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Note to readers: Thank you so much, Tess, for reviewing my story. It means so much to me that you think I have talent, and wanting me to continue the story.
Chapter 2: The Summer of Dreams
Harry Potter, like so many times before, awoke with a start.
He jackknifed in bed as though jolted by an electric shock, panting heavily as he searched for his glasses one-handedly, the other placed upon his burning scar. He wiped the cold sweat off his brow and he put his glasses back on, staring into the darkness of his small room with the thought, "How many times have you woken up because of nightmares? Because of this scar?"
He squinted as though he were trying to see something in the pitch black around him, trying to see the dream he just had. It was like most of the others; going through a portkey, Cedric falling dead at his side, curses flying past him as he ran for his life... All memories from the third task, but there was something new about this dream, there was another portkey, one that wasn't the Goblet of Fire, one he didn't go through. And someone else was in that dream... but who? The dream slipped from his memory as the pain in his scar slowly faded.
Sometimes, more often then not, Harry found himself wishing that it would all fade. That all his memories of the Third Task would just disappear – all the dreams, everything – so he could simply believe it had never happened. The world seemed so quiet here at Privet Drive; there was nothing to suggest evil in the world (though the Dursleys were extremely unpleasant, they weren't exactly evil). Nothing to make one think that Voldemort had returned at all, and he could only guess what state his own world was in. He wanted to guess that the wizarding world was as quiet as Privet Drive, he wanted to believe it, and that Voldemort's return was only as he had seen it replayed over and over in his head: a dream.
Harry lay back on his bed, listening to the snores of his cousin, relieved that no one had woken up, though he probably wouldn't have cared even if anyone had. His quiet summer was partly due to the fact that he hadn't seen much of the Dursleys all summer. Harry had stopped coming down to most of the meals in July. He didn't see the point anymore. They just acted like Harry was still at school, like he didn't exist. Harry didn't mind this much, because it meant they had stopped bothering him to do chores, and they let him have his trunk upstairs in his room. The solitude left him slightly out of touch with reality, in a rather trance-like state that helped him forget. He didn't even mind the loneliness. Hedwig helped with that.
Heaving himself out of bed, Harry got up and crept over to Hedwig's cage. She was wide-awake as she always was at night, her keen amber eyes peering up at him through a ruff of white feathers. Harry sat himself on the floor before her cage and asked, more to himself than her, "Should we leave?"
Hedwig hooted softly, almost encouragingly, and Harry smiled. He glanced back over at his bed and at his small, homemade calendar. Friday, August 25, it read.
No more time to wait around here, he thought. He had to return eventually, he just hoped he'd still be able to forget when he was back in the wizarding world. It'd be just like all the other years, he told himself. Classes and Quidditch... and Ron and Hermione... There was no Voldemort in his world. Voldemort was something intangible, nothing more than a threat... a bogeyman that mothers told their children about when they tucked them into bed. Voldemort wasn't real. He couldn't be real.
Creeping quickly around his room, he picked up all his possessions as he went, then dropped them all into his trunk and got dressed quickly.
Harry heaved his trunk down the staircase as quietly as he could, stopping every few stairs to listen to the steady snores of the Dursleys. Harry felt no reason to tell them he was leaving. He knew all too well that they didn't care. He doubted they'd even notice. His trunk landed on the floor with a small 'thud' and Hedwig hooted nervously. Harry opened the front door quickly as he heard his cousin, Dudley, give a loud snore from upstairs and whine from the depths of sleep, "I want more butter on the toast, mummy..."
Harry muffled his laughter as he pulled his trunk out the front door and shut it with a 'click' behind him.
The air smelled damp that August morning and a feeble wind came from the north, carrying a harbinger of rain with it. It was the kind of wind that always foretold rain, stronger winds, and general bad weather. It was the kind of wind to runaway from.
Harry looked around uncertainly. It's not like a fifteen-year-old boy with a trunk and an owl, standing at the corner of Privet Drive at 4 a.m. didn't look conspicuous. He scratched his head as the light morning breeze tossed about his hair, wondering what to do next, when the light of the lamppost above him flickered and died. Harry sighed exasperatedly as he reached into his trunk for his wand. He held it out and started to mutter, "Lumos—", when a large, purple, bus landed before him. Harry fell backwards with surprise, but when he realized his luck, he laughed with relief. Déjà vu, he thought, and the Knight Bus's doors opened to reveal the conductor, Stan Shunpike. He'd started his spiel before he'd even caught sight of Harry
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Jus stick out your— ...Blimey." Stan's spiel came to a grinding halt as he recognized Harry, lying on the ground in the early-morning darkness, and forgetting the rest of his welcoming speech he barreled on, "S'great teh see yeh 'gain, 'arry!"
"Yeah," Harry half-muttered under his breath, "great to see you, too."
Stan helped Harry haul his trunk onto the Knight Bus and they got it pushed under one of the beds.
"To London please," said Harry, holding out eleven sickles.
Stan took the money and yelled over to Ernie Prang, the driver, "Oy! Erinie! Looks who we's got's onboard! 'S 'arry Potter!"
Ernie looked back at Harry through his thick glasses, who smiled weakly at him, and went back to driving the bus. Harry sat down on the bed Stan directed him to, and Stan stood beside him, hands clinging to the bedpost eagerly.
"Ah saw yeh in th'Daily Prophet 'bout the Tri Wizard Tournament," Stan exclaimed excitedly. "Blimey, tha' mus've been great."
"Sure," Harry muttered while looking out the window, avoiding Stan's eyes, "really great."
Stan didn't get the hint and continued, "...Bein' 'Ogwarts champion an' all, wha' an 'onor..."
"I wasn't the only Hogwarts champion you know!" Harry interrupted suddenly, his voice sharp and acrid with anger. "What about Cedric? Does everyone always forget him!?" Harry said this with such fierceness, such rage that Stan got the hint, and edged away silently to the front of the bus.
Harry lay down on his bed with a sigh and stared out the window, watching the constantly changing scenery fly past him in a blur of dark shapes and dark colors and the occasional glimmer of starlight. The words, 'Does everyone always forget him?' ringing in his head. In a whisper he answered his own question, "I won't," and fell into a dream-filled sleep.