Number 4 Privet Drive had remained empty and closed off since the shocking events several days ago. Police tape covered the front door and the windows were dark. The heavy silence that had settled in the neighborhood was interrupted by the BANG of a purple double decker bus as it appeared out of thin air.
Hermione Granger stumbled off the Knight Bus, her hair a mess. Behind her, Ron Weasley's green face contrasted with his red hair. As soon as they had disembarked, the bus rocketed away with another BANG.
"We are learning to Apparate as soon as possible," Hermione muttered, running a hand through her tangled hair. Ron was doubled over behind her, taking slow and steady breaths.
Once sufficiently recovered, the pair checked to make sure they hadn't attracted any attention. Ahead of them, the darkness of the house contrasted with the rest of the street. They walked to the front door, attempting to look inconspicuous.
Hermione pulled out her wand but stopped when Ron grabbed her hand.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm unlocking the door, Ron," she replied. "How else are we getting inside?"
With his free hand, Ron reached around the police tape and turned the door handle. It swung open silently, the midday sun spilling into the gloomy hallway.
"Moody mentioned the front door lock was broken," Ron said while Hermione put her wand away . They ducked into the house and closed the door. Hermione flipped the hallway switch to the 'on' position to give them better light.
"What are we looking for Ron?" Hermione asked, peering down the hallway to the living room. "What could we find that Moody, or even Dumbledore, missed?"
"The obvious," Ron stated as he strode forward. He stopped by a cupboard set into the staircase which was adorned with several bent deadbolts and a broken chain.
"Why would they put locks on a cupboard?" Hermione murmured, following behind Ron.
The cupboard door creaked open to reveal a tiny alcove. Inside lay a lumpy piece of plastic that could once been called a mattress. On top of a single stretched bare blanket lay a letter, the ink still as bright as the day it was penned.
Mr. H Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Hermione gasped. "He slept in this cupboard?"
"It's not fit for an animal, let alone a child," Ron said, standing back.
"Did you know about this?"
"Not really," Ron said, as he walked towards the kitchen. "I mean, he never talked about it. You know how Harry was. If it wasn't life threatening, it wasn't a big deal."
Hermione nodded while she inspected the cupboard more. She grabbed a small cord hanging down and pulled, clicking the light on. This revealed the walls and curved ceiling of the tiny room to be covered in carved lines. Four straight lines followed by a fifth slashed through the previous four.
"He was marking time…" Hermione whispered. She pushed the small door closed and hurried after Ron.
She found him standing in the living room, facing an armchair. The cushion was indented from years of a heavy weight sitting on it. Dark spots spattered the head rest.
"His uncle's body was found here," Ron stated.
Hermione glanced between the armchair and her friend. His face was blank, and his eyes were focused on something in the distance.
"When he did talk about the Dursleys, it was never good," Ron started, focusing on her. "They hated everything about him. I can't prove they hit him, but I know. I knew before I rescued him from the bedroom that had bars on its windows."
The duo moved back through the kitchen and past the cupboard, "I knew from the way he first acted when he came to Hogwarts. He was so excited to 'sleep in a real bed' and to 'eat more than once a day'."
They ascended the creaking stairs, Ron still talking, "I knew when I grabbed his shoulders to congratulate him on making the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He flinched away from me, like I was going to hit him."
Ron stopped by a door on the second floor. Hermione's eyes widened at the security affixed to the door. Four deadbolts, two chains, and a cat flap were installed on it. The cat flap had its own deadbolt to keep it in place. All the locks were broken, bent, or otherwise unusable.
Inside the room was a broken bed frame with a single mattress. Next to it was an old writing desk with a three-legged chair. Through the window, the remains of bars pointed angrily at the sun. Underneath the bed frame, a floorboard had been pried away to reveal an empty hiding spot.
"They truly hated him," Hermione said, slowly taking in the bare bedroom. "How did this happen? Why was he forced to stay with people who despised him?"
"Harry said he was dropped on his relatives' doorsteps after his parents died," Ron answered, leaning against the door frame. "No explanation, just a letter."
"Who?" Hermione demanded, spinning to face him. "Who was callous enough to abandon Harry to people like this?"
"Albus Dumbledore."
/\/\/\/\
\/\/\/\/
Harry hated almost all forms of magical transportation. Apparition, Portkeys, and Floo Travel left him dizzy and swaying. It took him a moment to gather his wits when the small group landed.
They had arrived in a cozy living room, between a couch and a small fireplace. An open kitchen connected to a hallway behind them. Narcissa began propping Draco up in a chair by the couch.
"Dobby," Harry said, standing. "Look around and make sure we are safe."
"Yes Sir Master Harry Sir," the excitable elf said before popping away.
Narcissa glanced at Harry, "You didn't need to hurt him."
Harry met her gaze, "He's a prick, he's an asshole, and most importantly, he's a Malfoy."
Draco realized that they were talking about him, and piped up. "Fuck you, Potter."
Harry chuckled, "You are already near the top of my shit list, Malfoy."
"Oh?" said Draco, "and who is above me?"
Harry's face hardened. "Voldemort."
Before Draco could stick his foot in his mouth some more, Dobby popped back into existence next to Harry. "All clear, Master Harry, Sir."
Harry turned away from the two Malfoy's to explore the Black safe house. The hallway behind the kitchen was short, and ended in three doors. There was a bedroom on either side, and a bathroom in the middle. Small, functional, and a thousand times better than his previous sleeping arrangements.
Selecting the bedroom on the right, he flopped onto the bed. The day's events were catching up with him, and he was tired.
"Dobby, bring me my bag," Harry called out. A bag appeared on the table next to the bed. He got up and began to empty it. The school trunk had been slowing him down, so he ditched it for a bottomless bag Dobby had bought on his behalf. It was too soon to go back to Knockturn Alley.
He threw several pairs of robes and the simple cloak onto the ground for Dobby to wash. He put the Cloak of Invisibility on the bed, and carefully lay the mirror Sirius had given him next to it. Looking at the mirror brought too many emotions up, so he avoided dwelling on it. After tossing a couple school supplies, he found what he was looking for: Mental Magicks and Mysteries.
After Snape had stopped teaching him Occlumancy, Sirius had been furious. His godfather had sent the book to Harry and instructed him to read it. Harry had forgotten about it until he had been imprisoned with the Dursleys again.
Not allowed to practice magic or even leave his room, he had doven into the book. Voldemort would not trick him again, no one else would die because of his own failings.
The book was fascinating, and endlessly descriptive. The main method of practice that the book advocated for was for him to examine all his memories in sequence. Essentially, it said to mentally relive his life. The book had warned to take your time and have a trusted confidant experience it with you or be nearby. Harry ignored this warning and re-lived the entirety of his life in four days.
That had been a terrible idea for many reasons. Ten years of abuse, followed by five years of constant danger was very emotionally draining. Harry had woken up hungry, angry, and tired of being both.
Pulling his focus back to the book in his hands, he read a couple more paragraphs. His head kept tilting forward and after a couple of minutes, he put the book away. He needed sleep.
/\/\/\/\
\/\/\/\/
Albus Dumbledore hurried down the fourth floor corridor of Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He brushed ash off his purple robes, the silver half moons on it twinkling. His business at the Ministry had taken longer than expected, especially since he had been putting it off as he tried to find Harry Potter. There was still no sign of the boy, but Albus remained hopeful.
Reaching a private room, he stepped inside. To his right lay the surviving Dursleys and on his left was Mundungus Fletcher. None of them reacted to his entry.
At the end of the room was a desk, where a Healer sat doing paperwork. The man rose as Dumbledore approached.
"Professor Dumbledore, thank you for coming," said Healer Strueth, offering a hand.
"My apologies for the lateness of my visit," replied Dumbledore, accepting the handshake. "Has there been any change to their condition?"
"I'm afraid not," said Healer Strueth, walking to the side. He picked up a clipboard hanging off of the bed of Mundungus Fletcher. "There has been no change since they were brought in."
Dumbledore stroked his white beard. "What is your professional opinion?"
Healer Strueth checked papers on the clipboard and then put it back. "Honestly, Professor, I don't know. You said Fletcher spoke to you?"
Dumbledore nodded, "He did - grabbed onto me while repeating the phrase 'All your fault, could have stopped this'."
"That's the part I have trouble believing," said Healer Strueth. He walked over to the Dursley's beds, Dumbledore trailing after him. "I've consulted with some colleagues. I didn't reveal any personal details, just the symptoms. They've all agreed that your patients suffered from a Dementor attack."
Dumbledore frowned, "Dementors don't force compulsions on the bodies they leave behind. The Dursley boy had run almost five kilometers before we found him. Are you able to confirm that they don't have a soul any longer?"
"Not at the moment," replied Healer Strueth, running a hand through his hair. "Spells dealing with the manipulation of the soul are heavily regulated by the Department of Mysteries. I will have to get in touch with someone there."
Healer Strueth returned to his desk to begin drafting the letter. Dumbledore watched the Dursleys in their beds. They didn't move.
A/N
Follow me on the Minds website for updates to this and other stories. Special thanks to 2D for helping beta this chapter.