Harry Potter and the Pillars of Truth Chapter Five: An Uneasy Peace, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: I wish I owned the characters. Harry would have relatives who cared for him and Snape would have some closure. Alas, they are not mine. They belong to JKR, Scholastic, WB, etc.

sighs

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Harry Potter and the Pillars of Truth

Chapter Five

Life in the Dursley household was quiet in the following weeks, revolving unexpectedly around the wellbeing of Vernon Dursley and the simple matter of the transfer of property. That Uncle Vernon had agreed to Harry's suggestion surprised the Boy-Who-Lived, but perhaps having Death pass closely enough that Vernon had touched its cloak had changed the man.

It didn't make him any easier interact with, though, so Harry stayed out of the way, performing the chores that in earlier years would have been compelled of him with a willing heart. It was not for long, and magic made the chore of moving the Dursley possessions child's play. It was strange, as the days passed, to see the knickknacks and photos and furniture disappear, but it amused him to know that the home that Sirius' mother had grown up in would house a Muggle family, even one as disagreeable as the Dursleys. It even gave him an odd sense of accomplishment to go to the old Calvert place to claim the wards and re-work them from within. Layering the wards that he would tie to his own blood and Petunia's took days, but when he was finished with the set-up and waiting only for his birthday to pass so he could trigger the final charms and enchantments gave him a satisfaction that he had never before known.

He wrote letters to his friends and received none in return. Dumbledore, no doubt, trying to restrict his movements and information flow. Fortunately for Harry, Dumbledore and his Order had never considered the use of the telephone, nor that Arthur Weasely, intent on protecting his source of all things Muggle, would Ward the Granger's workplace on the sly. So Harry spent time sending messages through Hermione, who was doubling as a receptionist during the day, while the whole family went to the Burrow at night.

So Harry kept up to date on the activities of his friends with the Headmaster none-the-wiser, just as he made plans for the day of his majority that he was fairly certain the old bastard knew nothing about.

Every time he thought of that, Harry had to smile.

Sometimes, when he was working on his homework or potions for Uncle Vernon, Petunia would come into the kitchen and watch him silently. Harry said nothing to her about this, despite how it occasionally unnerved him. He had never thought about what it would look like from the outside, the occasionally noisome things that went into potions, the sonorous-singsong of mumbled incantations.

"You look a lot like Lily." Petunia observed quietly. "She would come home and fire up the stove and play with the most appalling things."

Harry didn't look up. He was waiting for the potion to flash golden before turning a rather icky puce. "Oh?"

"Yes." Harry could feel Petunia's eyes upon him, somehow uncritical for the first time that he could remember. "Sometimes she would tell me what she was doing, because it was the only form of magic she was allowed over summers. Sometimes she'd just stare intently into the bottom of her cauldron, as though it would tell her the secrets of the universe."

Harry laughed, stirring anti-clockwise precisely seven-and-three-quarters turns. The potion shimmered, turning a pearly grey. "According to Professor Trelawny, you'd learn them in a crystal ball. Firenze -- pardon, Professor Firenze -- sees them in the paths of the stars. Snape would probably agree, though."

"Snape." Petunia said it softly. "The greasy one, with the hooked nose?"

"Yeah." Harry spelled out the fire, leaving the cauldron to cool. "He teaches potions."

"Doesn't like you much, does he?" Petunia's eyes focused oddly. "He was quite cutting when he came for a lock of my hair."

"No." Harry finished cleaning up. "Not much."

"He's got a compelling voice," she murmured. "Memorable."

"Aunt Petunia?"

"'She's dead, fool.' I'll never forget that voice, like flint-wrapped velvet. Smooth undertones and sharp as broken glass." Petunia shook her head.

"Are you saying Professor Snape assaulted you?"

Petunia shook her head. "He was the only one that didn't. He told them I was dead, that there was no more 'sport' to be had. I never thanked him."

Harry stared at her.

"He covered me up." A fine trembling had taken her over. "He directed them away -- did something to distract them just as Lily arrived with that boyfriend of hers. I heard her shouting, screaming at that thing, at Voldemort. He dropped something in my mouth -- a pill, so bitter -- and said 'Heal.'" How could I have not remembered that?"

"Aunt Petunia --"

"Lily stormed in, magic swirling around her, a goddess of light in the evening shadow…" She shuddered. "The voice… oblivion?… And Lily, expelli-something. Then nothing."

"A memory spell. He didn't want you to remember."

"No." Petunia stared at the cauldron. "I'd always hated that magic came between Lily and me, but it wasn't until then that I hated the magic itself and anything to do with it."

"Hating magic kept you as safe as you could have been."

"Hating magic kept me from caring for you as I should have." Petunia did not look at him, her expression faintly guilty. "I'm sorry for that."

"Aunt Petunia…" Harry didn't know what to say to that. He could say that he forgave her, but he hadn't really, just resigned himself to her cruelty. "I…"

"Don't say anything, Harry." She raised her eyes. "You needn't. You will forgive me -- us -- or not. It is enough that you still call me family."

Harry gaped at her. "Er…"

"You humble me, Harry. Even if it is 'enlightened self-interest.'" Petunia Dursley's voice was soft. "Thank you for what you've done for us. If you need anything of me, anything at all, just ask."

She turned and left the kitchen, leaving a gobsmacked Harry behind.

Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was not having a good evening. For the weeks running up to the birthday of the Boy-Who-Lived he had had a sense of foreboding, one that grew denser and more terrible with every passing day. Harry had told him that he was going to leave the Dursley's at midnight on the 31st of July, whether or not the protections upon him were renewed.