Yeah, the Dursleys are well-off financially; however, you have to remember
that Harry's perception of things isn't always correct. For instance, it's not
*really* his fault that his mom died, but he believes that it is.
SEV-slightly-edited version- the text has been altered slightly in order that
it might adhere to new guidelines presented by FF.net. The original version
will still be available on my website. The main differences involve an increased
use of metaphor and the use of English slang instead of obscene language
where possible.
Another paragraph was added at the end, might be worth a read.
*******************************************
Worksheet #4: Locating the Problem
*******************************************
He should be at school.
That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.
It's what Hagrid would say. It's what Dumbledore would say.
They were never much on *personal* quests. Of course his rule-breaking
was fine when it was for the rest of the world, but as soon as *he* wanted
something it was all 'Wait, Harry' and 'This isn't a good idea, Harry' and
'Put *everything* else before yourself, Harry'.
"Hey, watch it!"
He was suddenly spun around by a solid shoulder, the bare warning of the
shout just preventing him from going to his knees. He stared after the taller
man, trying to burn a hole through the man's long, black, suitably impressive
trench coat with flat jade eyes. Not that it would work without his wand, he
supposed. Envying another man's outerwear was not sufficient reason for
his magic to react on its own.
Harry sighed as the man disappeared into the crowd. He felt terribly conspicuous
in Dudley's outgrown clothing, clothing that fit him rather like a circus tent or the
clothes of some American rapper, which was, unfortunately, *not* the current style
in muggle London. Even his back pack, full as it was, seemed lost among the
folds and billows of cotton-spandex blend.
He stood in the middle of the side walk, eyeing the trendy boutiques and
well-dressed people of the nicer end of Piccadilly; people, for the most part
dressed in sober, well-tailored clothing, flowed around his still figure like a stream
boulder-parted. He dismally flapped a wing-like sleeve, and continued on against
the flow.
The note had said Surrey. He should probably be heading to Surrey.
"Are you lost?" A woman suddenly asked him. Her hand found his thin shoulder,
halting his forward momentum. He stared up into her chocolate brown eyes, kind
as a Labrador, and wished that his growth-spurt had occurred last summer as
had Ron's. Five-six was a dismal height at which to linger.
"No, ma'am," he said softly, wishing for a Sweeny Todd revelation of 'This is
my mother! I'm not alone!' but she just smiled, and continued on towards a
GAP import.
But he wasn't actually lost, anyway, in any sense other than the cosmic.
The Leaky Cauldron was around here somewhere, and he needed supplies.
*************************************************
Worksheet #5: The First Signs of Disorder
*************************************************
"Why wouldn't they tell me?"
If talking to oneself was any indications, then Harry Potter had officially
checked out. Not that anyone else would know. The Dursleys had cleared the
house for the day, Vernon to work, Petunia on errands, and Dudley out with
his pack of friends.
"Why keep it a secret?"
Of course, the Dursleys would normally *never* leave Harry alone in the house.
He might burn it down, or magic . . . something . . . somehow. Normally, if they
were all planning to leave, Harry would be left with Mrs. Figg and her cats. He
was beginning to hate cats.
"What possible difference would it make?"
But this summer hadn't exactly been normal. Vernon had installed locks on
Harry's door, for one thing, so Harry was currently locked inside with no one
*but* himself to talk to. Harry didn't quite understand the logic behind the shiny
new hasp. If he could do magic, then wouldn't he be just as able to 'magic'
something from behind a closed (and locked and dead bolted) door?
"I could have lived with her. *She's* my family, not the Dursleys."
Not that logic had *ever* ruled the Dursleys. There had been the incident with
the barred window his second year, and of course the 11 years in the cupboard
hadn't been their most logical move. Harry certainly wouldn't have pissed off
someone he was that afraid of that badly.
"How could Dumbledore allow it? How could Sirius have lied to me?"
He distracted himself for several moments by imagining Snape locked in a
cupboard; unfortunately, the idea of what he would do in retaliation once he
escaped kept intruding on the fantasy, causing it to rather quickly lose its
appeal. He then spent some time watching dust motes dance along the single
ray of light that had crept through the shutters. Well, they were cheaper and
less conspicuous than actual bars. At least that's what Harry hoped was the
reasoning behind the replacement, because he'd hate to think that they were
depriving him of natural sunlight and fresh air deliberately.
"Why is everyone trying to keep me *here*?"
Another difference in this summer had been the lack of work; aside from
weeding the garden once or twice and that time he washed the windows,
Harry hadn't done anything to "help out around the house". Perhaps Petunia
had become accustomed to cooking the family's dinner herself. Perhaps the
Dursleys thought that Harry would poison them, if given the chance. Perhaps
they had come to see the error of their ways . . . Nah.
"Is blood that much safer?"
It was more that the Dursleys were ignoring him. First with the locks and
shutters, second the lack of chores. Dudley never tried to kill him anymore.
Even Vernon's wrath was occasional and mild, the rare swipe of an aging
paw. And they were feeding him; he ate with the family, and he ate the same
as Dudley, though of course not as much(if that would even be possible). He
just couldn't figure it out. Why change now?
"If mother *is* alive, then she didn't die for me when Voldemort came."
The only conclusion of which Harry could conceive involved the intervention
of his godfather, or perhaps that of Dumbledore; only a full-out threat from a
full-out wizard would have stopped the Dursleys' abuse. But it didn't make
sense for someone to threaten the Dursleys but not remove him from their
care. He just couldn't understand that part of it. Because if this someone knew
enough to prevent the behavior, then they obviously knew about the behavior
itself. So why leave him here? Why not rescue him?
"So if it wasn't her love that saved me, then what was it?"
That's how he knew it couldn't have been the Weasleys who gave the warning.
Ron had proved in the past that he was both willing and able to affect an
impromptu rescue mission, and Fred and George would always be willing to
help. But no Weasley had contacted him this summer. Even Hermione had fallen
to the owl-post blackout. So someone in authority -- Dumbledore -- must have
told his friends that writing to him would put him in danger. Otherwise, he would
have received at least *one* birthday gift, if not several.
"What saved me? Why am I alive?"
And why leave him here? Of course, where else would one breed a hero except
in adversity? Not that he believed Dumbledore capable of such manipulations . . .
Strike that, a life-long plot to drive him into a desperation deep enough that killing
Voldie seemed a good alternative to suicide sounded exactly like something
Dumbledore would and could plan.
"Why do they want *me*?"
So, there was nothing else for it but to escape. He didn't have his wand, or any
outside help, but a hero in training should be able to work around such obstacles,
correct? Please note the sarcasm. At least Fred and George were finally coming
in use; a few practical jokes secreted in his outsized clothing, then under the
loose floorboards beside his bed, would do the job nicely. When the cat's away,
as the saying goes.
"Why am *I* so bloody special?"
But this mouse was ready for a bit more than 'play'.
***
Umm, the thought-chain was pretty much unconnected to the rest of that
last section. Just . . . follow the thematic.
that Harry's perception of things isn't always correct. For instance, it's not
*really* his fault that his mom died, but he believes that it is.
SEV-slightly-edited version- the text has been altered slightly in order that
it might adhere to new guidelines presented by FF.net. The original version
will still be available on my website. The main differences involve an increased
use of metaphor and the use of English slang instead of obscene language
where possible.
Another paragraph was added at the end, might be worth a read.
*******************************************
Worksheet #4: Locating the Problem
*******************************************
He should be at school.
That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.
It's what Hagrid would say. It's what Dumbledore would say.
They were never much on *personal* quests. Of course his rule-breaking
was fine when it was for the rest of the world, but as soon as *he* wanted
something it was all 'Wait, Harry' and 'This isn't a good idea, Harry' and
'Put *everything* else before yourself, Harry'.
"Hey, watch it!"
He was suddenly spun around by a solid shoulder, the bare warning of the
shout just preventing him from going to his knees. He stared after the taller
man, trying to burn a hole through the man's long, black, suitably impressive
trench coat with flat jade eyes. Not that it would work without his wand, he
supposed. Envying another man's outerwear was not sufficient reason for
his magic to react on its own.
Harry sighed as the man disappeared into the crowd. He felt terribly conspicuous
in Dudley's outgrown clothing, clothing that fit him rather like a circus tent or the
clothes of some American rapper, which was, unfortunately, *not* the current style
in muggle London. Even his back pack, full as it was, seemed lost among the
folds and billows of cotton-spandex blend.
He stood in the middle of the side walk, eyeing the trendy boutiques and
well-dressed people of the nicer end of Piccadilly; people, for the most part
dressed in sober, well-tailored clothing, flowed around his still figure like a stream
boulder-parted. He dismally flapped a wing-like sleeve, and continued on against
the flow.
The note had said Surrey. He should probably be heading to Surrey.
"Are you lost?" A woman suddenly asked him. Her hand found his thin shoulder,
halting his forward momentum. He stared up into her chocolate brown eyes, kind
as a Labrador, and wished that his growth-spurt had occurred last summer as
had Ron's. Five-six was a dismal height at which to linger.
"No, ma'am," he said softly, wishing for a Sweeny Todd revelation of 'This is
my mother! I'm not alone!' but she just smiled, and continued on towards a
GAP import.
But he wasn't actually lost, anyway, in any sense other than the cosmic.
The Leaky Cauldron was around here somewhere, and he needed supplies.
*************************************************
Worksheet #5: The First Signs of Disorder
*************************************************
"Why wouldn't they tell me?"
If talking to oneself was any indications, then Harry Potter had officially
checked out. Not that anyone else would know. The Dursleys had cleared the
house for the day, Vernon to work, Petunia on errands, and Dudley out with
his pack of friends.
"Why keep it a secret?"
Of course, the Dursleys would normally *never* leave Harry alone in the house.
He might burn it down, or magic . . . something . . . somehow. Normally, if they
were all planning to leave, Harry would be left with Mrs. Figg and her cats. He
was beginning to hate cats.
"What possible difference would it make?"
But this summer hadn't exactly been normal. Vernon had installed locks on
Harry's door, for one thing, so Harry was currently locked inside with no one
*but* himself to talk to. Harry didn't quite understand the logic behind the shiny
new hasp. If he could do magic, then wouldn't he be just as able to 'magic'
something from behind a closed (and locked and dead bolted) door?
"I could have lived with her. *She's* my family, not the Dursleys."
Not that logic had *ever* ruled the Dursleys. There had been the incident with
the barred window his second year, and of course the 11 years in the cupboard
hadn't been their most logical move. Harry certainly wouldn't have pissed off
someone he was that afraid of that badly.
"How could Dumbledore allow it? How could Sirius have lied to me?"
He distracted himself for several moments by imagining Snape locked in a
cupboard; unfortunately, the idea of what he would do in retaliation once he
escaped kept intruding on the fantasy, causing it to rather quickly lose its
appeal. He then spent some time watching dust motes dance along the single
ray of light that had crept through the shutters. Well, they were cheaper and
less conspicuous than actual bars. At least that's what Harry hoped was the
reasoning behind the replacement, because he'd hate to think that they were
depriving him of natural sunlight and fresh air deliberately.
"Why is everyone trying to keep me *here*?"
Another difference in this summer had been the lack of work; aside from
weeding the garden once or twice and that time he washed the windows,
Harry hadn't done anything to "help out around the house". Perhaps Petunia
had become accustomed to cooking the family's dinner herself. Perhaps the
Dursleys thought that Harry would poison them, if given the chance. Perhaps
they had come to see the error of their ways . . . Nah.
"Is blood that much safer?"
It was more that the Dursleys were ignoring him. First with the locks and
shutters, second the lack of chores. Dudley never tried to kill him anymore.
Even Vernon's wrath was occasional and mild, the rare swipe of an aging
paw. And they were feeding him; he ate with the family, and he ate the same
as Dudley, though of course not as much(if that would even be possible). He
just couldn't figure it out. Why change now?
"If mother *is* alive, then she didn't die for me when Voldemort came."
The only conclusion of which Harry could conceive involved the intervention
of his godfather, or perhaps that of Dumbledore; only a full-out threat from a
full-out wizard would have stopped the Dursleys' abuse. But it didn't make
sense for someone to threaten the Dursleys but not remove him from their
care. He just couldn't understand that part of it. Because if this someone knew
enough to prevent the behavior, then they obviously knew about the behavior
itself. So why leave him here? Why not rescue him?
"So if it wasn't her love that saved me, then what was it?"
That's how he knew it couldn't have been the Weasleys who gave the warning.
Ron had proved in the past that he was both willing and able to affect an
impromptu rescue mission, and Fred and George would always be willing to
help. But no Weasley had contacted him this summer. Even Hermione had fallen
to the owl-post blackout. So someone in authority -- Dumbledore -- must have
told his friends that writing to him would put him in danger. Otherwise, he would
have received at least *one* birthday gift, if not several.
"What saved me? Why am I alive?"
And why leave him here? Of course, where else would one breed a hero except
in adversity? Not that he believed Dumbledore capable of such manipulations . . .
Strike that, a life-long plot to drive him into a desperation deep enough that killing
Voldie seemed a good alternative to suicide sounded exactly like something
Dumbledore would and could plan.
"Why do they want *me*?"
So, there was nothing else for it but to escape. He didn't have his wand, or any
outside help, but a hero in training should be able to work around such obstacles,
correct? Please note the sarcasm. At least Fred and George were finally coming
in use; a few practical jokes secreted in his outsized clothing, then under the
loose floorboards beside his bed, would do the job nicely. When the cat's away,
as the saying goes.
"Why am *I* so bloody special?"
But this mouse was ready for a bit more than 'play'.
***
Umm, the thought-chain was pretty much unconnected to the rest of that
last section. Just . . . follow the thematic.