Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the goddess that is JKR, who better be
working hard on Harry's sixth year right now. Or taking care of her new
kid. But I think we all know which one's more important. (
The clock struck twelve, and he was still playing with himself.
Harry had gotten used to amusing himself, living with the Dursleys all these years. Years ago, his summer would have passed being tortured and teased by his cousin, screamed and screeched at by his uncle, and bothered and bored by his aunt. Now, they pretty much left him alone, due to the not-so-gentle threat the Order had given them at the end of term.
Tired, Harry pushed away the gobstones (he had just suffered a rather nasty squirt in the eye), and watched his queen being bludgeoned by a pawn. So much for playing against himself in wizard's chess. He wasn't even worried about the excessive noise as the queen begged for mercy; he could tell the Dursleys were asleep by the sound of Uncle Vernon's snores over Aunt Petunia's wheezing. Unfortunately, good old Dummikins was away at Pier Polkins' house. He could usually be counted on for a bit of harmless entertainment, but getting a rise out of Dudley didn't have the same vindictive satisfaction it once had.
Prodding the bishop towards the pawn with his wand, Harry contemplated his ill fortune. This was his sixth summer away from Hogwarts. He didn't mind missing the classes and the studying, but he was sore about not being able to see his best friends, Ron and Hermione, for another two months. He didn't even have Hedwig for company; she was out looking for a few rodents to round out her dinner. Hedwig had been gone a lot lately.
'Probably bored.' He thought, not blaming her. He'd be out of here quick as a thestral if he had a chance. 'Stupid Dumbledore, stupid protection curse. Doesn't he think I can take care of myself?' He savagely overturned the chessboard, the pieces screaming something about dignity and fidelity as they hit the ground. He knew he was being stupid; he had to be here, locked up like a prisoner.
Like a prisoner.
Sirius.
Not for the first time, Harry's thoughts turned to his deceased godfather. The familiar cloud of guilt reappeared as Harry started a new game of exploding crap, a new Weasely invention. This game not only exploded; it made rude noises and emitted smelly fumes.
'Sirius had hated being locked up. He knew what it was like, to escape from Azkaban just to be shunted to Grimmauld Place, unable to help the Order, cut off from helping those he loved or the world he wished to preserve.'
A few months ago, Harry would have felt like Sirius had; thirsty to help, to have his talents utilized. But now.now, Harry didn't care. He had tried to help, and what good had it done? He had nearly gotten himself and his friends killed.
But he had gotten someone killed.
Sirius.
Sirius, who always risked everything to see Harry, who had never let him down.
'And he didn't,' Harry thought. 'I let him down.'
Of course, Dumbledore and the others had tried to convince him that the blame for Sirius's death did not lie with him. 'But I was the one that fell for Voldemort's trick. Sirius came to help me.' And now, he was gone.and not coming back. Harry flinched, partly from this burdensome memory, and partly because the cards had just exploded in his face. 'Damn it,' he muttered, feeling around for his eyebrows.
He rose to look into the wall mirror, but sat down again. His eyes rested on Hedwig's cage, then his Firebolt, then the trunk with all the rest of his Hogwarts things. To this he stumbled towards, tripping over a sticky gobstone. He opened it, not really aware of what he was doing, until he encountered a small, smooth surface.
Sirius' two-way mirror. Of course it wouldn't work now that Sirius was dead, but that didn't stop him from fingering it every night, thinking about Sirius and wishing things had gone differently last June. He started to half-heartedly polish it with his sleeve, and tilted it in different directions, admiring his handiwork. It was quite handsome: smooth, silver lions engraved around an oval surface. He lifted it to examine his scorched eyebrows, and then the faint stubble that had recently surfaced on his chin, when he noticed a dark shadow in the corner.
He swiftly turned around, looking for the source. A rustle of feathers and a nip on the finger signaled Hedwig's return, proudly carrying a fresh field mouse in her beak. Harry watched as she retreated into her cage to devour it, and had the sudden urge to go join the field mouse.
'That way Hedwig can chew me up and put me out of my misery. Maybe I'll make a better hairball than a human.'
At this, a trigger went off in Harry's head. These were extremely unhealthy thoughts. 'This is ridiculous. I have to talk to this about someone; I can't let this keep eating away at me. Not with the prophecy, not with the fate of the wizarding world on my shoulders.'
Harry got sudden déjà vu, remembering his third year when his scar had hurt, and he needed to talk to someone about that as well. He had thought of Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione, but finally decided to entrust Sirius with that information. But now, when he more alone, scared, and angry than he had ever felt before, who could he turn to? Who would understand what it felt like to lose a parent? His mind flashed towards Ron: he had nearly lost his father. But Ron, while great to talk to about lots of things (things meaning Quidditch, Harry added fairly) wasn't too good on emotions. And Hermione - well, how could she relate? She had two, healthy, caring parents, and he had none. He was actually in the negative numbers now, losing his two parents had brought him to zero, and Sirius took him to -1. Harry also knew better than to contact Dumbledore; aside from still being angry with him, he was now working with the Ministry on a plan to take on Voldemort.
'Wait a second,' Harry started, knocking his head on Hedwig's cage ('Sorry there, Hed.')
Luna Lovegood. It was crazy, but it made a sort of lunatic sense to Harry. She had lost her mom; they had talked about it briefly before the term ended. Could he talk to her? It was worth a try. After all, she had told him on the train ride home that if he ever needed anything, he should owl her. Harry had assumed anything meant advice on how to catch a Crumpled Horn Butt Blaster or whatever it was she was always going on about. But now he realized she was offering him a unique companionship, something Ron and Hermione couldn't give him. He would be stupid not to owl her.
And yet, Harry waited. He didn't know how he felt, owling a girl he didn't know too well. What if she took it the wrong way? What if she felt Harry was overstepping his bounds? Or what if she thought he was interested in her in another way? He didn't want Luna to think he liked her as more than a friend; would an unexpected owl reinforce that image?
This mental debate lasted a few more seconds, but he ultimately decided it was too difficult to predict Loony Lovegood's reaction. He headed towards his desk, picked up some quill and parchment, and scribbled:
Hi Luna,
You said on the train that I could owl you, so here I am. I hope you're good, and that you're having a good time this summer working on the Quibbler and all that. Anyways, lately I've been thinking a lot about Sirius. Is this normal when someone passes away? Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. I don't know anymore.
Bye, Harry
Harry surveyed his letter critically. It rambled, but he wasn't really sure how to phrase it, and he felt that if he worked on it any longer he would lose his nerve. He woke Hedwig up, who was dozing after her snack.
"Oi, Hedwig. Willya send this to Luna Lovegood? She lives near Ron. Thanks."
He tied the letter to her leg, and watched as she took flight into the night. If he had not been so worried, he would have seen the irony in asking Luna if something were 'normal.'
******** A/N: Luna really does live near Ron, see GOF "The Portkey." Also, I know this is kind of angsty, but it will change soon, you'll see! And finally, I don't what to be a review slut, so I'll just kindly ask you to PLEASE REVIEW!
The clock struck twelve, and he was still playing with himself.
Harry had gotten used to amusing himself, living with the Dursleys all these years. Years ago, his summer would have passed being tortured and teased by his cousin, screamed and screeched at by his uncle, and bothered and bored by his aunt. Now, they pretty much left him alone, due to the not-so-gentle threat the Order had given them at the end of term.
Tired, Harry pushed away the gobstones (he had just suffered a rather nasty squirt in the eye), and watched his queen being bludgeoned by a pawn. So much for playing against himself in wizard's chess. He wasn't even worried about the excessive noise as the queen begged for mercy; he could tell the Dursleys were asleep by the sound of Uncle Vernon's snores over Aunt Petunia's wheezing. Unfortunately, good old Dummikins was away at Pier Polkins' house. He could usually be counted on for a bit of harmless entertainment, but getting a rise out of Dudley didn't have the same vindictive satisfaction it once had.
Prodding the bishop towards the pawn with his wand, Harry contemplated his ill fortune. This was his sixth summer away from Hogwarts. He didn't mind missing the classes and the studying, but he was sore about not being able to see his best friends, Ron and Hermione, for another two months. He didn't even have Hedwig for company; she was out looking for a few rodents to round out her dinner. Hedwig had been gone a lot lately.
'Probably bored.' He thought, not blaming her. He'd be out of here quick as a thestral if he had a chance. 'Stupid Dumbledore, stupid protection curse. Doesn't he think I can take care of myself?' He savagely overturned the chessboard, the pieces screaming something about dignity and fidelity as they hit the ground. He knew he was being stupid; he had to be here, locked up like a prisoner.
Like a prisoner.
Sirius.
Not for the first time, Harry's thoughts turned to his deceased godfather. The familiar cloud of guilt reappeared as Harry started a new game of exploding crap, a new Weasely invention. This game not only exploded; it made rude noises and emitted smelly fumes.
'Sirius had hated being locked up. He knew what it was like, to escape from Azkaban just to be shunted to Grimmauld Place, unable to help the Order, cut off from helping those he loved or the world he wished to preserve.'
A few months ago, Harry would have felt like Sirius had; thirsty to help, to have his talents utilized. But now.now, Harry didn't care. He had tried to help, and what good had it done? He had nearly gotten himself and his friends killed.
But he had gotten someone killed.
Sirius.
Sirius, who always risked everything to see Harry, who had never let him down.
'And he didn't,' Harry thought. 'I let him down.'
Of course, Dumbledore and the others had tried to convince him that the blame for Sirius's death did not lie with him. 'But I was the one that fell for Voldemort's trick. Sirius came to help me.' And now, he was gone.and not coming back. Harry flinched, partly from this burdensome memory, and partly because the cards had just exploded in his face. 'Damn it,' he muttered, feeling around for his eyebrows.
He rose to look into the wall mirror, but sat down again. His eyes rested on Hedwig's cage, then his Firebolt, then the trunk with all the rest of his Hogwarts things. To this he stumbled towards, tripping over a sticky gobstone. He opened it, not really aware of what he was doing, until he encountered a small, smooth surface.
Sirius' two-way mirror. Of course it wouldn't work now that Sirius was dead, but that didn't stop him from fingering it every night, thinking about Sirius and wishing things had gone differently last June. He started to half-heartedly polish it with his sleeve, and tilted it in different directions, admiring his handiwork. It was quite handsome: smooth, silver lions engraved around an oval surface. He lifted it to examine his scorched eyebrows, and then the faint stubble that had recently surfaced on his chin, when he noticed a dark shadow in the corner.
He swiftly turned around, looking for the source. A rustle of feathers and a nip on the finger signaled Hedwig's return, proudly carrying a fresh field mouse in her beak. Harry watched as she retreated into her cage to devour it, and had the sudden urge to go join the field mouse.
'That way Hedwig can chew me up and put me out of my misery. Maybe I'll make a better hairball than a human.'
At this, a trigger went off in Harry's head. These were extremely unhealthy thoughts. 'This is ridiculous. I have to talk to this about someone; I can't let this keep eating away at me. Not with the prophecy, not with the fate of the wizarding world on my shoulders.'
Harry got sudden déjà vu, remembering his third year when his scar had hurt, and he needed to talk to someone about that as well. He had thought of Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione, but finally decided to entrust Sirius with that information. But now, when he more alone, scared, and angry than he had ever felt before, who could he turn to? Who would understand what it felt like to lose a parent? His mind flashed towards Ron: he had nearly lost his father. But Ron, while great to talk to about lots of things (things meaning Quidditch, Harry added fairly) wasn't too good on emotions. And Hermione - well, how could she relate? She had two, healthy, caring parents, and he had none. He was actually in the negative numbers now, losing his two parents had brought him to zero, and Sirius took him to -1. Harry also knew better than to contact Dumbledore; aside from still being angry with him, he was now working with the Ministry on a plan to take on Voldemort.
'Wait a second,' Harry started, knocking his head on Hedwig's cage ('Sorry there, Hed.')
Luna Lovegood. It was crazy, but it made a sort of lunatic sense to Harry. She had lost her mom; they had talked about it briefly before the term ended. Could he talk to her? It was worth a try. After all, she had told him on the train ride home that if he ever needed anything, he should owl her. Harry had assumed anything meant advice on how to catch a Crumpled Horn Butt Blaster or whatever it was she was always going on about. But now he realized she was offering him a unique companionship, something Ron and Hermione couldn't give him. He would be stupid not to owl her.
And yet, Harry waited. He didn't know how he felt, owling a girl he didn't know too well. What if she took it the wrong way? What if she felt Harry was overstepping his bounds? Or what if she thought he was interested in her in another way? He didn't want Luna to think he liked her as more than a friend; would an unexpected owl reinforce that image?
This mental debate lasted a few more seconds, but he ultimately decided it was too difficult to predict Loony Lovegood's reaction. He headed towards his desk, picked up some quill and parchment, and scribbled:
Hi Luna,
You said on the train that I could owl you, so here I am. I hope you're good, and that you're having a good time this summer working on the Quibbler and all that. Anyways, lately I've been thinking a lot about Sirius. Is this normal when someone passes away? Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. I don't know anymore.
Bye, Harry
Harry surveyed his letter critically. It rambled, but he wasn't really sure how to phrase it, and he felt that if he worked on it any longer he would lose his nerve. He woke Hedwig up, who was dozing after her snack.
"Oi, Hedwig. Willya send this to Luna Lovegood? She lives near Ron. Thanks."
He tied the letter to her leg, and watched as she took flight into the night. If he had not been so worried, he would have seen the irony in asking Luna if something were 'normal.'
******** A/N: Luna really does live near Ron, see GOF "The Portkey." Also, I know this is kind of angsty, but it will change soon, you'll see! And finally, I don't what to be a review slut, so I'll just kindly ask you to PLEASE REVIEW!