Chapter 6

The Phone Call



The next four days passed with excruciating slowness for Harry. He had done all the clothes shopping that he had needed to do, cleaned the house several times, and experimented carefully in the kitchen, finding to his surprise that the cooking was not as bad as he had feared. Although he would not dare call himself good at it, he generally found it easier than he had expected and had eaten fairly well, with the exception of one meal that he burned pretty badly when he completely forgot about it being in the oven. But, generally, he was bored, very bored. He had no one to visit with, nothing to really do. He loved to read but did not have a library card. He also seriously doubted that if he went in to apply, they would give him one.

He did not have the option of going out much to either window shop or sit in bookstores or libraries to read books or people-watch or anything. Too dangerous. He would have given just about anything for one of his school books. Even his textbook from Potions, his least favorite subject, would have done something to break the monotony. He had picked up a few best-sellers when he had been out on an errand but found them rather tedious. He was watching a lot of television but in general he could not understand what Dudley had found so engrossing about it. Sure, some shows were pretty good, and he was just learning the character's names and figuring out their rather twisted relationships in a few of the daily serials that he found semi-engrossing. He even spent time one afternoon staring at Sir Lionel silently willing him to wake up, even jostling the frame where he still slept on, snoring loudly. Sir Lionel had moved slightly, but had gone right back to sleep, barely missing a beat in his rhythmic snores.

But, for the most part, he just felt homesick, desperately wanting to return to Hogwarts and his friends. He missed Ron. He missed Hermione. He missed his owl Hedwig. He even in some small corner of his brain missed Draco Malfoy - at least if he was around he would have had someone to exchange insults with. He wondered, in the middle of the night when he was feeling most lonely, if they missed him, too. Maybe, he told himself, they were happy he was dead. Maybe, they hardly noticed that he was no longer around. In the light of day, he knew these thoughts were foolish, but sitting alone for hours and hours can start to do strange things to your brain. And then he especially missed Quidditch - a sport that he excelled and loved almost more than anything else on earth.

Knowing how exciting it was to watch Quidditch players zoom through the air on their speeding brooms and even more keenly knowing how it felt to be one of those players made almost any Muggle sport boring to watch. Harry tried his best to get involved in a televised soccer game and also valiantly watched four games of cricket, a polo match, and even a fairly interesting game of American football. But try his best, he just could not get too excited. The players seemed hampered by gravity, tied to earth, bound by the limitations of living in the Muggle world. Harry looked at them and saw himself; he found this depressing. He finally gave up watching any sports at all on television. It made him maudlin.

It was the afternoon of the fifth day that he finally ran out of the easy to prepare meals that Cassie had carefully instructed him in fixing. The refrigerator was basically empty and the only thing he had left in the freezer was a roast beef. She had said that he could bake this and eat it for several different meals. At the time, Harry had nodded his head in agreement, for he loved roast beef and the thought of a nice piece with gravy sounded pretty tasty. However, contemplating the frozen chunk of meat sitting in his freezer, trying to picture it later sliced on his plate, Harry decided it was just too much effort. He had no idea how one was supposed to cook a roast beef and the fact that it was presently hard enough to hammer a nail with made it that much more intimidating.

Harry closed the freezer door, deciding that it was time to make another run to the grocery store, when the scrap of paper he had stuck up there on the first day caught his eye. Not that he had forgotten it was there. It had burned itself into his brain and he had the number memorized. Now, however, he realized that he had a good excuse to call her. Maybe she could tell him what to do with this roast. He could go shopping to buy something else. Yes, he could. Or, he could call her. Maybe he could call her on the way to the grocery store. That would mean that he would not be outside more than necessary. Then, she could tell him how to cook the roast. He could buy stuff for tonight but he would know how to cook the roast for tomorrow. Yes, that would make sense. No one, Harry decided, could fault him for that plan of action.

With slightly shaking hands, Harry took the piece of paper off the fridge and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He grabbed his wand and tucked it into his waistband, feeling some nervous quivering in his stomach. He was always nervous when he left the house. It made him vulnerable. He knew that much. But he had to go out for shopping, that could not be denied. He grabbed the scrap of parchment with the address of the house on it and stuffed it into his back pocket. He also grabbed the letter for Dumbledore that he had composed that morning. He pushed down the niggling feeling of guilt that surfaced as he thought of the information he was specifically not including in his daily missive. After all, today's letter was already written and he did not even know if Cassie would be home. He unlocked the door and stepped out onto the steps and down onto the street, watching as the house apparently collapsed on itself and disappeared into nothingness.

The phone box down the street from his house was mercifully empty and Harry stepped into it, carefully shutting the door behind him. He inserted his coins and dialed the now familiar number with hands that shook slightly. He did not know, as he heard the rings on the other end, if he hoped that someone answered or if he hoped that no one did.

"The Robinsons' residence" a deep male voice said after five rings, just as Harry had decided that no one was there.

"Uh, yes. Is Cassie there?" Harry winced at the trembling in his voice. He hoped that it was just from lack of use.

"Hello?" Her voice was bright, happy - just as Harry remembered it from the store.

"Cassie?" "Yes." "This is Harry . . ." he thought quickly, "Harry, from the grocery store the other day."

"Oh!" She sounded surprised but in a good way, like she had just been given an unexpected gift. "I thought . . . Well, I figured you would never call me. I thought, well, I thought I had frightened you away."

"No. I just. . . . The cooking has been going great. But, I . . . Well, the roast is frozen solid and I don't have any idea how to cook it." That wasn't really how Harry wanted to start the conversation. It didn't sound suave and sophisticated. It didn't tell her how lonely he was or how happy he was to hear her voice, or how desperately he wanted to see her smile at him again, or even laugh at him if she wanted, and it didn't tell her how many times he had wanted to call her over the last few days. It didn't tell her any of those things and he groaned inwardly at the complete silence on the other end of the line.