Undo, Retry
Chapter 1
by Olafr -
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.
Rating: PG (so far)
Last updated: 30 August 2004.
Author's Notes: A glimpse at some of Harry's childhood.
########
The landing of the motorcycle jostled Harry to wakefulness. He was warm, snuggled against Hagrid's ribs, and for a long moment he thought he might drift off to sleep again. The rumbling of Hagrid's voice woke him for sure, however.
'...drifted off to sleep around Bristol,' the big man was saying.
No! Harry thought to himself. No, you're not leaving me with them! 'No!' he tried to shout, but all that came out was a gurgle that became a loud wail as Harry's frustration at being unable to make himself understood overtook him.
'Oh, dear,' said McGonagall, and almost immediately thereafter Harry felt a calm lassitude overcome him.
'It would not do to have young Harry wake the neighbourhood before he had been accepted into the home of his only blood relation.' That was Albus Dumbledore, mused Harry to himself with a kind of calm acceptance. Ruthless old bastard, just like at school. With that he felt himself drift off into sleep once more, unable to help himself.
########
Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – Ministry of Magic
Office of Accidental Magic Reversal
December 2, 1985
To: Professor Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
In regard to: Mr Harry Potter, Ward of Hogwarts
Dear Professor McGonagall,
I wish to organise a meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss Mr Harry Potter. We have been forced to visit Mr Potter's home at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, on no less than ten occasions in the last two months to reverse a series of accidental magic events of progressively increasing significance.
Further, the investigating officers attending Mr Potter's home recently report that Mr. Potter is suffering under very poor living conditions and appears to be the subject of abuse by the other members of his foster family, who are magiphobic to an extraordinary degree.
It is our opinion that Mr Potter cannot continue to live at his current residence. I urge you to give this your most urgent attention, as it would be most regrettable if one of my officers were to make Mr Potter's deplorable situation public because they felt that he had been abandoned by those who owe him a Duty of Care.
In anticipation of your prompt reply, I remain,
Your servant,
Dennis Huggley
Head, Office of Accidental Magic Reversal
########
Harry woke to the sound of his uncle shouting and leaped against the far wall of the cupboard beneath the stairs. 'WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!' his uncle bellowed. Hope leaped in his chest – perhaps Dumbledore was going to take him away from here at last?
It was Professor Dumbledore's voice that answered. 'I am here to check on Harry Potter. Is he about?'
'WHY YOU--' Vernon's voice cut off suddenly.
Harry sucked his breath in. He had been beginning to lose hope. After years of trying, he had managed to begin to grasp his magic. Perhaps it had been desperation: A few months ago, the Dursleys had started to give him chores to do. Shortly thereafter he had received his first punishment, a dose of Uncle Vernon's belt to his backside, when he had dropped a frypan full of eggs onto the kitchen floor when it proved too heavy for him to grasp.
Unlike the first time he had gone through this, however, Harry had a near-adult perspective and the memory of that first time. He found it very difficult to control his emotions, and certain things did not come easily to him, but still he had his knowledge and a memory of how he would have handled this situation last time.
So he had evolved a plan. He would force Dumbledore to remove him from this place by making it untenable to keep him here. And the only way he had of doing that was magic of the 'accidental' kind.
His first successful 'accidental' magic was to charm Dudley's hair and skin a putrescent green. Then he had done the same to Vernon. Then Uncle Vernon's belt had become a liquorice strap just as it was about to land on his naked buttocks. (That last had been a mistake, as it had still hurt, and Vernon had used his fists for the first time, ranting about him being a freak.)
The thing is, his 'accidental' magic never just faded away so that it could be explained away as an muggle accident. He had deliberately exerted every effort to make the things he did permanent, to force the Ministry to visit to reverse them. He thought that the reason things had gone so badly for him last time was that he had been so thoroughly out of sight. By forcing the Ministry to come, perhaps he could force them to move him elsewhere.
Anywhere.
Well, maybe not with the Malfoys. And he hadn't quite figured out how the issue of the blood protection would be dealt with. If he was moved away from his Aunt, would he still have the protection that had resulted in the Voldemort-imbued Quirrel's disintegration at the end of first year?
He had no answer for this question. But frankly, he didn't care. It had become clear to him after Susan Bones had befriend him over the summer before his seventh year that he had been hopelessly stunted by his upbringing. She had talked to him, visited him (something Ron, Ginny, and Hermione had never bothered to do), and eventually come to love him.
His musing was interrupted by the opening of his cupboard door. A lighted wand poked in, lighting the small space, and Harry was gratified to see Professor McGonagall poke her head into the space. Her expression transformed from wary caution to shock as he watched. 'Mister Potter?' she asked weakly. He nodded in reply, but controlled his expression. He wasn't supposed to know her.
'Who are you?' he asked cautiously, keeping his distance from her. Falling into old, old habits, he felt himself slipping along the wall away from the door, preparing to try and hide under the stair treads themselves. He watched her expression move from shock into dismay as he began to edge away from her, and then into a righteous anger.
'Please wait just a moment,' she said gently with a plastic smile upon her face before she pulled her head out of the closet. Harry settled down to listen to the fallout.
'Vernon Dursley!' said McGonagall in her sternest tone. 'I have never, in all my life, seen such a vile display!'
'Don't blame me,' said Vernon, his voice reflecting his surprise but warmth at what he felt was an unexpected ally, 'it's all that freak boy's fault!'
'Silencio! It is you who are vile, Vernon Dursley!' replied Professor McGonagall.
'Ah, Petunia,' came Professor Dumbledore's voice. 'I am most disappointed with you.'
'Wh-what are you talking about?' Aunt Petunia started hesitantly. Then, her voice gaining strength, she continued, 'And who are you, anyway? How dare you burst into my home!'
'I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' There was a gasp, and Harry smiled at Aunt Petunia's reaction. Dumbledore went on, 'I am here to discuss with you why it is that Harry feels so threatened that he is performing accidental magic at an unprecedented rate, and why it is that the corrective officers sent to put things to rights after those episodes found it necessary to consider reporting you to the Child Protection Services for abuse.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' blustered Aunt Petunia, although her voice trembled unconvincingly.
For a long time there was silence, although something tingled on Harry's nerves. For a time it stopped, then started again. He began to wonder what Dumbledore was doing. If felt like magic, but not his... was Dumbledore perhaps using Legilimens on the Dursleys?
Eventually the feeling stopped again, and there came a deep sigh.
'What is it, Albus?' asked McGonagall.
'I was pondering what to do, Minerva. Alas, you were quite right when you said that they were the very worst sort of muggle. And yet my reasons for placing Harry here remain as valid now as then.'
'I would be happy to take him, Albus. But... you think that he is not in fact dead, then?'
'I am quite certain of it, Minerva.'
Harry's skin began to crawl as he realised that it was very unlikely that they had forgotten he was there, and his mind leaped ahead to the only possible conclusion: They would leave him here after doing something to the Dursleys. Frantically, he began gathering his tenuous hold on his magic, desperate to find a way to cast a shield or anything to prevent what he knew was about to happen.
'Oh, well, I do not like to do this, Minerva, but I cannot see that I have any choice.'
'Surely there is some alternative, Albus? I mean, what you are proposing...'
'I regret the necessity but, as I said, I cannot see an alternative.'
'No, Albus! The ends do not justify the means!'
'I'm sorry, Minerva. Petrificus Totalis! Now, Petunia and Vernon... Obliviate! Harry Potter is the orphaned son of Petunia's beloved sister, Lily. You love Harry as though he were your own son. Mobilicorpus!' For a time there was silence, then footsteps as Dumbledore returned. 'Obliviate! Minerva, we managed to persuade the Dursleys to take a kinder view of their nephew, Harry.'
And then Dumbledore was leaning into the cupboard under the stairs. Desperately, Harry shouted in his mind, Help me, Fawkes! even as Dumbledore said with genuine regret in his tone, 'I pray that you understand one day what I am about to do, Harry. Obliviate!'
########
An ethereal, heavenly song woke Harry. He opened his eyes to see a bird with brilliant, gold and red plumage somewhat like a red-coloured peacock standing over him, one black eye regarding him solemnly. A pearly tear was gathering in the bird's eye, and before Harry could do anything to prevent it, the drop fell warmly onto his eyeball.
Ow. That hurt.
Trying to wipe the icky bird stuff out of his eye, Harry found he could not move. The bird's song intensified, and he found himself unable to worry about the fact; instead he concentrated on the rather odd feel of the tears as they crept around his eyeballs. It almost felt as though they were going all the way into his head!
And then he remembered, but still he could not move. Fawkes came when I called him! he marvelled. Fawkes changed eyes, and began to spill tears once again, this time into his left eye.
Eventually the tears and birdsong stopped and Fawkes stood back. Harry found himself once more able to move once again, so he sat up and hesitantly held out a hand to the phoenix. 'Thank you, Fawkes,' he said quietly but with feeling. 'Thank you very much indeed.'
Fawkes trilled in reply and gently rubbed his head lightly against Harry's hand. Then he stepped back and regarded Harry closely. For a time neither moved, staring into each other's eyes, but eventually Fawkes trilled a song both comforting and triumphant which warmed Harry's heart anew before the bird departed in a flash of fire.
A single, large feather drifted down in Fawkes' wake. A tail feather.
Hurriedly, Harry grabbed it, knowing what it meant. He carefully wrapped it in a scrap of cloth and hid it that the very base of the stairs, where only he could reach. He had only to get a likely stick of wood and a few simple tools and he could make his own wand! One not registered with the Ministry!
Then he'd see how the Dursleys treated him.
########
Making a wand turned out to be surprisingly simple. He pinched a knife and a long drill bit from the rather extensive collection Uncle Vernon had in the shed which squatted against the back fence. It was the perfect one: Long, about twelve inches, and slim, perhaps three mils thick. He also grabbed a small old clamp from the bottom of a drawer that looked as though it had not been touched in years.
Why Uncle Vernon, who had not a handy bone in his body from what Harry could see, had such an extensive collection of tools in his shed was quite beyond Harry. He simply took advantage of the fact that Vernon was unlikely to miss what he had taken.
He also had extraordinary luck finding wand's base material. He had been allowed outside by Uncle Vernon, who now insisted that he be called 'father', and he had wandered over to see what the commotion at the Smith family's house, which was Number 17, was about. There was a truck and trailer, and two men with saws and gloves and such. The Smiths had a big old holly bush that was almost as tall as the house itself that they wanted getting rid of since Mrs Smith had pricked herself on it once too often.
So the tree removal specialists, for that was that they were, set about cutting down the lovely old holly tree piece by piece. Harry had asked them for a small piece of a particularly straight branch about fifteen inches long which he had promptly tucked into his trousers, hiding it.
It took Harry six days, between chores both inside and outside, to whittle the branch into a wand about twelve inches long and bore a hole through its entire length. Into the hole he slipped the phoenix feather and then he plugged the hole at each end with little bits of holly wood that were left over from his whittling. Some furniture wax that he normally used to polish the dining table and chairs gave the wand a warm, satin glow, a lovely light honey brown that he thought was quite beautiful.
Holding the finished wand in his hand, Harry regarded it contemplatively for a long time. He hoped that he had made it correctly. It had the same materials as his previous – or eventual, depending on how you looked at it – wand, it was a similar size, it even had the same general shape. But it did not feel alive in his hand. It felt like a stick of wood.
Harry hoped that was simply because his magic was not yet sufficiently developed to mate properly with the wand. He would simply have to try, and if he didn't succeed, he would try some of the projection techniques that he had learned about as part of his advanced training that would allow him to use any wand, even if it was not compatible.
Aunt Petunia's voice interrupted his contemplation, and he quickly tucked the wand beneath his mattress. For all that they now called required him to call them 'mother' and 'father', the Dursleys treated him as harshly as ever. Sometimes they called him 'son', but mostly they just called him freak.
########
Dennis Huggley was a small, spare man with sandy hair thinning on top and slightly watery eyes. His twill robes had a particularly anachronistic air to them, but they were well-kept and clean. He looked up to see Sandra McIntosh, head of one of his two reversal teams, walk into his office.
'Ah, Sanda, good morning. Time for our weekly update already?'
'Yes, sir. Here are my team's reports for this week.'
'Excellent. Thank you.' Sandra turned to go, but Dennis continued, 'Oh, by the way, has there been anything more from the Potter boy?'
Sandra turned again, vaguely surprised. 'No, sir. There's still quite a bit of activity, but it's all non-permanent and minor. Now that I think about it, it did change all of a sudden. Did you get something done?'
Dennis smiled warmly. 'Yes, I sent a threatening letter to his guardians and they appear to have sorted it all out.'
'Oh, good. Good. Will that be all, sir?'
'Yes, thank you, Sandra. You may go.'