Chapter 2: Beginnings and Endings

Harry shot up in bed, drenched in cold sweat and clutching at his scar. Glancing at his watch in the moonlight revealed it to be two o'clock in the morning. Already, the details of the dream were fading but he understood something: the man was able to repel the dark lord Voldemort. He stood up, stretched, and turned on a light at his desk, removing quills and parchment from beneath a floorboard in his room, and began to try to write down the details of the dream in a letter to his old teacher, Professor Lupin.

Harry took his quill and dipped it in fire-ink, a birthday present from Hermione. The ink drew red, burning lines on the paper that glowed with a fiery red passion and warmed one's hands when they touched it, but it wasn't nearly as hot as real fire. Hermione thought it might make Harry more interested in his studies. Harry moved his pen over to the page and began to write:

Dear Remus,

How are you doing? How are Mad-Eye and Tonks?

But he could write no more. Thinking about Lupin and the rest made him remember Sirius Black. His godfather had been the closest thing to a parent Harry had ever had. Angrily, Harry threw aside the quill, spilling liquid fire across the desk, where it burned a small hole, and collapsed back onto his bed, feeling sick. Why did Sirius have to die on him?

He had been completely unable to write real letters to Sirius's good friend, Remus Lupin, ever since Sirius had died. He had sent short, tear-stained notes saying he was well, and the Dursleys were treating him okay. He now had lost everyone who'd ever resembled a parent to him, and he had withdrawn to himself. Everything had happened because of him; because of him Voldemort had recovered; because of him his parents had died. All he did was bring misery. And he hated himself for it. Every step was difficult, every movement painful, knowing that he alone was responsible for so much death!

He tossed and turned in bed, but could not fall back to sleep. As the sun parted the curtains, he dragged himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, and pushed open the door to go downstairs and face his aunt and uncle. They had been tolerably polite to him since the end of the last year where they had been threatened by a group of fully capable wizards, but had been far from nice. As he walked in, Uncle Vernon grunted a good morning through his toast and didn't remove his eyes from an article in Power Tools Monthly (his company made drills). Aunt Petunia was fixing what would be a moderately gigantic breakfast for Godzilla, which she planned to give to Dudley, who was about the size of King Kong..

"What do you want?" snapped Aunt Petunia as Harry appeared behind her.

"Mind if I grab a couple waffles?"

"I didn't make them for you. Make your own."

It appeared that Moody's threats hadn't really gotten through to them. Sighing, he poured himself a little orange juice and dumped some batter into the waffle iron.

Dudley wolfed down his breakfast, stood up, and walked out without a word spoken.

"Where're you going?" asked Mr. Dursley.

"Out," Dudley said frankly. The past year, he would have resorted to excuses about having tea with friends, but lately he had been ever more defiant of his parents.

"Out where?"

"None of your business."

"It bloody well is! You're my only son!"

But the words were lost on Dudley, who, with a little difficulty, shoved himself through the door and slammed it behind himself. The last summer, Dudley had gotten into telling his parents that he was out to tea with his friends, but this year, he tried as best as possible to avoid talking to Harry or his parents.

"Bloody kids these days! They've got no respect! I'm getting tired of his backtalk…" Uncle Vernon said aloud.

"I think we should have a talk with him," Mrs. Dursley said.

"No, it's because he's here. Makes the lad nervous, you know?"

By that, Harry knew they meant him. They had gotten into the habit of ignoring him and talking about him as if he wasn't there, a long time ago, and although, thanks to Mad-Eye's threats they had toned it down a little, they were unable to completely reform themselves.

The summer was looking pretty dismal. He wasn't even sure how he would get into London to get his school supplies for the following year or how he would be able to go to King's Cross station. He had a vision of Mr. Dursley striding down Diagon Alley and had to keep from laughing. He could certainly ask one of his friends to take him there, but he didn't want to have to resort to that. Ron was visiting with his brothers, Fred and George Weasley. Although their mom had all but disowned them after they ran away from school the previous year, they were doing quite well running a magical joke shop, and were great people to hang out with. Hermione was visiting her boyfriend, Viktor Krum, in Romania. He could get Lupin or Moody to take him into town, but they were very busy organizing with Dumbledore resistance movements against Voldemort, and it was best not to bother them.

Harry listlessly took his waffles from the waffle iron and poured a liberal amount of maple syrup over them. He ate slowly, thinking about Sirius, and trying to ignore the pain in his scar, which was just starting to ebb away. He thought, too, about how much weight had been placed on his own shoulders – last year, he had discovered that a prophecy had been told about him: that either he would kill Lord Voldemort, or Voldemort would kill him. Despite all the efforts of the resistance movements and the Ministry of Magic, he was everyone's greatest hope – and he couldn't bear having everyone protecting and caring so much about him.

"Thanks," he said mildly, putting his plate in the sink

Mr. Dursley grunted assent. Harry wondered why he even bothered to speak civilly to the Dursleys, but he felt it was his duty. He then tried to think of something to do. Last summer, he would have probably walked down to the park or tormented Dudley and his gang. This year, he found no interest in anything. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he would, many days, take a long walk for miles and miles, sometimes as far as Staines. He would walk along the hot, noisy roads, looking for any sign of wizardry around. He knew that he shouldn't wander far from his aunt's house, but staying in Privet Drive felt like the worst thing in the world to him. Occasionally, he would visit Mrs. Figg, a lady who lived on Privet Drive and was responsible for watching Harry. She was a Squib, however, she was the closest thing to a magical connection he had around, though she wasn't always the most pleasant person to hang out with.

Today, he decided, he would stay here and try again to get out a letter to Lupin and the rest of them. He wanted to find a way to ask them about the dream he had had the last night, and he felt he was ready to write it now. He approached the stairs, and was about to take them at a run when he saw something that caught his eye. The broom closet under the stairs which he once had slept in was now filled with boxes of unused things. On the top of the pile was a box inexpertly labeled "Lily's Stuff". He wondered why Mrs. Dursley still had a box full of her sister's things, and he planned to find out. He looked behind him and checked that the Dursleys were settled into eating their breakfast, and then carefully slid the box down. It was surprisingly heavy.

It was the only box in the closet without tape, and it wasn't dusty either. It looked like it had been opened recently. That coupled with the fact that the closet door had been open, made Harry wonder if Aunt Petunia had been looking through the box recently. He slowly opened the top flaps and looked inside. The top of the box contained hastily thrown together papers, as if someone had rifled through and wanted to hide something. The papers were not parchment, they were ordinary muggle paper. Closer inspection revealed it to be grade reports for Dudley from his school, Smeltings. Yes, someone had definitely been through this box recently.

Harry knew he should put it back and forget it even existed – he had a feeling he wouldn't like what was inside, however, he ignored his instincts and moved the papers aside as quietly as possible. There was an old but usable wand, some magic runes, a few books and pictures, and a bottle of some sort of potion. There was nothing Harry wouldn't expect her mother to have. Then he saw something very strange. At the bottom of the box was a small silver box with a snake carving on each corner and brilliant gems embedded in it. Somehow, it gave off a strange aura of evil. Harry peered at it closely, and then reached out for it. As he touched it, a new surge of pain shot through his scar like a needle. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. He quickly withdrew his hand. Shaking his head, he stared at the box. There was something odd about it, he knew that much. Was this what whoever had been going through the box was after?

Harry gritted his teeth, and touched the silver box again. The pain was excruciating, enough to make him feel nauseous. However, he gripped the box and picked it up with two hands, and staggered up to his room, nearly crying, he flung the box onto the bed and waited for the pain to subside. With his heart pounding, he sat on the edge of his bed and examined the box further. The snakes were definitely the symbols of the Slytherin house at Hogwarts. Their eyes were tiny emeralds, and their teeth were gnashed together in a demonic grin. The box was about the size of a small jewelry box, and had a tiny keyhole on the side of it. He reached out and touched it once again, almost instinctively. Pain shot through his head once again. Shaking his head clear, he realized that he had left the cardboard box of his mother's stuff open downstairs. He turned around and prepared to cover his tracks, when he saw Mrs. Dursley standing on the landing.

"My, my, aren't we a little nosy?" said Mrs. Dursley venomously. Harry's heart stopped.

"What do you mean…?" said Harry, as calmly as he could muster.

"Don't make me ask you again. Give me back the Drakhen."

"What's a Drakhen?"

"The silver box. Give it back."

"Why do you need it? It's obviously magical, which means it's useless to you."

"Don't speak to me in that tone of voice." Her voice wavered slightly. "I'll shoot you… I'll kill you… Give it back and we'll forget this ever happened!"

Harry stared at her. She looked menacing framed against the sunrise. She was shaking, and she looked like a bomb about to blow up. Harry, however, knew he had the upper hand. In life-or-death situations, he was allowed to use magic under the Decree of Restriction of Underage Wizardry, and he always carried his wand with him.

"Don't you remember your promise to Dumbledore?"

There was a moment of silence as Harry's words set in. Aunt Petunia had promised Dumbledore that she would look after Harry. Although Harry did not know the exact terms of the agreement, the previous year a howler had come screaming "Remember your last, Petunia." His aunt looked furious.

"I promised him that you have to come here once a year. And you have. Now, leave. I don't want to see your face until next summer."

She spat, turned around, and left. Harry needed no more persuasion. He ran up the stairs, threw as much as he could in his trunk, including the Drakhen (with some difficulty), picked up Hedwig's cage (Hedwig was out hunting) and his broomstick, threw his invisibility cloak over himself, and walked out the door.