Chapter 2
Wide-eyed in bed, Harry waited another twenty minutes, listening carefully, before daring to creep out from under the covers. Luckily for him, the moon was bright that night and gave just enough light to allow him to see what he was doing without having to turn on the bedside light. First, he retrieved the letter to Dumbledore he had finished earlier that day and scanned over it quickly.
Dear Professor Dumbledore, (it read)
Forgive me if any part of this letter sounds rude, I'm in a bit of a rush. I know that the Dursley house has some kind of magical protection over it so I will be safe over the summer, but I would like to know if there is any possible way that I might stay at Hogwarts until the term starts? Just for this summer? Muggles call it a "summer job." I could run errands for you and Professor McGonagall, help Hagrid get the grounds cleaned and kept, water and feed Professor Sprout's plants… I could even help Professor Snape make potions for the coming war. Please, Professor?
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He'd deliberately included the line about helping Snape to let Dumbledore know how serious he was. The Headmaster knew very well that Snape was not one of Harry's favourite people. Although he'd thought about it, he didn't include in the letter the fact that Sirius might be able to visit him at Hogwarts. That alone was enough for Harry to risk Vernon's wrath by sneaking out at night. He tiptoed to Hedwig's cage and spoke softly to wake her. She hooted in annoyance at being woken up and he shushed her quickly, explaining that she had to be quiet or risk waking everyone up. Being a magical animal, Hedwig understood and after he opened the cage she settled on his arm swiftly and silently.
As noiselessly as possible, Harry opened the bedroom door, his heart pounding lest a creak of the hinges should betray him. But this was Dudley's room too, and the hinges had been kept well oiled. He crept down the corridor in his stocking feet, keeping an ear out for any change in the rhythm of Vernon's snoring. Luck was with him, however, and he made it all the way through the house and out into the front yard without trouble. Quickly, he tied the letter to Hedwig's leg.
"This goes to Professor Dumbledore only. Make sure to eat something you like before coming back. It looks like I'll only be able to give you leftovers again." Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately and soared off into the night, her snowy plumage fading quickly against the velvety black sky.
"What are you doing out here?" growled a voice close to his ear as a meaty hand clamped down upon his shoulder. Harry spun around. It was Uncle Vernon, in his striped pyjamas, thinning hair dancing wildly in the cool night breeze and the fireplace poker gripped tightly in his hand.
* * *
"There's no need to be scared," smiled Ms. Prism as she and Christopher descended to the lobby in the lift. Although he stood perfectly still, his dark eyes darted uncomfortably around the small space while his elegant fingers tugged on the navy blue button-down shirt she had picked out for him as if the feel of it was unfamiliar.
"I am not scared," he replied waspishly, shifting the bag that held the dirty black robes and the mysterious baton-like stick. "I am merely apprehensive," which was true. This would be his first time out of the hospital. Not only was he uncertain of exactly what to expect in the future, he was also still recovering from the concussion and had a little packet of pain medication in the larger bag to prove it. He also felt dirty. A shower had done much in the way of personal comfort but he had been unable to shave in the few days he was at the hospital. They had offered him a disposable razor of course, but he had not remembered how to use it and had refused to ask how. It was little comfort to him that he had remembered that he didn't like having a beard. The pitiful dark growth sprouting on his chin, he felt shabby and disheveled. It made him look older than… well, older than he thought he was. The couple that had graciously opened up their home to him were waiting for him in the lobby and he hated to meet them feeling so unkempt.
The doors to the lift opened and he followed Ms. Prism out as she stepped confidently down the hallway and into the lobby towards a woman in her late fifties. "Mrs. Childe," she greeted her and touched Christopher's elbow to propel him forward. "This is Christopher." Awkwardly, he managed to shake the woman's hand while holding his bag against his chest with his broken arm.
"Hello, dear," she smiled. Slightly rounded more than average, Maggie Childe stood nose to chest with Christopher, her mostly grey hair pulled back into a bun. Her blue eyes were friendly and showed no hesitation when she extended her hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Childe," he said clearly and firmly, determined not to let his slovenly appearance make her have doubts. Absently, he wondered where her husband was. Ms. Prism had said a "couple" didn't she?
As if reading his mind, Mrs. Childe gestured towards the exit with a slim hand unmarked by age except for a few soft wrinkles. "Michael is waiting in the car just outside. We knew that you're still feeling poorly so we didn't want to make you walk farther than necessary." Her voice was clear and friendly, falling into Christopher's ears like a breath of fresh air and after a moment, he felt his tense muscles relax just a touch.
* * *
Christopher painfully extracted himself from the car, his still healing body jarred from the ride far more than he liked to admit. He eyed the respectable looking building with a flicker of apprehension but this time curiosity overrode his fears. He wondered if his own home was similar to this building and so was interested to see if the inside might spark any memories.
Michael Childe came around the other side of the car and offered to hold Christopher's bag for him. Christopher declined, rather coolly. Michael backed off, but was not offended as they had been warned that their temporary guest might be irritable, a possible symptom of the concussion he was recovering from. Michael Childe was taller than his wife and easily met their rather gloomy charge eye-to-eye. His reddish-brown hair was only beginning to get noticeably grey at the temples but Maggie called him "distinguished" looking so he wasn't complaining too much.
Christopher suddenly halted on their way inside. Maggie and Michael eyed him questioningly. "I will be unable to pay you until…" he trailed off uncomfortably, his forehead creasing in self-disgust.
Michael waved aside his concerns. "We wouldn't think of asking you to pay, Christopher. Not when you don't have anywhere else to go." He paused for a moment, seeing the younger man's disquiet. "But if you feel that you must contribute in some way, I'm sure we can find something for you to do around the house." Christopher appeared to consider this and then nodded his satisfaction, relief smoothing out some of the lines on his pale face.
Christopher had another dilemma when they approached the staircase leading up to the fourth floor flat. Michael was apologizing for the slowness of the maintenance team who should have finished with the broken lift two days ago but Christopher stopped at the foot of the stairwell and stared at the steps in deep concentration. Something was wrong with the steps…. Maggie and Michael looked at each other.
"Something wrong, Christopher?" asked Maggie in a friendly voice.
His head snapped up and he stared at her with intense black eyes. "Moving!" he announced triumphantly, "The stairs should be moving!" Maggie blinked in surprise, hesitated and looked to her husband.
Michael scratched his head and brightened. "Escalators!" he smiled, "You remember escalators from somewhere! That's good! You're making progress."
Christopher frowned, the triumphant gleam fading from his gaze. "Escalators?" he asked carefully, "Explain."
Michael's smile faded and he took a deep breath, remembering that the Staff Nurse had warned that Christopher's form of amnesia seemed unusual so there was no telling what he did and did not remember. "Escalators," he repeated, "Moving stairs. Usually metal with rubber handrails." Christopher did not reply but Michael took that as a sign of understanding and continued walking up the stairs.
Christopher stared sourly at the unmoving, dull brown stairs. After a moment, he followed slowly, saying nothing but knowing that the stairs in his brief flash of memory had not been metal.
Wide-eyed in bed, Harry waited another twenty minutes, listening carefully, before daring to creep out from under the covers. Luckily for him, the moon was bright that night and gave just enough light to allow him to see what he was doing without having to turn on the bedside light. First, he retrieved the letter to Dumbledore he had finished earlier that day and scanned over it quickly.
Dear Professor Dumbledore, (it read)
Forgive me if any part of this letter sounds rude, I'm in a bit of a rush. I know that the Dursley house has some kind of magical protection over it so I will be safe over the summer, but I would like to know if there is any possible way that I might stay at Hogwarts until the term starts? Just for this summer? Muggles call it a "summer job." I could run errands for you and Professor McGonagall, help Hagrid get the grounds cleaned and kept, water and feed Professor Sprout's plants… I could even help Professor Snape make potions for the coming war. Please, Professor?
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He'd deliberately included the line about helping Snape to let Dumbledore know how serious he was. The Headmaster knew very well that Snape was not one of Harry's favourite people. Although he'd thought about it, he didn't include in the letter the fact that Sirius might be able to visit him at Hogwarts. That alone was enough for Harry to risk Vernon's wrath by sneaking out at night. He tiptoed to Hedwig's cage and spoke softly to wake her. She hooted in annoyance at being woken up and he shushed her quickly, explaining that she had to be quiet or risk waking everyone up. Being a magical animal, Hedwig understood and after he opened the cage she settled on his arm swiftly and silently.
As noiselessly as possible, Harry opened the bedroom door, his heart pounding lest a creak of the hinges should betray him. But this was Dudley's room too, and the hinges had been kept well oiled. He crept down the corridor in his stocking feet, keeping an ear out for any change in the rhythm of Vernon's snoring. Luck was with him, however, and he made it all the way through the house and out into the front yard without trouble. Quickly, he tied the letter to Hedwig's leg.
"This goes to Professor Dumbledore only. Make sure to eat something you like before coming back. It looks like I'll only be able to give you leftovers again." Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately and soared off into the night, her snowy plumage fading quickly against the velvety black sky.
"What are you doing out here?" growled a voice close to his ear as a meaty hand clamped down upon his shoulder. Harry spun around. It was Uncle Vernon, in his striped pyjamas, thinning hair dancing wildly in the cool night breeze and the fireplace poker gripped tightly in his hand.
* * *
"There's no need to be scared," smiled Ms. Prism as she and Christopher descended to the lobby in the lift. Although he stood perfectly still, his dark eyes darted uncomfortably around the small space while his elegant fingers tugged on the navy blue button-down shirt she had picked out for him as if the feel of it was unfamiliar.
"I am not scared," he replied waspishly, shifting the bag that held the dirty black robes and the mysterious baton-like stick. "I am merely apprehensive," which was true. This would be his first time out of the hospital. Not only was he uncertain of exactly what to expect in the future, he was also still recovering from the concussion and had a little packet of pain medication in the larger bag to prove it. He also felt dirty. A shower had done much in the way of personal comfort but he had been unable to shave in the few days he was at the hospital. They had offered him a disposable razor of course, but he had not remembered how to use it and had refused to ask how. It was little comfort to him that he had remembered that he didn't like having a beard. The pitiful dark growth sprouting on his chin, he felt shabby and disheveled. It made him look older than… well, older than he thought he was. The couple that had graciously opened up their home to him were waiting for him in the lobby and he hated to meet them feeling so unkempt.
The doors to the lift opened and he followed Ms. Prism out as she stepped confidently down the hallway and into the lobby towards a woman in her late fifties. "Mrs. Childe," she greeted her and touched Christopher's elbow to propel him forward. "This is Christopher." Awkwardly, he managed to shake the woman's hand while holding his bag against his chest with his broken arm.
"Hello, dear," she smiled. Slightly rounded more than average, Maggie Childe stood nose to chest with Christopher, her mostly grey hair pulled back into a bun. Her blue eyes were friendly and showed no hesitation when she extended her hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Childe," he said clearly and firmly, determined not to let his slovenly appearance make her have doubts. Absently, he wondered where her husband was. Ms. Prism had said a "couple" didn't she?
As if reading his mind, Mrs. Childe gestured towards the exit with a slim hand unmarked by age except for a few soft wrinkles. "Michael is waiting in the car just outside. We knew that you're still feeling poorly so we didn't want to make you walk farther than necessary." Her voice was clear and friendly, falling into Christopher's ears like a breath of fresh air and after a moment, he felt his tense muscles relax just a touch.
* * *
Christopher painfully extracted himself from the car, his still healing body jarred from the ride far more than he liked to admit. He eyed the respectable looking building with a flicker of apprehension but this time curiosity overrode his fears. He wondered if his own home was similar to this building and so was interested to see if the inside might spark any memories.
Michael Childe came around the other side of the car and offered to hold Christopher's bag for him. Christopher declined, rather coolly. Michael backed off, but was not offended as they had been warned that their temporary guest might be irritable, a possible symptom of the concussion he was recovering from. Michael Childe was taller than his wife and easily met their rather gloomy charge eye-to-eye. His reddish-brown hair was only beginning to get noticeably grey at the temples but Maggie called him "distinguished" looking so he wasn't complaining too much.
Christopher suddenly halted on their way inside. Maggie and Michael eyed him questioningly. "I will be unable to pay you until…" he trailed off uncomfortably, his forehead creasing in self-disgust.
Michael waved aside his concerns. "We wouldn't think of asking you to pay, Christopher. Not when you don't have anywhere else to go." He paused for a moment, seeing the younger man's disquiet. "But if you feel that you must contribute in some way, I'm sure we can find something for you to do around the house." Christopher appeared to consider this and then nodded his satisfaction, relief smoothing out some of the lines on his pale face.
Christopher had another dilemma when they approached the staircase leading up to the fourth floor flat. Michael was apologizing for the slowness of the maintenance team who should have finished with the broken lift two days ago but Christopher stopped at the foot of the stairwell and stared at the steps in deep concentration. Something was wrong with the steps…. Maggie and Michael looked at each other.
"Something wrong, Christopher?" asked Maggie in a friendly voice.
His head snapped up and he stared at her with intense black eyes. "Moving!" he announced triumphantly, "The stairs should be moving!" Maggie blinked in surprise, hesitated and looked to her husband.
Michael scratched his head and brightened. "Escalators!" he smiled, "You remember escalators from somewhere! That's good! You're making progress."
Christopher frowned, the triumphant gleam fading from his gaze. "Escalators?" he asked carefully, "Explain."
Michael's smile faded and he took a deep breath, remembering that the Staff Nurse had warned that Christopher's form of amnesia seemed unusual so there was no telling what he did and did not remember. "Escalators," he repeated, "Moving stairs. Usually metal with rubber handrails." Christopher did not reply but Michael took that as a sign of understanding and continued walking up the stairs.
Christopher stared sourly at the unmoving, dull brown stairs. After a moment, he followed slowly, saying nothing but knowing that the stairs in his brief flash of memory had not been metal.