Chapter 1
"Clean the carpets, Potter," had come Uncle Vernon's morning instructions that day. Not another word, just, "clean the carpets." Of all the days that summer, why did he have to pick that particularly sweltering day to have Harry do carpet cleaning?
The answer was obvious. Yesterday, Harry had been carrying a potted plant through the house when an unfortunate collision with Uncle Vernon sent soil spilling all over his uncle's new suit and the floor. Vernon had been livid, shoving the pot back at Harry sharply, raging about his clumsiness. Naturally, the next step was, "Clean the carpets, Potter."
Aunt Petunia found this situation to be the source of a lovely new game; finding spots Harry had "missed." Harry spent more time lugging the steam cleaner up and down the stairs than he had actually spent cleaning.
By that night, Harry's shirt was soaked in sweat and his back ached fiercely. He suppressed a slight groan as he bent down to pick up the power cord and wind it back around the machine. Maybe, with all this heavy lifting, he might actually grow a muscle or two by autumn. Then again, probably not.
Perhaps the ache wasn't such a bad thing. It was a convenient, non- masochistic way to keep his mind distracted from everything else. Harry almost had to laugh at the simple irony of the concept as he dragged himself up the stairs. The Dursleys were actually a distraction from worse things. Perhaps, he wasn't so sure he wanted to face the wizard world right now anyway. The ache in his back was definitely better than the pain of thinking about the events of last spring.
He pushed open the door to his bedroom. The only reminder of his other life visible in that room was Hedwig's cage, which stood empty on the desk. Uncle Vernon had complained vehemently about the Gryffindor pennant he had stuck to the wall, so now there was nothing. Strange, but it didn't bother him today. The heat, however, did.
If the downstairs had been slightly hot and sticky, the upstairs was unbearable, in Harry's room at least. The other bedrooms each had their own air conditioning units, but of course, not Harry's. "Central air conditioning is just ridiculously expensive, and we'd only use it a few days a year," was the excuse. Harry knew better. Of course, Uncle Vernon had also insisted that Harry keep his door closed. How convenient.
Harry stripped off his sweaty t-shirt and tossed it aside. Aunt Petunia was taking a long soak in the bath after her hard day of helping with the cleaning, so Harry getting a turn to wash up was out of the question. He would just have to get there early enough in the morning. With a great sigh, he sprawled across his bed.
He could almost be assured of one thing. No matter how oppressively hot and humid the day had been, just like every other night that summer, he could be sure that tonight would bring yet another dream that would chill him to the core.
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A cloaked figure was crouched beneath some bushes at the edge of the old school grounds. The darkness, pouring rain, and flashes of lightning obscured her view of the building, but still, there was something different from the young woman's memory of it. She wiped her glasses and squinted through the rain. Instead of the familiar old school from her youth, this building was enormous with towers, stone masonry, and the peculiar feel of something very, very old.
She shuddered. There was something wrong in that building, something that felt purely evil, and it sent ice through her veins. Natural instincts told her to run, but something held her feet frozen in place. Glancing up at the tallest tower, an arched window could be seen emitting an eerie glow into the night. Tension built through her body as she realized there was only one course of action. She had to get up there.
Staying low under the trees, darkly shrouded in under her cloak, she made her way around to the side of the castle. A small opening in the side of the wall was nearly hidden by the row of shrubbery. She pushed the branches aside and was swallowed by the pitch black opening. The low tunnel emerged at the bottom of a winding staircase. The stairs climbed forever and the sight gripped her with the sinking feeling that she was going to be too late. She bolted up the stairs at a dead sprint. How many flights could there possibly be?
She finally spilled out onto the top landing to find herself facing an arched doorway from which came that same strange glow that she had seen through the window. Breathing hard, she walked slowly into the doorway. It was a circular room, laid with an ancient stone floor. The edge of the floor and wall was hidden in the shadows. Lightning continued to flash outside, silhouetting the contents of the tower between the woman and the window. In the very center of the room sat an enormous cauldron, large enough to hold a person. The object of her focus was not the cauldron or the ancient masonry, but the personage standing just to the side of the cauldron. The dark, robed figure stood with his shoulder turned just so that she could not quite see his face over his left shoulder. Then he spoke, and his voice made her blood freeze in her veins.
"I've been waiting for you." The voice was rough and hard, and it held no trace of mercy. He turned towards her, and a pair of red eyes bored into hers, but her attention was drawn by something else. It looked like a small staff, a stick of some sort, or a wand, and the tip of it had a glowing haze around it of intense green, like an afterimage burned into the retina from a bright light. One thought struck the woman with complete certainty; that thing had just killed someone. She found her voice.
"Where is he?" she screamed.
"He's dead," the dark man said, the voice conveying pleasure at the thought. "And soon, you will be too."
She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. As she stared at the stick, the green light flashed, filling her vision . . .
Holly sat bolt upright in bed as though woken by an electric shock. Her heart was racing, and sweat beaded her forehead. She tipped her face forward into her hands, rubbing her temples. Why must she always wake with a splitting headache? She reached over to her nightstand and grabbed her glasses. As she swung her feet around, she shoved the glasses roughly onto her face, and stumbled sleepily to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. Ick. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all, but that wasn't uncommon.
There had been some sleepless nights and some very intense dreams, nightmares to be exact, over the past few years. This summer though, they'd been getting worse. Some felt like they were happening as she experienced them, others felt, well, as though she was seeing something before it happened. She sighed leaned towards the mirror, carefully pulling back her lower eyelid and peeking underneath; bloodshot. There were circles under her eyes and her hair was a mess. Actually, that was normal. Her father hadn't been happy when she had cut it. He said she looked like a boy, but then, he never seemed happy about anything she did.
She assessed herself and decided that she was perfectly content with the mediocre reflection staring back at her. She was small, but she'd always been rather petite, with a round, boyish face. Strong, broad shoulders only served to add to her tomboyish appearance. Her glasses were very plain, but she liked simple things. Her dark brown hair was short, flopped almost into her eyes, and had a tendency to do whatever it wanted. She ran a comb through it, but it fell right back to where it was. She shrugged. The clatter of a frying pan in the kitchen pulled her from her thoughts. She quickly washed her face with cold water and ran down to the kitchen for breakfast.
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Harry awoke to that familiar pain shooting across his forehead. He rubbed at his scar, waiting for it to subside, belting down a wave of nausea and dizziness from the throbbing. He flopped back onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling. He should be used to this by now, but there's not much a person can do when submerged in a dream. He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the images from which he had just awoken. It had been Voldemort of course. This time, Harry had found himself captured by Voldemort inside Hogwarts. He'd been tied, gagged, and tortured. The castle had been deserted after Voldemort had attacked, and he felt a terrible sense of being totally alone.
He'd been taken to a tower, into a room with a huge cauldron. It looked so much like the one from which Voldemort had regained his body, bringing back all the feelings of pain, guilt, and betrayal that had been smashed into those few hours after the third task. Voldemort had raised his wand, and Harry accepted that he was about to die. Just before the flash of green light hit his body, he had gotten the distinct feeling that someone was coming for him, coming to save him, but he knew with a sinking heart that she was going to be too late. He sat up again. She, who? He shook his head. This was all getting to him too much.
He reached over to his nightstand, grabbed his glasses, and shoved them roughly onto his face. He checked his alarm clock. 6:28 a.m. That meant he had time to shower and still get downstairs by 6:50. Then, he could start cooking the breakfast early enough to eat some of it before Aunt Petunia started yelling at him to leave enough for poor little Dudleykins. Aunt Petunia had completely given up on Dudley's diet. She couldn't stand listening to him cry and fuss whenever he was hungry, which was constantly. Personally, Harry couldn't stand it either, so he was perfectly satisfied with that solution.
He rolled out of bed, and quickly pulled the blankets up neatly over the pillow. Grabbing his shower amenities, he walked to the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. His eyes had circles under them, and his hair was a mess, as always. He was still too small for his age, and his round face was pale from overwork and lack of sleep. Across his right collarbone, there was a bruise where the flower pot must have caught him when he'd collided with Uncle Vernon. He hadn't noticed it yesterday, which was surprising. Thin and pale as he was, there was nothing to hide the purplish welt. Skinny, pale, and awkward; such a wonderful combination. The only thing he had ever like about his appearance was the thin, lightning-bolt shaped scar running across his forehead. Now, it only served as a constant reminder of how his life would never be normal. He shrugged, and hopped into the shower.
Harry was tending a skillet of pancakes when Dudley came waddling into the kitchen. Harry idly wondered if Dudley would have to turn sideways to get through doors soon.
"Where's my breakfast?" demanded Dudley. Harry indicated the stack of nine pancakes steaming on a plate on the table. Dudley immediately forgot the string of morning insults he had designed for Harry and turned his attention towards the food. Harry had just finished the rest of the plates when Vernon burst into the kitchen followed by Petunia. "Good morning Dudley," he said with a flourish. "How's my big strong birthday boy? Turning 15 means you're almost a man now."
"Where are my presents?"
""They're in the sitting room, dearie, all 42 of them. Ooh, my Dudleykins is all grown up!" purred Petunia. Then she shifted her attention to Harry, who was pouring orange juice, doing his best not to be noticed. "And you," she spat, "Will be staying with Mrs. Figg today while we take Dudley to the carnival with his friends. You'd best not be a bother to that old lady, or we'll hear about it, and your uncle will take it out of your hide, you ungrateful freak."
Harry groaned inwardly, and took a risk. "Can't I just stay here? I'll just stay in my room, I won't touch anything."
"You think we'd trust you alone in our house, you little rag?" Vernon scoffed at him. "You'd probably blow the place up. No, no, we can't have that. Have to keep an eye on you. Your freakish 'professor' wants us to keep an eye on you, so that's just what we're going to do." Vernon was taking obvious pleasure in the fact that Harry had no choice in the matter and was being blatantly insulted.
Harry nodded meekly and resigned himself to the idea of another day of staring at stupid cat pictures.
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"Albus, a word with you, if I may?"
Dumbledore turned towards the fireplace to see a familiar face bearing a weary, thin smile. "Arabella, my dear friend. You know you may have a word with me anytime, and most certainly today."
The face nodded, and an instant later, a small, grayed witch landed neatly in front of the sitting room fire.
"I see you altogether too seldom, Albus," he said, as she grasped his hands tightly. She looked up at him for a second, and then pulled him into a quick hug. Dumbledore returned the embrace, knowing full well how difficult, and often lonely, this dedicated woman's job had been. She let go, wiping a quick tear from her eye. Dumbledore patted her shoulder softly. "Please, sit down. Tea?"
"Thank you, but no. We really must talk, and I must get back in time for the boy to arrive." She settled into a plush maroon armchair across from the fireplace.
Dumbledore leaned against the edge of his desk and folded his hands against his legs. "You've already reinforced the concealment charms around your house, I'll assume?"
She rolled her eyes at him and flashed him one of her sarcastic smiles. "Of course, I have. You know me better than that. I'm rather excited about today, even if the events that brought it about are rather, well, unfavorable. It's good that we'll have something constructive to pass the time. You know I never really knew what to do with the boy."
"You always said he was very gracious."
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "Certainly, he's a very well-mannered child, but I think he was rather bored. The only Muggle things I know well enough to speak about are cats, and I don't think they catch his fancy. They're wonderful creatures, aren't they?"
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The Dursleys didn't even pull into Mrs. Figg's driveway, choosing instead to drop him at the curb and drive off in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Coughing and sputtering, Harry climbed the steps. His hand hesitated over the doorbell. He idly considered making a run for it, but realized just how pointless that was. He pressed the bell and instantaneously, the door creaked open to reveal a small, grey-haired woman.
"Ah, Harry! How good to see you. You've grown! Come in, come in. I have a little something special for you today."
Harry nodded politely, but hardly noticed her as he though to himself, "Great, another cat." He followed her into the living room.
"You just have a seat while I go get something."
He sat on the sagging couch cushion and looked around. The place hadn't changed. It still smelled of cats, although somewhat less oppressively. Perhaps he was coming down with a touch of a cold. On the walls, tables, and mantles were countless pictures of cats, mostly sleeping. He checked twice when one of them appeared to twitch its ear. Maybe he really was coming down with a cold. He took off his glasses to wipe them, and completely missed when the large, ginger coloured cat in the picture on the mantle stretched luxuriously, its squashed face pulling into a wide yawn, then curled back up.
"There you go, my boy. Have yourself a spot of tea. Let me just get this book now . . ."
Mrs. Figg trundled over to a large bookcase to the right of the fireplace, and reached up, pointlessly, for a large leather-bound book that was obviously too high for her.
"Let me help you with that . . ." Harry started to get up, but stopped mid- motion as the tiny woman pulled a wand out of her sleeve and said crisply, "Accio book!" With the book firmly in hand, she turned and began walking towards the couch, and stopped quickly at the sight of Harry. He was still frozen in his half-standing position, now with his mouth slightly opened and his eyes protruded somewhat unnaturally from their sockets. Mrs. Figg peered over he glasses at him, suddenly reminding him strongly of Professor McGonagall. "If you don't close your mouth soon, I expect you'll catch flies."
She sat down on the couch next to the seat he was still hovering over. Now I know I'm sick, he mused to himself.
She patted the seat. "Really, you can sit down, Harry. I'm not going to hex you."
He sat and turned to look at Mrs. Figg in a whole new light. He didn't know whether he was more shocked, relieved, angry, or curious. He had no idea what to say, so he settled for stammering numbly for a few seconds until Arabella cut in, laughing. "You didn't honestly think Dumbledore would let just anyone keep an eye on you?"
Harry found his voice. "Why now?"
Arabella's knowing smile faded into a melancholy echo of what it had been moments ago. She looked him squarely in the eyes. "Harry, I'm not the right person to answer all your questions. Dumbledore will be able to do that soon enough, but for now, I'll tell you what I can."
Harry nodded blankly. His mind was racing. All this time, he had a witch for a neighbour, watching him, and he hadn't known. Why would Mrs. Figg maintain the charade of being a Muggle? She was working for Dumbledore, so there had to be a reason. His eyes focused back from his thoughts and he met Mrs. Figg's directed gaze. Those weren't the eyes of the woman he had always thought was Mrs. Figg. This was a witch to be reckoned with. He relaxed and picked up the cup of tea that she had set for him. He took a sip, slowly put the cup back down, and finally spoke.
"What can you tell me? I mean, it's obvious that you're showing me this because of what happened with Voldemort, but why?"
"Well, Dumbledore wants me to help you with some Defense Against the Dark Arts studies. He expects you'll need those skills sooner than many other people your age. Also, he wants me to start teaching you about some little- known history. These are things that were hushed-up and ignored, because the Wizarding community felt it was better left that way. I've got one day to get you started on this during the summer, but I'll be seeing you again soon enough. Does that answer your question well enough?"
"Yes, thank you," Harry replied, although he certainly felt that there were things still missing. "May I ask one other thing, before we get started?"
Arabella's smile returned as she nodded.
"Why do you have so many cats?"
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"Holly? Come in, it's dinner time."
"I'm not hungry." Holly glowered to herself. She was out walking in the woods behind her house when she had heard her father's voice. She couldn't stand the summer holidays. Her father was so restrictive, even though she was 20 years old. It would be impossible to get her own place and still afford to go to school, so she dealt with it, knowing it would be over soon. She had chosen to study biology, both because she could be outside, and also because she could get away from people. Well no, that wasn't quite right. She didn't mind people, but being closed up with technology and everything had just always felt wrong. She preferred the company of a few friends and of animals. To add to it, she seemed to prefer animals that were just a tad bit strange.
"Holly," the voice was more insistent now. "It's going to get cold. Please come inside. I want to see you before you leave tomorrow."
"Alright, I'm coming." She bent down and put her hand close to the carpet of leaves on the ground. The garden snake that had been wrapped around her hand uncoiled itself and slid off into the leaves, looking back at her before descending the rest of the way into the shadows. "Thanks for the company, Seymore," she said softly, before turning towards the house. A raven, perched in the branches, watched her progress, and sang a soft, lonely note that was impossible for a raven.
The kitchen had a quaint old-fashioned feel to it that Holly had always loved. Old copper pots hung from the ceiling which was criss-crossed with thick wooden beams. Her father sat at the kitchen table, looking totally out of place in the homey setting. Slightly thick around the middle, with awful glasses and a bad comb-over, he looked like a middle-aged salesman who had gone to seed too soon and was trying too hard to cover it up. Holly sat across from Donald and immediately dug in to the food in the serving dishes. "Pass the pepper, please," she said without looking up.
"Holly, I want to talk to you about this trip you're taking."
Holly sighed, put down her fork, and crossed her arms in front of her. "There's nothing do discuss. I'm going and that's final. I'm 20 years old! I've saved what little money I have for this trip, and it means a lot to me."
"But hiking across England, by yourself! Anything could happen!"
"And if it does, then I'll deal with it. What's the point of living if you live your life in fear? That's something you might want to consider, before you waste what's left of yours."
Donald looked as though he were about to erupt into a rage, but he suddenly lost his violent edge. "I promised your mother I'd take care of you and protect you, no matter what. That's a promise I can't break easily."
"I don't think my mum would have wanted me to live in a cage for the rest of my life." She slammed her palm down on the table, completely deserting her hope for a quiet dinner. "You stuck me in a secluded little school where I was miserable for my entire youth. I never fit in, and the harder I tried, the more miserable I was. You were trying to protect me? From what? Myself? I finally start accepting who I am, and trying to live my life and you do nothing but stop me at every turn. How many times do you tell me to start acting like a girl? Well, I'm a woman now, and I'm more than capable of taking care of myself." (She neglected to add her thought of "even though I look like a teenage boy.")
"If your mother could see you . . ."
"Well, she can't. Neither can grandma. I barely remember them, and all I really have of them is the necklace grandma gave me. You never even talk about mum." Holly choked back the tears welling up in her eyes.
"Holly, please." Donald put a hand to his forehead in frustration. He seemed to be having a quiet argument with himself for a moment, which he apparently lost, because when he looked up again, he had an expression of defeat. "If you want, I have something for you."
Holly glared at him, a total lack of trust openly displayed on her face. "What is it?"
"Your mum's things. And some of your grandma's. They left some things behind that I kept hidden, but I think she'd want you to have them."
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That night, after Holly had finished loading her hiking pack, she sat down on her bed and gently placed the box her father had given her on the pillow. She hesitated, her hand shaking, as she reached for the cover. This was all that remained of her mother and grandmother. She felt more that it was all that remained of her family, as she had never been particularly close to her father. She choked back a tear. What could she remember of her mother? She was very kind, she gave warm hugs, and she always listened. Holly closed her eyes and could see her mum's simple, elegant features, deep brown eyes, slender shoulders, and long, wavy black hair. Her grandmother must have looked similar in her youth, but she had a differently shaped face. What she remembered best of her grandmother was her laugh. The woman had a very matter-of-fact manner and a sarcastic wit. Holly cracked a smile, calling to mind the vague memory of the times when grandma had told off her father. Grandma would have loved Holly for everything she was, unlike her father. She fingered her silver necklace absentmindedly. Grandma also wouldn't have wanted Holly to make herself miserable and waste time missing her.
Holly opened the lid of the box. There was a jumble of odds and ends in the box, haphazardly packed as though the packer was in a rush. She lifted out a thick roll of many sheets of parchment tied together. She undid the knot and pulled away one of the sheets. The hand writing was messy. It read, "Jan, I'd love to meet you for lunch, but you probably already knew that. I'll meet you at noon. Harold" Just an old letter written to her grandmother. All the other pieces of parchment began "Dear Jan," and ended "Love, Harold." Holly laid the roll of parchment aside. She reached into the trunk again and pulled out a single feather. It was pure black, with blue-purple glints when she moved it in the light. It made her hands tingle when she held it. Curious. She started to put it down, then reconsidered and stuck it in the top of her hiking pack for luck.
Next, a few small pieces of jewelry emerged from the box, pretty, but nothing special she decided. This was followed by a few natural stones and crystals. Holly smiled. She had a liking for such things, and she probably got that from her mother. She added these to the pack. A few more trinkets . . . how could she miss this? Folded neatly into the bottom of the box was a beautiful cloak. She pulled it out, and spun around. It was a deep blue, but made of a cloth that she couldn't identify, both silky and thick at the same time. She wrapped it around her shoulders, and vaguely remembered her mother wearing it once. It was warm and soft, and it felt like everything she remembered her mum to be. She folded it carefully and tucked it into her pack as well.
Holly was about to put the lid back on the box when a metallic shine caught her attention. She reached in and pulled out a small, golden key. It had an intricate handle and looked as though it had almost never been used. She smiled, then finally replaced the lid. Still gripping the key, she put the box under her bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down to sleep. Her thoughts were bittersweet, but still glad. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you, mum."
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A/N: This chapter has now been revised for your reading pleasure. Please review!
"Clean the carpets, Potter," had come Uncle Vernon's morning instructions that day. Not another word, just, "clean the carpets." Of all the days that summer, why did he have to pick that particularly sweltering day to have Harry do carpet cleaning?
The answer was obvious. Yesterday, Harry had been carrying a potted plant through the house when an unfortunate collision with Uncle Vernon sent soil spilling all over his uncle's new suit and the floor. Vernon had been livid, shoving the pot back at Harry sharply, raging about his clumsiness. Naturally, the next step was, "Clean the carpets, Potter."
Aunt Petunia found this situation to be the source of a lovely new game; finding spots Harry had "missed." Harry spent more time lugging the steam cleaner up and down the stairs than he had actually spent cleaning.
By that night, Harry's shirt was soaked in sweat and his back ached fiercely. He suppressed a slight groan as he bent down to pick up the power cord and wind it back around the machine. Maybe, with all this heavy lifting, he might actually grow a muscle or two by autumn. Then again, probably not.
Perhaps the ache wasn't such a bad thing. It was a convenient, non- masochistic way to keep his mind distracted from everything else. Harry almost had to laugh at the simple irony of the concept as he dragged himself up the stairs. The Dursleys were actually a distraction from worse things. Perhaps, he wasn't so sure he wanted to face the wizard world right now anyway. The ache in his back was definitely better than the pain of thinking about the events of last spring.
He pushed open the door to his bedroom. The only reminder of his other life visible in that room was Hedwig's cage, which stood empty on the desk. Uncle Vernon had complained vehemently about the Gryffindor pennant he had stuck to the wall, so now there was nothing. Strange, but it didn't bother him today. The heat, however, did.
If the downstairs had been slightly hot and sticky, the upstairs was unbearable, in Harry's room at least. The other bedrooms each had their own air conditioning units, but of course, not Harry's. "Central air conditioning is just ridiculously expensive, and we'd only use it a few days a year," was the excuse. Harry knew better. Of course, Uncle Vernon had also insisted that Harry keep his door closed. How convenient.
Harry stripped off his sweaty t-shirt and tossed it aside. Aunt Petunia was taking a long soak in the bath after her hard day of helping with the cleaning, so Harry getting a turn to wash up was out of the question. He would just have to get there early enough in the morning. With a great sigh, he sprawled across his bed.
He could almost be assured of one thing. No matter how oppressively hot and humid the day had been, just like every other night that summer, he could be sure that tonight would bring yet another dream that would chill him to the core.
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A cloaked figure was crouched beneath some bushes at the edge of the old school grounds. The darkness, pouring rain, and flashes of lightning obscured her view of the building, but still, there was something different from the young woman's memory of it. She wiped her glasses and squinted through the rain. Instead of the familiar old school from her youth, this building was enormous with towers, stone masonry, and the peculiar feel of something very, very old.
She shuddered. There was something wrong in that building, something that felt purely evil, and it sent ice through her veins. Natural instincts told her to run, but something held her feet frozen in place. Glancing up at the tallest tower, an arched window could be seen emitting an eerie glow into the night. Tension built through her body as she realized there was only one course of action. She had to get up there.
Staying low under the trees, darkly shrouded in under her cloak, she made her way around to the side of the castle. A small opening in the side of the wall was nearly hidden by the row of shrubbery. She pushed the branches aside and was swallowed by the pitch black opening. The low tunnel emerged at the bottom of a winding staircase. The stairs climbed forever and the sight gripped her with the sinking feeling that she was going to be too late. She bolted up the stairs at a dead sprint. How many flights could there possibly be?
She finally spilled out onto the top landing to find herself facing an arched doorway from which came that same strange glow that she had seen through the window. Breathing hard, she walked slowly into the doorway. It was a circular room, laid with an ancient stone floor. The edge of the floor and wall was hidden in the shadows. Lightning continued to flash outside, silhouetting the contents of the tower between the woman and the window. In the very center of the room sat an enormous cauldron, large enough to hold a person. The object of her focus was not the cauldron or the ancient masonry, but the personage standing just to the side of the cauldron. The dark, robed figure stood with his shoulder turned just so that she could not quite see his face over his left shoulder. Then he spoke, and his voice made her blood freeze in her veins.
"I've been waiting for you." The voice was rough and hard, and it held no trace of mercy. He turned towards her, and a pair of red eyes bored into hers, but her attention was drawn by something else. It looked like a small staff, a stick of some sort, or a wand, and the tip of it had a glowing haze around it of intense green, like an afterimage burned into the retina from a bright light. One thought struck the woman with complete certainty; that thing had just killed someone. She found her voice.
"Where is he?" she screamed.
"He's dead," the dark man said, the voice conveying pleasure at the thought. "And soon, you will be too."
She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. As she stared at the stick, the green light flashed, filling her vision . . .
Holly sat bolt upright in bed as though woken by an electric shock. Her heart was racing, and sweat beaded her forehead. She tipped her face forward into her hands, rubbing her temples. Why must she always wake with a splitting headache? She reached over to her nightstand and grabbed her glasses. As she swung her feet around, she shoved the glasses roughly onto her face, and stumbled sleepily to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. Ick. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all, but that wasn't uncommon.
There had been some sleepless nights and some very intense dreams, nightmares to be exact, over the past few years. This summer though, they'd been getting worse. Some felt like they were happening as she experienced them, others felt, well, as though she was seeing something before it happened. She sighed leaned towards the mirror, carefully pulling back her lower eyelid and peeking underneath; bloodshot. There were circles under her eyes and her hair was a mess. Actually, that was normal. Her father hadn't been happy when she had cut it. He said she looked like a boy, but then, he never seemed happy about anything she did.
She assessed herself and decided that she was perfectly content with the mediocre reflection staring back at her. She was small, but she'd always been rather petite, with a round, boyish face. Strong, broad shoulders only served to add to her tomboyish appearance. Her glasses were very plain, but she liked simple things. Her dark brown hair was short, flopped almost into her eyes, and had a tendency to do whatever it wanted. She ran a comb through it, but it fell right back to where it was. She shrugged. The clatter of a frying pan in the kitchen pulled her from her thoughts. She quickly washed her face with cold water and ran down to the kitchen for breakfast.
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Harry awoke to that familiar pain shooting across his forehead. He rubbed at his scar, waiting for it to subside, belting down a wave of nausea and dizziness from the throbbing. He flopped back onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling. He should be used to this by now, but there's not much a person can do when submerged in a dream. He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the images from which he had just awoken. It had been Voldemort of course. This time, Harry had found himself captured by Voldemort inside Hogwarts. He'd been tied, gagged, and tortured. The castle had been deserted after Voldemort had attacked, and he felt a terrible sense of being totally alone.
He'd been taken to a tower, into a room with a huge cauldron. It looked so much like the one from which Voldemort had regained his body, bringing back all the feelings of pain, guilt, and betrayal that had been smashed into those few hours after the third task. Voldemort had raised his wand, and Harry accepted that he was about to die. Just before the flash of green light hit his body, he had gotten the distinct feeling that someone was coming for him, coming to save him, but he knew with a sinking heart that she was going to be too late. He sat up again. She, who? He shook his head. This was all getting to him too much.
He reached over to his nightstand, grabbed his glasses, and shoved them roughly onto his face. He checked his alarm clock. 6:28 a.m. That meant he had time to shower and still get downstairs by 6:50. Then, he could start cooking the breakfast early enough to eat some of it before Aunt Petunia started yelling at him to leave enough for poor little Dudleykins. Aunt Petunia had completely given up on Dudley's diet. She couldn't stand listening to him cry and fuss whenever he was hungry, which was constantly. Personally, Harry couldn't stand it either, so he was perfectly satisfied with that solution.
He rolled out of bed, and quickly pulled the blankets up neatly over the pillow. Grabbing his shower amenities, he walked to the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. His eyes had circles under them, and his hair was a mess, as always. He was still too small for his age, and his round face was pale from overwork and lack of sleep. Across his right collarbone, there was a bruise where the flower pot must have caught him when he'd collided with Uncle Vernon. He hadn't noticed it yesterday, which was surprising. Thin and pale as he was, there was nothing to hide the purplish welt. Skinny, pale, and awkward; such a wonderful combination. The only thing he had ever like about his appearance was the thin, lightning-bolt shaped scar running across his forehead. Now, it only served as a constant reminder of how his life would never be normal. He shrugged, and hopped into the shower.
Harry was tending a skillet of pancakes when Dudley came waddling into the kitchen. Harry idly wondered if Dudley would have to turn sideways to get through doors soon.
"Where's my breakfast?" demanded Dudley. Harry indicated the stack of nine pancakes steaming on a plate on the table. Dudley immediately forgot the string of morning insults he had designed for Harry and turned his attention towards the food. Harry had just finished the rest of the plates when Vernon burst into the kitchen followed by Petunia. "Good morning Dudley," he said with a flourish. "How's my big strong birthday boy? Turning 15 means you're almost a man now."
"Where are my presents?"
""They're in the sitting room, dearie, all 42 of them. Ooh, my Dudleykins is all grown up!" purred Petunia. Then she shifted her attention to Harry, who was pouring orange juice, doing his best not to be noticed. "And you," she spat, "Will be staying with Mrs. Figg today while we take Dudley to the carnival with his friends. You'd best not be a bother to that old lady, or we'll hear about it, and your uncle will take it out of your hide, you ungrateful freak."
Harry groaned inwardly, and took a risk. "Can't I just stay here? I'll just stay in my room, I won't touch anything."
"You think we'd trust you alone in our house, you little rag?" Vernon scoffed at him. "You'd probably blow the place up. No, no, we can't have that. Have to keep an eye on you. Your freakish 'professor' wants us to keep an eye on you, so that's just what we're going to do." Vernon was taking obvious pleasure in the fact that Harry had no choice in the matter and was being blatantly insulted.
Harry nodded meekly and resigned himself to the idea of another day of staring at stupid cat pictures.
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"Albus, a word with you, if I may?"
Dumbledore turned towards the fireplace to see a familiar face bearing a weary, thin smile. "Arabella, my dear friend. You know you may have a word with me anytime, and most certainly today."
The face nodded, and an instant later, a small, grayed witch landed neatly in front of the sitting room fire.
"I see you altogether too seldom, Albus," he said, as she grasped his hands tightly. She looked up at him for a second, and then pulled him into a quick hug. Dumbledore returned the embrace, knowing full well how difficult, and often lonely, this dedicated woman's job had been. She let go, wiping a quick tear from her eye. Dumbledore patted her shoulder softly. "Please, sit down. Tea?"
"Thank you, but no. We really must talk, and I must get back in time for the boy to arrive." She settled into a plush maroon armchair across from the fireplace.
Dumbledore leaned against the edge of his desk and folded his hands against his legs. "You've already reinforced the concealment charms around your house, I'll assume?"
She rolled her eyes at him and flashed him one of her sarcastic smiles. "Of course, I have. You know me better than that. I'm rather excited about today, even if the events that brought it about are rather, well, unfavorable. It's good that we'll have something constructive to pass the time. You know I never really knew what to do with the boy."
"You always said he was very gracious."
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "Certainly, he's a very well-mannered child, but I think he was rather bored. The only Muggle things I know well enough to speak about are cats, and I don't think they catch his fancy. They're wonderful creatures, aren't they?"
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The Dursleys didn't even pull into Mrs. Figg's driveway, choosing instead to drop him at the curb and drive off in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Coughing and sputtering, Harry climbed the steps. His hand hesitated over the doorbell. He idly considered making a run for it, but realized just how pointless that was. He pressed the bell and instantaneously, the door creaked open to reveal a small, grey-haired woman.
"Ah, Harry! How good to see you. You've grown! Come in, come in. I have a little something special for you today."
Harry nodded politely, but hardly noticed her as he though to himself, "Great, another cat." He followed her into the living room.
"You just have a seat while I go get something."
He sat on the sagging couch cushion and looked around. The place hadn't changed. It still smelled of cats, although somewhat less oppressively. Perhaps he was coming down with a touch of a cold. On the walls, tables, and mantles were countless pictures of cats, mostly sleeping. He checked twice when one of them appeared to twitch its ear. Maybe he really was coming down with a cold. He took off his glasses to wipe them, and completely missed when the large, ginger coloured cat in the picture on the mantle stretched luxuriously, its squashed face pulling into a wide yawn, then curled back up.
"There you go, my boy. Have yourself a spot of tea. Let me just get this book now . . ."
Mrs. Figg trundled over to a large bookcase to the right of the fireplace, and reached up, pointlessly, for a large leather-bound book that was obviously too high for her.
"Let me help you with that . . ." Harry started to get up, but stopped mid- motion as the tiny woman pulled a wand out of her sleeve and said crisply, "Accio book!" With the book firmly in hand, she turned and began walking towards the couch, and stopped quickly at the sight of Harry. He was still frozen in his half-standing position, now with his mouth slightly opened and his eyes protruded somewhat unnaturally from their sockets. Mrs. Figg peered over he glasses at him, suddenly reminding him strongly of Professor McGonagall. "If you don't close your mouth soon, I expect you'll catch flies."
She sat down on the couch next to the seat he was still hovering over. Now I know I'm sick, he mused to himself.
She patted the seat. "Really, you can sit down, Harry. I'm not going to hex you."
He sat and turned to look at Mrs. Figg in a whole new light. He didn't know whether he was more shocked, relieved, angry, or curious. He had no idea what to say, so he settled for stammering numbly for a few seconds until Arabella cut in, laughing. "You didn't honestly think Dumbledore would let just anyone keep an eye on you?"
Harry found his voice. "Why now?"
Arabella's knowing smile faded into a melancholy echo of what it had been moments ago. She looked him squarely in the eyes. "Harry, I'm not the right person to answer all your questions. Dumbledore will be able to do that soon enough, but for now, I'll tell you what I can."
Harry nodded blankly. His mind was racing. All this time, he had a witch for a neighbour, watching him, and he hadn't known. Why would Mrs. Figg maintain the charade of being a Muggle? She was working for Dumbledore, so there had to be a reason. His eyes focused back from his thoughts and he met Mrs. Figg's directed gaze. Those weren't the eyes of the woman he had always thought was Mrs. Figg. This was a witch to be reckoned with. He relaxed and picked up the cup of tea that she had set for him. He took a sip, slowly put the cup back down, and finally spoke.
"What can you tell me? I mean, it's obvious that you're showing me this because of what happened with Voldemort, but why?"
"Well, Dumbledore wants me to help you with some Defense Against the Dark Arts studies. He expects you'll need those skills sooner than many other people your age. Also, he wants me to start teaching you about some little- known history. These are things that were hushed-up and ignored, because the Wizarding community felt it was better left that way. I've got one day to get you started on this during the summer, but I'll be seeing you again soon enough. Does that answer your question well enough?"
"Yes, thank you," Harry replied, although he certainly felt that there were things still missing. "May I ask one other thing, before we get started?"
Arabella's smile returned as she nodded.
"Why do you have so many cats?"
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"Holly? Come in, it's dinner time."
"I'm not hungry." Holly glowered to herself. She was out walking in the woods behind her house when she had heard her father's voice. She couldn't stand the summer holidays. Her father was so restrictive, even though she was 20 years old. It would be impossible to get her own place and still afford to go to school, so she dealt with it, knowing it would be over soon. She had chosen to study biology, both because she could be outside, and also because she could get away from people. Well no, that wasn't quite right. She didn't mind people, but being closed up with technology and everything had just always felt wrong. She preferred the company of a few friends and of animals. To add to it, she seemed to prefer animals that were just a tad bit strange.
"Holly," the voice was more insistent now. "It's going to get cold. Please come inside. I want to see you before you leave tomorrow."
"Alright, I'm coming." She bent down and put her hand close to the carpet of leaves on the ground. The garden snake that had been wrapped around her hand uncoiled itself and slid off into the leaves, looking back at her before descending the rest of the way into the shadows. "Thanks for the company, Seymore," she said softly, before turning towards the house. A raven, perched in the branches, watched her progress, and sang a soft, lonely note that was impossible for a raven.
The kitchen had a quaint old-fashioned feel to it that Holly had always loved. Old copper pots hung from the ceiling which was criss-crossed with thick wooden beams. Her father sat at the kitchen table, looking totally out of place in the homey setting. Slightly thick around the middle, with awful glasses and a bad comb-over, he looked like a middle-aged salesman who had gone to seed too soon and was trying too hard to cover it up. Holly sat across from Donald and immediately dug in to the food in the serving dishes. "Pass the pepper, please," she said without looking up.
"Holly, I want to talk to you about this trip you're taking."
Holly sighed, put down her fork, and crossed her arms in front of her. "There's nothing do discuss. I'm going and that's final. I'm 20 years old! I've saved what little money I have for this trip, and it means a lot to me."
"But hiking across England, by yourself! Anything could happen!"
"And if it does, then I'll deal with it. What's the point of living if you live your life in fear? That's something you might want to consider, before you waste what's left of yours."
Donald looked as though he were about to erupt into a rage, but he suddenly lost his violent edge. "I promised your mother I'd take care of you and protect you, no matter what. That's a promise I can't break easily."
"I don't think my mum would have wanted me to live in a cage for the rest of my life." She slammed her palm down on the table, completely deserting her hope for a quiet dinner. "You stuck me in a secluded little school where I was miserable for my entire youth. I never fit in, and the harder I tried, the more miserable I was. You were trying to protect me? From what? Myself? I finally start accepting who I am, and trying to live my life and you do nothing but stop me at every turn. How many times do you tell me to start acting like a girl? Well, I'm a woman now, and I'm more than capable of taking care of myself." (She neglected to add her thought of "even though I look like a teenage boy.")
"If your mother could see you . . ."
"Well, she can't. Neither can grandma. I barely remember them, and all I really have of them is the necklace grandma gave me. You never even talk about mum." Holly choked back the tears welling up in her eyes.
"Holly, please." Donald put a hand to his forehead in frustration. He seemed to be having a quiet argument with himself for a moment, which he apparently lost, because when he looked up again, he had an expression of defeat. "If you want, I have something for you."
Holly glared at him, a total lack of trust openly displayed on her face. "What is it?"
"Your mum's things. And some of your grandma's. They left some things behind that I kept hidden, but I think she'd want you to have them."
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That night, after Holly had finished loading her hiking pack, she sat down on her bed and gently placed the box her father had given her on the pillow. She hesitated, her hand shaking, as she reached for the cover. This was all that remained of her mother and grandmother. She felt more that it was all that remained of her family, as she had never been particularly close to her father. She choked back a tear. What could she remember of her mother? She was very kind, she gave warm hugs, and she always listened. Holly closed her eyes and could see her mum's simple, elegant features, deep brown eyes, slender shoulders, and long, wavy black hair. Her grandmother must have looked similar in her youth, but she had a differently shaped face. What she remembered best of her grandmother was her laugh. The woman had a very matter-of-fact manner and a sarcastic wit. Holly cracked a smile, calling to mind the vague memory of the times when grandma had told off her father. Grandma would have loved Holly for everything she was, unlike her father. She fingered her silver necklace absentmindedly. Grandma also wouldn't have wanted Holly to make herself miserable and waste time missing her.
Holly opened the lid of the box. There was a jumble of odds and ends in the box, haphazardly packed as though the packer was in a rush. She lifted out a thick roll of many sheets of parchment tied together. She undid the knot and pulled away one of the sheets. The hand writing was messy. It read, "Jan, I'd love to meet you for lunch, but you probably already knew that. I'll meet you at noon. Harold" Just an old letter written to her grandmother. All the other pieces of parchment began "Dear Jan," and ended "Love, Harold." Holly laid the roll of parchment aside. She reached into the trunk again and pulled out a single feather. It was pure black, with blue-purple glints when she moved it in the light. It made her hands tingle when she held it. Curious. She started to put it down, then reconsidered and stuck it in the top of her hiking pack for luck.
Next, a few small pieces of jewelry emerged from the box, pretty, but nothing special she decided. This was followed by a few natural stones and crystals. Holly smiled. She had a liking for such things, and she probably got that from her mother. She added these to the pack. A few more trinkets . . . how could she miss this? Folded neatly into the bottom of the box was a beautiful cloak. She pulled it out, and spun around. It was a deep blue, but made of a cloth that she couldn't identify, both silky and thick at the same time. She wrapped it around her shoulders, and vaguely remembered her mother wearing it once. It was warm and soft, and it felt like everything she remembered her mum to be. She folded it carefully and tucked it into her pack as well.
Holly was about to put the lid back on the box when a metallic shine caught her attention. She reached in and pulled out a small, golden key. It had an intricate handle and looked as though it had almost never been used. She smiled, then finally replaced the lid. Still gripping the key, she put the box under her bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down to sleep. Her thoughts were bittersweet, but still glad. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you, mum."
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A/N: This chapter has now been revised for your reading pleasure. Please review!
