By Vikki
Disclaimer: It's JKR's, not mine.
Flame Policy: Just say No! ^^x
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Chapter 3: When Muggles Go BadThe longer the summer dragged on, the more Harry felt that something was seriously wrong on the Dumbledore end of things. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have meant to leave Harry with his relatives when Uncle Vernon was acting like this.
He continued to write to Sirius, but he maintained that things were about the same in difficulty and refrained from reporting most of his injuries, not the least of which was a cut across his cheek from a knife-brandishing Vernon. Harry didn't think that Uncle Vernon had meant to cut him. He had been carving the turkey for a meal when Harry had returned from his regular evening walk, and had immediately laid into Harry verbally before lashing out to cuff him on the temple. Apparently he had forgotten about the knife; an instant later Harry's cheek was bleeding all over the linoleum of the kitchen floor and Vernon was staring at him in a state of apparent shock. Harry didn't feel any pain initially, and only barely managed to realize that the blood on Vernon's knife was his own before Aunt Petunia was thrusting a napkin at him and snapping at him to wipe himself up while Dudley was laughing in a semi-hysterical voice. Luckily, the cut was not terribly deep, only bloody, and only needed a bandage (which he suspected was supplied mostly to keep Harry from bleeding anywhere else in the house). Harry had only just taken the bandage off two weeks after the injury, and as he examined the thin horizontal line of new pink skin under his left eye, he suspected that he would be sporting a new scar to accompany the lightning-shaped one on his forehead.
The image in the mirror was getting both thinner and paler. His wild hair seemed somehow blacker against his whitening skin. Other than another black eye and the scar on his cheek, though, Harry bore no new visible marks. Most were hidden by Dudley's huge clothes.
Harry longingly hoped for a letter from Ron or Hermione, but it seemed that they were, as usual, waiting until Harry's birthday to send anything. Harry didn't blame them; the Dursley's reactions to anything magical had ranged over the past four years from deep fear to downright anger, and no one wanted to risk the latter for Harry's sake. He didn't write to them because he currently kept Hedwig busy flying back and forth for his regular correspondence with Sirius.
Although Harry did not tell Sirius about his newer scar and latest round of bruising, he did confide his vague worries that something was wrong with Dumbledore's reaction. Would Dumbledore really leave Harry with abusive relatives? Surely Dumbledore himself could help Harry out if worse came to worse; Voldemort was back, and the only person he feared was Dumbledore. Why shouldn't Harry stay with the Hogwarts headmaster? However, he temporized his argument by adding that perhaps he was being too selfish.
Sirius responded with a rather indistinct argument that Dumbledore was probably busy or he thought Harry would be safer with the Dursleys, and that he was trying to do something about it.
Harry hated to think, Too busy for me? But it did cross his mind. Berating himself for acting as if the whole world revolved around him, Harry resigned himself to waiting until his yearly trip to Diagon Alley to escape his relatives.
Alas, it was not to be.
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Harry's birthday morning was average in the sense that it began the same way his birthday had begun for the past three summers. Almost punctually after midnight, Hedwig, Hermes, and Pigwidgeon swooped into the bedroom window Harry had left open for this purpose. Hedwig bore a letter from Sirius, which contained the usual reassurances and worries, and a small card that played 'Happy Birthday' while shooting off small paper streamers that covered Harry's lap. Harry grinned and brushed the streamers aside, relieving Hermes of his package and Pigwidgeon (who had calmed down a bit from the last time Harry had seen him, and only zoomed around crazily after getting a drink from Hedwig's bowl) of both of his. Hermes carried a short letter from Hermione.
Dear Harry,
Happy Birthday! I hope your summer is going well. Victor Krum – I'm sure you remember him – had me over for a few weeks this summer, and I had a wonderful time! I'll tell you all about when I see you this year.
I'm over at the Weasleys now, and I'm using Hermes because I don't think poor Pigwidgeon could handle a second package, being so tiny. Ron insists that the little thing can carry twenty times its weight, but I doubt it.
We've heard nothing of You-Know-Who all summer, and I suppose no news is good news. Join us as soon as you can, Harry! We've missed you.
Hermione
Her gift was, predictably, a book. She had attached a note to its inside cover – You're mentioned in this one! Isn't that exciting!? It was entitled The Contemporary History of Magic. Harry sighed quietly, grinning, and put the book aside. Harry knew he was mentioned in several textbooks because of his confrontation with Voldemort at the age of one, but had never read any of the texts. Leave it to Hermione to send one of them.
Pigwidgeon had borne two letters – one was from Ron and the other from the Weasley twins. Harry opened Ron's first.
Harry,
I know you're the one who made Fred and George buy me those new dress robes, and you'd better be warned that if you buy me a Christmas present, I'd be forced to return it to you from shame. Seriously, thanks a bunch. I don't think I could have stood wearing those old ones to another dance.
I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon. Hermione is here, and she's almost unbearable nitpicking about her Runes homework. Mum and Dad say that Dumbledore doesn't want you leaving your uncle and aunt too early this year because you're supposed to be protected there, or something. I wish that wasn't so, Harry. You must be having a horrid time.
We wish you a happy birthday, of course. Sorry I didn't get you anything better, but if your diet is anything like last year's, I'm sure my present will be a bit of help.
Ron
Harry unwrapped the lumpy package that was from Ron; it was a bag labeled Everlasting Chocolate – the gift that keeps on giving! He opened the bag to find a good pound of tasty chocolate and another note scrawled by Ron: See, the bag never empties of chocolate. You'll have chocolate forever! It was a wonderful present in Harry's opinion, and he made a note to himself to tell Ron as much.
The last letter was extremely short.
Harry!
We can't thank you enough for the money, though Fred thinks Mum nearly died of shame when we gave her and Dad half of it. We bought Ron those new robes you said to get. The rest of the money is dedicated to our new jokes shop.
We've given you some of our products as a donation to our sponsor. We hope they make your cousin more bearable.
Fred and George
Harry wasted no time tearing open the sizable box to find trick wands, Ton-tongue Toffees, and numerous other Weasley-trademarked tricks that would surely have been quite fun to use on Dudley if Harry hadn't wanted to risk Uncle Vernon's wrath. Sighing regretfully, Harry put all of his presents under the loose floorboard, sent all three owls away with notes of thanks, and fell asleep to dreams that were pleasant for the first time in over a month.
It was the telephone call that tore things.
Harry had holed up in his room for the evening; his birthday had been completely ignored by the Dursleys again this year, much to Harry's relief, and he was munching on chocolate from Ron's present to substitute for his lack of dinner. He heard the phone ring, but paid no attention.
He did pay attention when his uncle hollered, "YOU FREAKS!! NEVER CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN!" There was the sound of a phone slamming on its hook, then angry stomping. "THAT BOY – his FRIENDS –" he heard.
Harry would never have admitted it later, but he panicked. He almost immediately concluded that Ron must have attempted to make a phone call, and still had the technique all wrong – he probably had shouted into the phone. Which surely would have told Uncle Vernon that it was a wizard calling. Which would surely have put him in his current rage. Harry's stomach tried to twist itself into a knot; Harry saw no reason why Uncle Vernon wouldn't kill him when he was this mad.
His uncle was thumping up the stairs now, swearing; remembering that his wand and broom were still in the trunk Vernon had locked, as usual, at the beginning of the summer, Harry felt his heart do calisthenics in his chest and he dove for his window, opening it as wide as it could go, seriously considering jumping to the ground below. It's not that far, he thought irrationally. I'll be fine –
At that moment the door to Harry's room flew open, rebounding off the wall and almost flying off its hinges. Harry ducked his head back in the window to stare at his uncle's large, heaving frame. He was apoplectic; Harry swallowed and forced himself to stand his ground.
"Do you know what just happened, boy?" Uncle Vernon's voice was deceptively calm. He advanced on Harry and grabbed him fiercely by both arms, flinging him against the wall and holding him there. "One of your – your oddball friends called. Didn't know how to use the phone, I daresay. Shouted at me something dreadful." His features twisted into a nasty grin, and Harry felt himself tremble. "Did you tell him to call, boy? Did you tell that FILTH to call my house!?" He shook Harry as he spoke, grip ever tightening on his arms until Harry couldn't feel them anymore. "I – never – want – to – hear – from – those – cloaked – hoodlums – again – "
Filth? Hoodlums!? Harry's anger was sparked by his uncle's choice of words, and in that spark of anger he found courage – courage that overran his fear. "That filth is made of better stuff than you'll ever be," he spat without thinking about what he was saying. "You're nothing but a nasty, paranoid Muggle!"
Even as Harry spoke he realized his mistake. Uncle Vernon went nuclear, judging by the color his face, his wordlessly working jaw, and his furious – beyond furious – expression, and he hadn't even gotten started on the screaming yet. This time he really will kill me. I'm going to die, thought Harry. He swallowed but refused to look intimidated. He would die bravely.
Straightbacked and proud … just like your father … Harry quashed the oddly high-pitched voice from his memory and thought he felt a flash of pain across his scar, just for a moment –
"Pay attention, boy!" Uncle Vernon roared.
Harry was brought whirling back to reality when there was an audible crack and a shock of pain ran up Harry's arm, followed closely by nausea and more waves of pain. His arm had just been broken by Vernon's terrific grip. Harry blinked rapidly as his vision blurred and clouded for a moment, but the pain faded a bit (probably shock, he realized later). He slowly looked up at his uncle, expecting a malicious joy in Harry's suffering, continued anger, or even simply a cruel smile.
To his surprise, Uncle Vernon's small eyes were opened wide, his mouth parted slightly under its bushy beard, the color drained from his face a bit. He looked … shocked. "P-Petunia," he croaked after a moment. "I-I just … I d-didn't mean …"
Of course, Aunt Petunia, who was probably downstairs doing dishes, couldn't hear Uncle Vernon's hoarse words. Even Dudley, who had suddenly appeared puffing in the doorway of Harry's room (most likely to see the fun, Harry thought vaguely), didn't hear his father.
But Harry heard. And wondered.
He didn't have long to spend wondering, though, as his uncle suddenly came to himself. His face became a flushed red again, his features enraged. "Don't you EVER dare speak to me like that!" He slapped Harry heavily across the face, sending his glasses flying off his face to skitter into a corner of the room, then shifted his grip on Harry's broken arm, causing Harry's already blurred vision to blacken at the edges as he struggled not to throw up the chocolate he'd just eaten. It was as if the moment of shock had never happened. Harry peered up at his uncle's blotchy face and again despaired of surviving the evening.
He might not have if something amazing had not happened at that moment.
An explosion, a sound like a gunshot went off at the Dursley's front door. There was the bang of the door banging open wildly, a dog's angry bark, and Aunt Petunia's sudden shrill scream. Uncle Vernon cursed, snarled at Harry "I have no doubt this is your doing, boy, so don't think you're getting off!", and flung him viciously at his bed before exiting the room. A terrified Dudley was close on his heels, clutching his bottom as if it was all he held dear.
Harry dredged himself up from the floor of his bedroom and retrieved his glasses painstakingly as he heard more barking coming from the front foyer, accompanied by a voice that he knew but at the moment could not place. Aunt Petunia was still screeching something awful, Dudley had begun to howl, and Uncle Vernon could be heard cursing from the bedroom. Harry stumbled to the stairway to peer at the odd visitors – and almost cried from relief.
There in the front foyer was a huge black dog – unmistakably 'Snuffles'. Next to him was Arthur Weasley, Ron's father. Mr. Weasley was obviously trying to calm the situation, but Sirius the Dog would have none of it; he kept up a steady growl, hackles raised. In fact, he continued to be threatening until Harry had worked his way halfway down the stairs and said, "Snuffles." Immediately his godfather looked up, then bounded up the steps to him, making whining noises. "I'm okay," Harry whispered in his ear, scratching behind them and trying not to think about the fact he was scratching human ears.
Mr. Weasley looked up from a distraught Petunia in apparent relief himself. "Harry," he said warmly. "It's so good to see you! I'm sorry about the entrance, but your uncle seemed quite upset by my phone call –"
So it wasn't Ron, Harry thought vaguely. He shook his head furiously. "Don't apologize. Just take me away, will you?"
Mr. Weasley looked perplexed by Harry's frankness. "Pardon?"
Aunt Petunia was attempting to comfort Dudley, who was trembling in a corner. She shot a glare at Harry. "Take him! It would be a favor!" she spat. "He's nothing but trouble!"
"But … surely you can't hate Harry that much …" Mr. Weasley's face had taken on a shocked appearance.
"Yes, they can," Harry said wearily. His broken arm was beginning to throb painfully again.
Mr. Weasley looked doubtful. "These are all probably just excess feelings because of my use of the – the fellyfone? What was it again, Harry – wah!"
'Snuffles' had trotted back down the stairs and was now butting Mr. Weasley in the direction of Harry, growling a little. Mr. Weasley obliged after a moment, mostly because he didn't have much choice. And now, closer, he saw the damage that had been done. "Harry! What – who would –"
"Uncle Vernon," Harry said without hesitation. "Please, please, take me, I think he wants to kill me –"
At that moment Harry heard something he had only heard in movies – the sound of a gun being cocked. He spun around, and Mr. Weasley looked up. Uncle Vernon was at the top of the stairs, trembling with either rage or fear, a gun pointed at Mr. Weasley. "Get out," he rasped, "You unnatural freak of nature – or I'll shoot – I swear I will –"
Mr. Weasley, who looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be fascinated with the 'Muggle wand' of a gun or afraid of it, simply looked perplexed, while Harry froze instinctively. However, Sirius growled fiercely, giving a sharp bark before leaping over Harry and Mr. Weasley and launching himself at Uncle Vernon. Harry's uncle cried out and the gun gave off an angry retort, but it only rained plaster on his own head as Sirius landed squarely on his chest, growling and baring sharp teeth. Aunt Petunia screamed again. Harry suddenly thought of the neighbors.
"Mr. Weasley – we have to go now, or the neighbors might call the police –"
After the gun had gone off (even if it had only hit the ceiling), Mr. Weasley had enough sense to be shaken. "Stupify!" he cried, pointing his wand at Aunt Petunia, putting an end to her cries, and then he repeated the process on Uncle Vernon, and again on Dudley (who might as well have been stupefied before, he was so shocked). Only then did Sirius get off of him and take a place next to Harry, who was beginning to feel a bit woozy. "Yes – that's probably for the best –" Mr. Weasley said. " I'll collect your things for you, Harry, wait for me behind the house and I'll get you to the Burrow – did he do that to your arm, Harry? I'll take care of that in a little bit … this looks like a bit of work for the Ministry to work out …"
Harry stood painstakingly and told Mr. Weasley where to find everything, before he walked to the backyard, 'Snuffles' at his side. "Well," he said quietly to his godfather, "this is one way of going about getting help …" He rested his throbbing, painful broken arm at his side and took deep breaths to stay calm.
He was unequivocally relieved when Mr. Weasley came out with Harry's things and used a Portkey to take them to the Burrow. The summer from hell was over …
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Author's notes: But the story isn't over yet! *niko ^^x Sorry this one got so long; it was supposed to be half this length, but building up to the action appropriately took longer than I expected. I also had to include the birthday present bit; no self-respecting action Harry Potter fic is without one. Someday I'll write a side story in which Harry gets to use those pranks on Dudley … ::snickers::
Stay tuned for chapter 4: How It Comes Together, in which Mr. Weasley explains how he came to be calling Harry in the first place (and how he ran into Snuffles), Ron shows off his new dress robes, and Hermione attempts to psychoanalyze Uncle Vernon.
I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm only writing this fic for reviews. Shallow, huh? But that means you have to review! Please, feedback is always a good thing …
