CHAPTER THREE

Jamie Dursley and the Letters

Harry drug himself out of black and grey dreams, stumbling down the hall to the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. His head was aching too badly for bright light; he lit a candle and set it on the runner below the mirror.

Downstairs, his father Sirius bellowed curses as the metal bits and pieces of his motorcycle clattered on the garage floor. The rich, flat smell of Dash's coffee and toast wafted up from where he sat in the front room, feet up in front of the blaring television.

After a splash of cold water on his face, Harry tried brushing his hair forward. It made him look like a child. He brushed it back and was an old man, the scar a huge, red, and ugly blemish against his sunken cheeks. He hated it.

"DAD?" He called. No answer but banging in the garage. "Hey, DASH?"

"Mmm?" Dashiell grunted, sucking peanut butter off his fingers.

"How did I get this scar on my forehead?" Harry felt dizzy when he asked. Or maybe it was just that he felt dizzy all the time now. Had he asked that question before?

Dashiell took an echoing slurp of coffee. Harry could hear him unsticking the peanut butter from his gums. The television muted and for a moment there was nothing but silence all through the house.

Dashiell cleared his throat. "What?"

"How did I get this ugly mark on my head?"

"Well, Hare—edge, edge of the coffee table. You were learning how to walk."

Ah, Harry thought, Maybe that's why I'm so- what was the word his father used so lovingly? – absent-minded.

He opted to comb his hair no direction at all. That decided, he peeled off his pajamas and threw them in the hamper, then felt around in the darkened bathroom for his suit. Surely Sirius had hung it up here somewhere- ew, no, this is a wet towel, shower curtain, more shower curtain- ah, there it was.

"You look like shit," Dashiell said when Harry came into the front room. He said it loudly in the direction of the garage, as if he weren't talking to Harry at all.

Harry scowled. "Thanks. Thank a lot."

"Not your suit. I'm talking about your pale face. Come here." Dashiell wiped the peanut butter off his face and hands with a dishrag and went to Harry, as it was obvious Harry indignantly had no intention of moving. "It's a nice suit," Dash straightened the lapels. Then for some reason he turned his head and screamed toward the garage, "BUT IT DOESN'T FIT YOU VERY WELL ANYMORE, DOES IT? I THINK YOU'VE LOST SOME WEIGHT."

And Harry's father came in and felt for Harry's temperature. "How are you feeling? You look pale. Do you want some breakfast?"

Harry shook his head. "My head. I slept funny last night, I think."

His father touched the scar briefly, and then both hands were busy straightening Harry's tie. "Maybe you should stay home. I'll phone the twins."

"Dad," Harry stepped away. "Don't fuss. I'm a grown man."

Sirius smiled at this.

"Tell me, Hare," Dash said, "what did you dream about?"

This was Dash's daily question, and Harry tried to avoid it at all costs, because repeating his dreams sometimes made him feel funny and even ill, and he didn't understand why. Instead he lied about his dreams or tried not to remember what they were about.

"I don't remember," he answered. But as soon as the words dropped from his mouth the grey and black dreams swirled into a crisp picture—a ceiling, only a sky, only a ceiling, only it was a sky, only… and then he was in a… what was it called? The names of people dead and gone engraved on stones jutting from the earth… a graveyard… and…

Black. The next thing Harry knew, his head had lolled backwards and he was gazing at the ceiling. He would have fallen over if Sirius didn't have him by the shoulders.

"Eyes," Harry said. "Red eyes."

He looked to his father for an explanation, but his father was scowling at Dash, who was staring at the Christmas tree, its lights twinkling feebly in the June sunlight.

"We've got to get rid of this blasted tree, Sirius." He knelt to replace an ornament the cat had swatted down.

Sirius's nostrils flared ever so slightly. "Dashiell Peasegood."

Dash's knees cracked when he stood. "Alright then. Stand still, Harry. You've got something on the back of your suit." He whispered weird words, brushing at Harry's shoulder blades.

Harry's head didn't ache anymore, and when his uncle asked him what he dreamed about last night, he couldn't remember.

"…think he should stay home…" His father was saying.

"No," Harry said, "I'm alright now."

He turned and went out the door. He had that light feeling in his head again, a comfortable soft place that made it hard to concentrate. He dropped his keys twice in the driveway before he managed to unlock his car. And something else was wrong…

"Harry," his uncle rushed out of the house, twirling a pair of square, rimless spectacles.

Ah, so that was it.

"Do you have your wallet?"

Harry felt his bottom. "Yes."

"What about your driver's license? Look in your wallet."

Check.

Dash looked worried and was wheezing thickly like he often did after one of Harry's forgetful spells. "Drive careful, Harry. If you feel dizzy pull over a minute and wait."

Harry nodded.

Dash felt Harry's forehead, just as Sirius did minutes ago. "Call me when you get there. Or have one of the twins, alright?"

"Dash, I'm- I'm-" Harry couldn't remember what he wanted to say. Some mornings it was like this. Like his thoughts would gather in a confused, shredded clump in his brain and explode before he could turn them into words. Slowly they would flutter back again, incomplete.

Luckily, Dashiell and Sirius always knew what he was trying to say.

"I know Harry. You're a grown man and we shouldn't fuss. Right?"

Harry said nothing.

"Why do you look so sad?" Dash asked, pointlessly trying to smooth one of Harry's cowlicks and straightening the tie the Sirius had already straightened.

"I don't know." Harry lied.

But he did know. He wasn't sure if he was a grown man, because he couldn't remember how old he was.

Jamie hated summer. Watching the messy-haired dopey guy across the street attempt to open his car door every morning was always the highlight of his day, and that happened so damn early in the morning… then he had nothing to look forward to but watching Dudley dance grotesquely around the house with his new wife, Rosemary, the two of them cooing at each other like drunken doves. They looked ridiculous together because Dudley resembled an uncooked Christmas ham and Rosemary's neck was so long it looked as if her head might fall right off, should the wind hit her at the proper angle.

It had to be the pearls. Dudley had bought her these "authentic" cultured pearls off the television, and that led to five more strands that she liked to wear in creamy rows up her freakish neck.

Jamie wanted it to be September, when they would flattened him with plastic kisses and ship him off to Smeltings, where getting beaten by sticks would at the very least be an interesting change.

Dudley and Rosemary weren't his real parents—but they called themselves his "foster parents." Dudley was only Jamie's dead grandmother Marge's nephew, which was a far enough away relation to give him comfort. His real mother, along with most of the Dursley family, had died in a terrible accident when Jamie was six. Apparently, due to some faulty construction, the entire house had come down on their heads. Luckily Jamie had been staying with his father for the weekend (his parents divorced when he was two) and Jamie survived. He'd lived happily with his father until he was eight, when his father died too, this time in a car crash.

It was odd that his father died in a car crash, because his father didn't drive or even own a car, but when he asked about this detail Dudley said that his father had been riding a bus that crashed into a car and to stop mulling over the gory details.

Jamie had lived with Dudley now for three whole years. Dudley had built his house right on top of where all the other Dursleys had died, and though Jamie often heard and saw the ghosts of his dead relatives (who normally whined too much to be even remotely scary), Dudley never saw a thing and cursed him for sharing his visions aloud.

Now the goofy guy across the street was sitting in the driver's seat of his car with the door open, his long legs stretched out across the driveway. He was hunched over and wiping his eyes. Jamie supposed he was crying, which was weird, because he had never seen a man cry. Rosemary cried all the time, mostly when she couldn't have something, or she thought Dudley had drank too much, and then she would wail, "Dudley, Dudley darling, you've got to stop drinking!" and it was pathetic.

Both Jamie and the goofy man saw the great brown owl swoop down and drop something on Jamie's head. The owl gave a hoot that sounded funnily like a Congrats and flew away. The man across the street put his glasses back on and watched the owl until it was gone, rubbing at his head.

Jamie turned the envelope round and round in his hands, but never got a chance to open it because his fat foster father dove from the house and almost knocked Jamie down, snatching the letter and tearing it up right there on the front stoop.

"Er-" Dudley stuttered, "Never accept letters from strangers."

"It wasn't a stranger, Dud. It was a fucking owl."

"Watch your mouth, Jamie."

"No."

"Er--here," his foster father pressed money into his hand, and sniggering, said, "Why don't you go ask the retarded man across the street to sell you a pair of shoes?"

Jamie swore that Dudley must have known the goofy man with glasses and his wheezy uncle (and uncle who was nearly the same age as the goofy guy, and that was odd, too) across the street. His foster father found it so bloody amusing that the man was "retarded" and sometimes when Rosemary was in bed with one of her fake migraines he would sit with Jamie on the stoop and make jokes about the man that Jamie didn't understand and probably wouldn't find funny even if he did.

Dudley most definitely knew the older man who lived in that house, because the older man had come over more than once, screaming and cursing, his fingers tight around a half-empty jug of whiskey. Dudley would yell back, "Fuck off, Sirius, you murderous bastard, or I'll have my foot in your arse!"

Dud had always said that the goofy guy was an idiot who should be shot and put out of his misery, and his uncle was diseased, and that Sirius was a "crazy old bastard," so Jamie wonderednow why he was being sent to buy shoes from one of them.

Then it came to him, because he had always been smarter than Dudley, even when he was a little baby puking down his mother's shoulder.

"Dud, don't try to distract me," Jamie said smartly, "What was that letter?"

Dudley turned purple, his little eyes shifting back and forth as he smirked. Jamie had a feeling he was making sure his wife wasn't in earshot. "An invitation to be a freak in a school for freaks. Ha-ha! Go on… ask the retarded shoe salesman."

Jamie wasn't a freak. Why would someone invite him to a school for freaks?

"You're not making any sense, Dud. Do I need to tell Rosemary that you didn't really go miniature golfing with the guys last Saturday?"

Dudley purpled again, his pathetic attempt at a mustache twitching and glinting in the morning light. "Just go buy some shoes, boy, and there's another twenty where that came from. I have to… er… nail the postbox shut."

Jamie Dursley crumpled the money in his fist and took off across the street. He had no intention of buying shoes with the money, but wanted to play video games and figured he could hit up the retarded man for a ride to the mall, maybe even convince the dumb little guy to buy him a pack of smokes.

"Yes! Yes, ask him about the letter!" Dudley called after him, laughing evilly.

Dash returned to the house to find Sirius angrily mopping up a puddle of coffee. Near his feet were the gathered shards of a coffee pot.

"What happened?"

"It fell," Sirius replied, but he was lying. Coffee was splattered all over the cupboards and counters behind him; he'd had thrown it at the wall. Dash sat at the dining room table, drew his boots up so Sirius could mop around him, and tried to take a deep breath. "We need to talk, Sirius." His voice was squeaky and weak.

Sirius let the mop fall to the floor with a smack. "No doubt we need to talk. You need to stop being so goddamned sloppy. Last night I caught that boy standing in the kitchen crying because he couldn't eat his cereal. Do you know why?"

"It's not me. He—"

"Because he couldn't remember what a spoon was, that's why. Nevermind that he was trying to eating cereal an hour after we fed him dinner. If this happens one more time—"

"I'm going to tell him, Sirius."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I know you're afraid he'll be angry with you, but-"

"Not again, Dashiell. I won't hear it."

"It's not right."

"I'll give you a raise."

Dash let his booted feet fall on the floor, leaned forward and tried to look intense. "I don't want a fucking raise."

"Of course you do."

"This is it, Sirius. I won't do it anymore. Find someone else."

"Don't be absurd."

"I mean it."

"What on earth will you do? Where will you go?"

"I'll do something. Something- something else. Not this. Ever again."

Sirius laughed. "What do you have in mind? Plumbing? Real estate? You can hardly use magic to tie your shoes."

What would I do? Dash thought. Go on the dole? Live with Arnold Jr.? He was quickly losing the courage he'd mustered. "He's lonely. He's white a sheet-"

"He's anemic."

"MUGGLE NONSENSE!" Dash snapped, and Sirius jumped in surprise. "What do those backward meddling twats know about the human body? They also think that at twenty-years-old he's had multiple—whatever you call them. Strikes."

"Strokes!" Sirius said. Growing weary of cleaning up the glass, he yanked his wand from its hiding place in the very back of the flatware drawer and in seconds the shards and coffee had vanished. "Multiple strokes! And maybe he has had them, considering the carelessness with which you've made him well lately."

"Listen to you, 'made him well.' You've convinced yourself that's what we're doing, haven't you?" Dash crossed his arms. "Made him well indeed."

Sirius sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face.

"You don't want him like this either," Dash tried again, very gently. "Why else would you have moved us right across the street from that fat lub cousin of his?"

"You know why."

"I forget."

"BECAUSE THEY'D NEVER THINK TO LOOK ACROSS THE STREET FROM WHERE IT ALL HAPPENED!"

You know no one's looking anymore, Dash wanted to say, but Sirius was getting angry and like usual Dash's conviction was seeping out through his toes.

"You're afraid there'll be no need for you anymore," Sirius said, "That's all."

Dash's eyes stung. "You know that's a lie. Yes, I could make him emptier than a footless shoe, but he'd never come back. We're keeping him muddled, can you understand that? He's muddled because he's trying to remember. He wants to remember."

"Hogwash. He's just fine. You just need to stop erasing what you're not supposed to. He's otherwise a perfectly happy boy."

"He's not a boy anymore, Sirius. He's a man. We can't keep him like this."

"Yes, we can. He's fine. A little headache here and there is nothing, comparatively."

"He'll forgive you. He'll understand that you just wanted to keep him safe. He'll—"

"THERE'S NOTHING TO FORGIVE!" Sirius roared. "I want those old memories gone. Permanently. Permanently." He disappeared into the garage, banging and cursing as if trying to drown the sound of his guilt.

"Hey Mister, your forehead is bleeding."

So it was. Damn it. Harry dug in his glove box, found an old McDonald's napkin, and pressed it to the scar. He had to leave, quickly, before Dashiell or his father came out and saw. And this little boy. Who was he? There was something about his eyes, green like Harry's, and the roundness of his blonde head that made Harry's head pound.

"What can I do for you, kid?"

"You don't act that retarded."

Harry brought the napkin away, held it at arms length. Blood-colored lightning. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Wow, mister, wicked scar! How'd you get it?"

"I—I don't remember. What do you want?" He said again, "I'm late for work."

"Give us a ride, will you?"

Ouch. Harry didn't like wondering. It always, always made his head hurt.

"What's wrong?"

Harry dabbed again at his scar. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. "Where did you come from?"

"Across the street. My dad sent me. You do work at the shoe store at the mall, don't you?"

The shoe store. Damn. Harry looked at his watch but couldn't seem to read it. He squinted down at it until his face was an inch from the glass.

"It's 8:45 in the morning," the boy said. "Are you…"

"I'm fine. Thanks." Harry swung himself into the car, his feet searching for the clutch and brake. He managed to find them, and he irritably threw the car in reverse, but-

"Shouldn't you turn it on first?" The boy was saying. Somehow he'd very quickly gotten into the passenger side. His seat belt clicked.

"Of course," Harry said, fumbling for his keys.

The car hummed and idled and Harry knew he should pull out now, but- oh yes. His glasses. He pawed blearily around for them. Dashboard, no. Glove compartment, no. Floor, no…

"What are you looking for?" The boy said.

"Glasses."

The boy sniggered. "On your face."

Oh. Harry took them off, wiped them on his suit, and replaced them. A little better. The car lurched backward and the engine died.

"Damn it," Harry said, turning the key once more.

"Want me to drive?"

Harry snorted, throwing his hand over the seat, squinting but backing confidently out of the driveway. "You, drive? You must be eight years old."

"I'm eleven," Jamie informed him, "Next year I'm going to Smeltings."

"Smeltings." Harry winced as another pain stabbed through his head. "That's- that's nice."

Sure, when they arrived at Two Left Feet, Harry hit the curb (he liked to drive fast), accidentally drove up onto the sidewalk and had to back up a little, but he felt better. His brain was waking up and world was crisper.

Jamie, stiff as a board, held tight to either side of the passenger seat. "You drive like a maniac."

"So I'm told," Harry replied, inspecting his scar in the rearview. It was puffy but nothing that would shock his bosses into sending him home. He moved a clump of hair over it, and, removing his keys from the ignition, smiled at the boy and raised his eyebrows. "Ready?"

Two Left Feet had no reputation for being a classy establishment, let alone did it have anything an eleven-year-old boy would be interested in wearing. The store was famous for things like three foot platforms and stilettos with flashing lights. Sometimes Harry would get complaints about the shoes; apparently they sometimes did things that weren't advertised. Harry couldn't remember exactly what. What he did remember is that people would call him, and after the dizzy spell it usually gave him, he would report it to his bosses, who would fall over each other laughing. Then they would tell Harry to sit down in the break room while they called the customer back. Harry would sit and usually his scar would bleed, but luckily it always stopped before Dashiell came and brought him lunch. After lunch he would feel all stupid and what was that word again? Absent-minded. At least his head didn't hurt.

His bosses were inseparable twins called Fred and George. They owned the store and were the greatest bosses anyone could ask for. They never got mad when Harry was late because he'd forgotten where he was going, or when he had to stay home with one of his headaches. Most of all, what Harry loved about Fred and George is that they didn't look at him like everyone else did.

His Uncle Dash was the worst when it came to looking at him like that-- like they felt sorry for him, but also as if they were hiding something. And people he had known for years and years looked at him like he was a stranger.

Like Ron. Ron was Fred and George's younger brother and Harry's "best friend," or so he said. Harry didn't know how Ron could be a best friend when they only saw each other three or four times a year. When they did have a visit, Sirius would always be pacing a few feet away, looking at Ron funny and he wouldn't go away no matter what Harry said. After Ron left, Dash would have a huge fight with Sirius, about what Harry couldn't remember because it made his head hurt trying to.

Harry supposed Ron was dangerous and so it was hard to trust him, even if an important part of having a best friend is being able to trust them. And Ron got so damned angry when Harry couldn't follow the conversation or his mind floated off somewhere while Ron was talking. Harry felt that as a "best friend" Ron should be more understanding.

Today there was a man in a ripped cloak sitting on the bench outside of the store. When he saw Harry he stood and held out his hand. He was completely grey-haired though he didn't look very old, and there was an urgency in his eyes that made Harry's heart beat faster.

Harry stopped to dig in his pockets. His hands shook and his head ached terribly. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't have any change—"

"Harry Potter," the man said, "Is it you?"

Harry squinted, studying the man for something he recognized. "That's me, sir… do I know you?"

"I'm an old friend." The man came very close to him, too close, and shoved a parchment envelope into his hand. "You look terrible Harry. You're trying hard to come back, aren't you?"

Behind them, the door of Two Left Feet swung open.

"Get away from him!" Fred lunged at the man

"Show it to no one," the man whispered frantically. Fred tried to drag him away, and the man put his face very close to Harry's, staring hard into his eyes, "Come home, Harry. We need you."

Fred tore the man away, grunting as he flung him into the parking lot. "Stay away!"

"Remember, Harry!" The man called to him, and then he disappeared into thin air.

The sight was more than Harry could tolerate. Before Fred could turn around and see, Harry shoved the letter deep into his jacket pocket, felt his legs give out, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.

To be continued. Please review!