to be Seeker?"

"Over my dead body," said Harry gravely. The Seeker position had opened up last year with the graduation of Terence Higgs, and Harry would be damned before he'd let anyone else take it, much less Draco Malfoy.

"Oh, he'll never get it," Blaise said. "Not since you'll have the broom that mum gave you. A Nimbus 2000 can outstrip Draco's Twigger easy."

"Aren't you going to try out for the team?" Harry asked, a little anxious that he might have his best friend as competition.

"And risk getting a bludger to the face? No thanks, Harry. My looks are far too precious. I'm content with being a spectator. You on the other hand..."

Blaise gave a Harry a pitying look, implying that Harry's looks couldn't be much affected by a bludger breaking his nose. Harry retorted with a forceful pillow attack. The two grappled for several minutes until Blaise broke away abruptly, shouting, "I'm starving! Let's see what Torsh has made for tea. You look like you haven't eaten properly since the end of year feast!"

Harry didn't want to admit that this was probably true. The Dursleys weren't big on feasts, and they barely let Harry have the scraps of whatever was prepared, but Harry said only that he wanted to take his shoes off first and settle in. Blaise stated he would go place their order with Torsh and headed out the door, Harry promising to catch up in a moment.

He spent a few minutes opening his trunk and pulling out all of the things he'd missed that summer. He even playfully tried on his school robes, just to see how they fit. He checked his reflection in the mirror and saw with disappointment that he'd barely grown at all over the summer. He could wear these robes for another year without them becoming too short. Next, he dragged out all his spellbooks, mentally noting that he should brush up on their summer assignments before the start of term. He didn't want to start his second year far behind everyone else.

When he felt unpacked, he looked around his room proudly, feeling more at home in this room that he'd barely lived in than he ever had at the Dursleys. He wondered at Mrs. Zabini's words when they'd left the house on Privet Drive. Was she going to invite him to stay next summer?

Harry thought about what it would be like to never see the Dursleys again, and strangely felt nothing. His Aunt Petunia was the only sister of his mother, and yet he found himself thinking that he wouldn't be hurt if he never heard from her again. Then his stomach growled, and he decided it was time to put these thoughts aside, and follow Blaise back downstairs.

He was surprised to see his friend in the hall. He was standing near the closed study door, his ear pressed against the oak wood. As Harry approached him, Blaise lifted his finger to his lips, requesting silence, and Harry began tiptoeing closer. He copied Blaise, pressing his ear against the door, though he hardly needed to. Mrs. Zabini's voice was ringing out loud and clear from within. She sounded angry, like she was screaming at someone else in the room.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Blaise, asking without words if there was anyone else home. For a moment he feared that she was screaming at Torsh, and he thought again of poor Dobby, beating his head against the windowsill. But Blaise merely shook his head in response, signaling for Harry to wait.

Harry continued to listen. Focusing his attention, he could easily make out what Mrs. Zabini was shouting.

"... complete lack of sense... of common decency! How could you think of leaving him with those people! Are you out of your mind? And don't bother to deny that you knew nothing of the matter. I know you've been keeping tabs on him. I ought to have you brought before the Ministry for negligence!"

She went on and on. Harry realized with a sinking sensation that she was talking about him. Clearly her anger toward the Dursleys would not be easily dispelled. But Harry couldn't imagine who she was directing her anger toward. Clearly not one of his relatives. Who else would be keeping tabs on him? Who else was in that room?

He tugged on Blaise's arm, signaling that they should move on. He felt awkward eavesdropping on Mrs. Zabini, especially since she was talking about him, and he wanted to ask Blaise if he knew what was going on.

Blaise looked like he would have liked to hear more, but he followed after Harry, keeping silent until the reached the kitchen, where Torsh was already laying out their tea by the windows of the kitchen nook.

"What was all of that about?" Harry asked.

"You, obviously," Blaise said, taking a seat in one of the chairs and grabbing a pastry from the table.

"But why was she yelling?" Harry persisted. He was still feeling somewhat uneasy. He'd never heard Mrs. Zabini raise her voice to anything above a gentle laugh.

"I think she's writing a howler."

"What's a howler?"

"Oh, right. You wouldn't know, would you? It's a sort of letter, but it yells at you for doing something wrong. And you can't ignore it. It'll open itself up and scream whenever it pleases if you try to ignore it. Mum's sent them before, but only on a couple occasions. She sent one to to Fudge when he passed a motion she wasn't pleased about, and another time she sent it to my stepdad when I was five. That was actually pretty funny. He was supposed to be great at divination, you know, looking into the future and whatnot? Anyway, he forgot about my birthday party, and mum was upset with him. Said something like 'if you're such a great prophet, how do you always miss important dates?'"

"What happened to him?" Harry asked. He'd always wanted to ask about Blaise's stepfathers, whose full-length portraits hung on the wall in the entryway.

"Oh him? Well, I said he was known for his predictions, right? Prophesies and all that? Well, one day he told my mum that he'd predicted the date of his own death. Pretty scary, right? Imagine, knowing when you're going to die..."

"And it happened just as he said it would?" Harry asked, fascinated.

Blaise made a wry face and said, "Well, no. He said he would die in his sleep at age ninety, but he died the next day when he was in a shop and a crystal ball fell on his head."

Harry wasn't sure if he should laugh or gasp. Blaise could see his look of shock, and was the first to burst out laughing. "I guess he wasn't as good as people thought!"

Once he realized that this was not a sad story for Blaise, Harry joined him in laughing. It was a morbid story, but something about its irony was truly funny. He found himself wondering which portrait matched the poor man, and was even more curious to know what had happened to the others.

His mind drifted back to Mrs. Zabini, and he wondered aloud, "But who would she be sending a howler to about me?"

Blaise shrugged, "Dumbledore, I expect."

"Dumbledore?" Harry said, half in disbelief, half impressed, "What's he got to do with anything?"

"Well, someone must've placed you with your aunt after your parents... you know," Blaise said. Harry thought it was interesting that he could speak so callously of one of his step-father's deaths, but he was always so careful to avoid mentioning the fate of Harry's parents. "Maybe mum thinks he knew about how you were treated, being the headmaster of the school and all."

"Maybe," Harry said, thinking this connection was tenuous at best. He kept thinking about what Mrs. Zabini had said, about someone keeping tabs on him. Then he remembered his Hogwarts letter last year. So many letters, delivered in spite of all his uncle's efforts, and all addressed to Harry Potter, the cupboard under the stairs. Surely someone at the school must have known. He wondered why he never thought of it before.