Harry Potter sat alone in his room at Number Four, Privet Drive, and came to a decision.
The first two weeks of the summer holiday had been unbearable. It was strange how for years he had managed to endure the Dursley's casual cruelty without really thinking about it. Of course he had been unhappy; but somewhere deep down he had always believed the situation was temporary, that some day he would be free of them. He had not realised this at the time, however. It was now that he no longer believed it that he knew he once had.
The Dursleys' had been rather more pleasant since their encounter with the Order on Kings Cross Station, even allowing him more food and giving him pocket money. Previously he would have been glad, but now, inexplicably, it only inspired a deep anger, and after a couple of days of awkward politeness he had gone back to spending his time either trailing the streets of Little Whinging or lying alone in his bedroom.
Another thing which had really got on his nerves was the constant stream of letters. Last year he would have given almost anything to hear from his friends; this year he could not care less. It was difficult to escape the feeling that if Sirius had not died, they would be paying him no more attention than they had last summer. Writing back was almost more effort than he could muster, but Aunt Petunia had not forgotten Moody's threat to visit if he did not hear from Harry for more than three days in a row, and she periodically came to check he did not let his correspondence slide.
All these irritations seemed to aggravate a peculiar mental agony which Harry felt unable to share with anyone. Not with the Dursleys – when had they ever shown any interest, even feigned, in his happiness? And not with the letter-writers, with their falsely bright pages of well-meaning chatter, giving him nothing but the intolerable pressure of having to reply. What did they want him to say? Did any of those people want to hear of how he lay awake at night, picturing Sirius as he fell through the ragged veil in the Department of Mysteries? Of how he relieved the events that brought him and Sirius to that point of disaster, trying to pinpoint the moment when he could have, should have realised it was a trap. And how could he possibly put into words the rage and guilt and howling misery that was all his in every waking moment?
He was going mad here in Privet Drive. He was as abysmally alone as he had ever been, and yet surrounded by people who seemed to impose in his life without any reference to him or what he might want. He realised dimly that this had always been so, but he had not noticed; or it had not mattered before. Now he felt as if he were suffocating, trapped in an agonisingly tiny space which was shrinking daily.
So now, Harry decided, this was going to change. Dumbledore had said that the charm protecting him from Voldemort meant he had to come home to the Dursleys only once a year; well he had been here a fortnight, so no problem there. If he now chose to go somewhere else, that was his business. Only three people had ever had the right to tell him what to do, and they were gone; he did not have to ask anyone's permission. Harry gave a bitter laugh and began stuffing his belongings into his trunk; why had this not occurred to him before? Before his third year at Hogwarts, had he not lived by himself quite successfully in a rented room in Diagon Alley?
Only this time he would not be going to Diagon Alley, which was always crowded and where he might meet someone who would want to talk to him or bring him back. Harry wanted space and peace to be alone with his thoughts, in a place where nobody really knew him. Mind made up, he stroked Hedwig and told her his plans so she would know where to find him when she had delivered his last round of letters. Then he waited for Aunt Petunia to go out.
Several hours later, Harry was dragging his trunk along the main street of Hogsmeade in the late afternoon sunshine. With his head down so his scar was hidden by his fringe, he was just another young wizard enjoying the freedom of the school holidays. Anyone paying attention might have wondered why he was on his own, and why he had his school trunk with him a week after term had ended, but everyone else in the village, local or holidaymaker, was too busy to take any notice. For this Harry was deeply grateful.
He thought about staying at the Three Broomsticks, but decided against this in case he met any of the Hogwarts teaching staff in there; and even if he did not, Madam Rosmerta would certainly recognise him. So that left only one other place he could think of, and apparently it was conveniently cheap as well.
Harry pushed open the door of the Hog's Head and trailed his trunk up to the bar. The place was quiet and dark, and emptier than the last time he had been there. Nobody looked up from their drinks or conversations as he dropped the end of his trunk to the floor, but the barman, who had been arranging beer glasses on a shelf with his back to the door, started. He turned and fixed Harry with a piercing gaze.
'I need a room for tonight,' Harry said coolly. Almost without thinking, he met the man's eyes and let his mind go blank. Funny how easy it was to do when it no longer mattered whether or not he could.
The barman raised an eyebrow. 'Only a night, young sir? It's five sickles. Or you can stay for a week for the bargain price of 2 galleons.'
Harry had a vague suspicion the man was laughing at him, but decided to ignore it. 'OK,' he said, putting two galleons on the bar, 'I'll have a week. Thanks.'
The Hog's Head lodgings were reached by a narrow staircase almost hidden in the shadows to the right of the bar. The barman lifted Harry's trunk with one hand as if it weighed nothing, and led the way upstairs to a small room which was unexpectedly clean, if somewhat Spartan. One window, hung with a tatty curtain, looked out over the moors above Hogsmead. Harry gazed outside and felt some of the tension inside his head ease. It would be hours yet before nightfall, plenty of time to go for a walk. The emptiness of the horizon beckoned.
'Complimentary copy of the Daily Prophet, and your keys, sir.' The barman's voice cut rudely across Harry's reverie, and he turned with a frown as the man nodded and left, leaving the newspaper folded up on the bed next to the keys. Harry stared outside for a few more minutes, then pocketed the keys with a sigh and threw the Daily Prophet into a corner without looking at it. Pausing only to check that he had his wand, he went out.
Three hours later, Harry was standing on the moor looking down at Hogsmeade nestled in its valley. He had whiled away a pleasant hour just wandering the streets, and discovered a small cafe down an unfamiliar side street. Eating fish and chips undisturbed, watching Hogsmeade quietly shutting down at the end of the day, and listening to the voices of strangers engaged in comfortable chatter just outside his private sphere, Harry felt as though he were free for the first time in his life. And, while he was far from happy, there was now a light glimmering in the darkness which had been consuming him.
Leaving the cafe, Harry wandered back up the main street. He knew, although he hardly acknowledged it, that he was heading away to the path that led to the stile where he, Ron and Hermione had once met up with Sirius. It would have been the shorter road to where he was going, but he did not want to go that way yet. He turned his back on the path and the memory, and walked steadily up the main street, his gaze fixed on the rugged horizon. It gave him the illusion that he and the land occupied still points while the houses and shops visible from the corner of his eye were gradually moving back, thinning in number until they had disappeared. He wandered on and on until the road itself finally petered out into a rough cart track which in turn vanished into the moorland scrub.
Now he was standing high above the valley. Hogsmeade and the world of people it represented seemed as unreal as it was far away. Harry slowly turned away from it. There was no place for him down there, and he wanted none. Out here, in the primaeval silence was the true context of his grief; only here could he give vent to his pain and find peace. He breathed deeply and opened his arms to the emptiness.
Harry lay on his back on the moor, feeling drained but somehow cleansed. He did not know how much time had passed, but the clear blue of the summer sky was now riven with the reds and pinks of sunset. The beauty of the sight moved him to tears, but this was a peculiarly pleasurable sense, one he had never experienced before. He gazed up at the sky and eagerly drank in the sight and the unfamiliar new feelings.
Sirius Black is dead.
The knowledge filled Harry's mind without pain for the first time. Sirius had come to save him because he loved him, and he had died bravely. But he had not suffered. And one day, he and Harry would meet again, and they would have so much to talk about.
The belief welled up and broke over Harry in a wave of warmth and joy. He rose to his feet and took a refreshing breath. He felt tired but knew tonight he would sleep peacefully; and while he would always miss Sirius deeply, the loss was something he could deal with. And now he should go back to the Hog's Head, where Hedwig was probably waiting for him, and he would write to everyone and let them know he really was all right after all. Yes, this is what he would do, and tomorrow
'Potter.'
Harry turned and froze. Between him and the path to the village stood a tall figure, robed and cowled in black.