Without Question
By Tien Riu
tien_riu@yahoo.com
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters belong to J.K. Rowlings. Plot (what little there is of it ^_^) and depiction of characters are mine. Warning: slash themes (see previous chapters for detailed warning and summary of story)
C&C, R&R and any other derivation there of including flames will be appreciated.
Extra: [tries out her brand new puppy dog eyes] Um. . . Hesitant request here (for this is probably a rather low thing to do -_-;;) but. . . I really hoped to be somewhere in the mid twenties in terms of reviews by Chapter Six. So - please, tell me what you think of the story so far. I know it's slow going at the moment (well actually it just sped up but - anyway) but tell me what you think. Or your guesses for the future. Or - failing all that, tell me how bad it is. Please?
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Chapter Seven: Two Dreams and a Cliche
Smoke rose slowly on the desolated plain. Trees, bare branches scorched, dotted the land. There were no dead - the battle had destroyed all remnants, reducing even bone, blood and grief to ashes. He walked alone, the rags of his robes flapping against skin. Staring down, he realised that despite the ashes that turned the world to grey, his skin was untouched. Though the clothes were shredded, he remained - unharmed. And the ghost of a voice whispered in his ear: "The Boy Who Cannot Die."
"'Unblemished and pure, he alone - unscathed by war'."
He turned at the familiar drawl and he was no longer alone. Draco Malfoy stood there, silver-gold hair pulled by the wind across his eyes. The wind ripped at his robes, revealing and hiding white skin. This is not right.
Draco Malfoy never looked untidy; He looks different. . . Human.
"Why are you in my dream -" had he known it was a dream before now? " - again?"
Draco - no Malfoy - tilted his head, "I don't know."
He wore robes that would have been white were it not that they were intertwined with silver threads. It seemed strange to see Draco Malfoy in white.
"There was a battle here." He hadn't realised he had spoken till he did.
Malfoy was walking away. In the smoke-warped world, he shone like a beacon.
"Where are you going?" Harry called - curiously alarmed at his departure. Why am I worried? This does not matter either - remember?
The answer came, floating on the smoke.
"'I live in waking dreams'."
He turned.
Lord Voldemort stood in the centre of the chamber, surrounded by Death Eaters. How he knew they were Death Eaters he was not sure - they wore no masks, nor did they speak, they were merely there. Handmaidens.
He wondered why he thought those words. He wondered what Lord Voldemort was doing, standing in the centre of a chamber with his Death Eaters.
"Where is your son, Lucius?" Voldemort asked; and he was strangely calm as he listened to that almost-familiar voice.
"He awaits your pleasure, my lord." Lucius Malfoy answered; and now that he had spoken, he recognised the hair - paler than his son's it was truly white.
"Then bring him in. It is time our little dragon fulfils the destiny I have created for him."
Harry woke to the sound of paper being ripped apart. He sat up, grasping with one hand for his glasses, the other touching the scar that pulsed softly in barely remembered pain. The room dropped into focus as he pulled on his glasses - and he stared in shock at Dudley - who was in the middle of a pile of brown wrapping paper, calmly eating a slice of cake.
"What are you doing?!"
And then he realised - I'm fifteen.
*
Dear Harry -
Happy Birthday! How does it feel to be finally
fourteen? Remus and I are currently on the continent so can't really say
much. I have some fantastic news - but
can't say much in the letter.
On another note - how was your summer? The last letter I received from you was mid June. I'm happy to note that they've let you go out more this summer. How is your scar? Any dreams of You-Know-Who? As you haven't written, I have had to assume that everything is fine.
Hopefully be able to talk to you in person later this year, if not, I should be able to receive normal owl mail by mid September.
Till then, take care.
Love
Padfoot
Dear Harry,
Happy Birthday! Are you all right? You haven't written at all this summer. Ron and I are worried - but I told Ron that
if anything had happened, Professor Dumbledore would have told us immediately.
Still, if you can, write back please?
I'm currently on vacation with my parents - last minute trip since they both received some time off this year. We're in Scotland this time - lovely cottage near the beach with a wonderful little village. It reminds me a little of Hogsmeade - I keep expecting to find Honeydukes around the next corner.
I hope you like the present, I heard that it's our DADA text this year.
Hermione
Harry -
Hope Pig gets this to you on time. Happy Birthday!
I know the muggles probably not letting you reply to your mail but I told Pig to only give this to you when you're by yourself. Anyway, want to meet us at Diagon Alley July 15th?
Ron
Dudley dropped the letter onto the ground, the smirk gracing his pudgy face decidedly reminiscent of Draco Malfoy at his worse. Though even Draco Malfoy rarely seemed so malicious.
"Knew you were cheating on Mummy's diet all these years." Dudley grinned, scooping a handful of chocolates from Honeydukes (Ron's present) into his mouth, "Good chocolate." He mumbled, "Bit plain though. Not much of yours friends if they won't spring for fruit and nut." He added, glancing at Harry to see if the taunt had any effect.
Harry remained where he was, sitting up on his bed. Dudley had not begun reading the cards till Harry had woken and attempted to stop him. Dudley outweighed Harry by a good five stone - and despite the muscles Harry had slowly and painstakingly gained in the four years he had been going to Hogwarts, he was no match for Dudley. At least not without magic. And as Dudley knew, Harry wasn't allowed to use magic during the summer.
"Nice cake too." Dudley continued, then faked a grimace, "Oh - too bad. All gone. Guess you'll have to take my word that it was delicious."
This was a scene that Dudley was familiar with - one replayed throughout their childhood. Dudley would do something to Harry, and Harry would retaliate. Harry rarely won - especially not during the summer when Dudley's parents could be counted on to punish Harry for arguing back. The summer had been boring thus far - Pierce had gone off to band camp and Dudley had finished the last of his video games a week ago. He had been amusing himself with his alternate entertainment - taunting Harry - since. Of course, the results had been a trifle - off-centre. The usual methods - tripping, orders and 'making Harry's chores harder' - hadn't worked in the same manner. Harry had simply picked himself up, done the work required and gone back to his room quietly. It was - weird.
He had planned this particular 'attack' carefully. After all, if anybody fiddled with his presents on his birthday, there would have been hell to pay. He had set his alarm, and crept quietly into Harry's bedroom - rather surprised actually to find his cousin asleep. Harry opening his presents usually woke him up early every summer - but this year, luck had been with him (as it usually was) and Harry had been fast asleep.
It should be noted that Dudley was neither a particularly evil nor stupid boy. He was best described by those who met him as an average youth, of average height and intelligence. His features were neither out-standing nor particularly memorable - other than his alarming size of course. The only aspect of Dudley that generally brought comments (other than his weight - which was finally dwindling to a proportion more in fitting with his age and height) was his above average ability to manipulate those around him. It was a talent that likely would have made him an exceptional candidate for a position in middle management one day.
Dudley knew, from living with his cousin all his life, exactly how to raise Harry to anger, unhappiness and a variety of other emotional responses. Or a least, he had - till this year. It was beginning to puzzle Dudley - even the ultimate 'attacks', the ones revolving around Harry's friends, how strange he was, or even his parents - drew nothing more than a brief spark of anger and then. . . Nothing.
Harry knew Dudley was waiting for some sort of reply. This was how the game was played, after all. Dudley would taunt, or pinch, kick and fight, and Harry would retaliate. It was the fundamental portions of his relationship with his cousin. The words buzzed in his mind, old and familiar. The actions itching against his fingers - and yet, clenching his hands into fists seemed. . . A hapless exercise.
So he sat, and waited for Dudley to become bored and leave - which, eventually he would. A year ago, Harry would have found it hilarious that his inaction was annoying Dudley far more than anything else had ever done. Now - there was. . . Nothing. . .
Finally Dudley scowled, picking up the boxes of cake and sweets, allowing the cards to fall, uncaring, to the floor.
"Mummy wants you to start cooking breakfast." He said, a touch of petulance in his tone as he hurried out of the room.
After a while, Harry got out of bed, rubbed what little sleep remained from his eyes and left the room. Breakfast awaited - and then lunch. And later, dinner. Then it would be time to sleep.
It doesn't matter. I don't care.
*
" KILLED CEDRIC DIGGORY! YOU SHOULD BE PUT INTO AZKABAN AND GIVEN THE DEMENTOR'S KISS -"
Number 4, Privet Drive shook as the voice roared, echoing in the early morning light. In the kitchen, Harry stood, plate forgotten in his hands. Dudley had dropped the Howler as soon as it had burst open in his hands and was now crouched in the corner - hands tightly clasped over his ears - with Aunt Petunia.
Uncle Vernon was yelling at Harry - but the howler's enhanced volume put the enraged yells to shame, drowning them out.
" - JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE THE BOY WHO LIVED - "
The birds had taken to the skies and through the kitchen window, Harry could see several of the neighbours crowding onto the pavement, staring in shock at the Dursley's home.
" - JUSTICE!"
The howler collapsed with the last shriek, parchment turning to ash. Harry found his eyes drawn to the grey pile of dust. This was the first time he had heard a howler in full. All the others had spent days in water, waiting for a time when the Dursleys were out of the house long enough for him to listen to them safely. This one had arrived on a grey eagle that had swooped through the kitchen window (much to Aunt Petunia's shock), dropping the howler in front of Harry. It had missed the frying pan by inches, drifting to the ground. Dudley had grabbed it - and then dropped it as it exploded outwards in both sound and seal.
And now - there was silence.
Harry raised his eyes slowly to a glowering Uncle Vernon and an Aunt Petunia with a face so pale it was practically white. Behind her, Dudley was grinning triumphantly at Harry.
The silence was broken by the doorbell ringing.
"Answer the door Petunia." Uncle Vernon said, "Dudley - go to your room."
"But -" Dudley began and then, for the first time in his life, ceased as he caught sight of his father's expression.
Aunt Petunia moved soundlessly through the kitchen to the front door, Dudley following and heading up the stairs. Harry could hear the brief 'thump, thump - pause - thump' of his steps.
"Petunia, dear - we heard the shouting from down the street -"
The voice was familiar - one of the ladies from the Gardening Society Aunt Petunia had joined that summer. Harry had done the weeding and had heard them talking about Aunt Petunia's roses ("The best in the neighbourhood, dear! You have to share your secret.") once.
"Oh -" Aunt Petunia tittered, "It was just Dudley and his television. The volume malfunctioned - you know how these things happened. But Vernon fixed it - so nice to have a dependable man around the house."
"But it sounded so - real?"
"No - no. Just a day time soap operas. Or maybe it was a tape. So sorry we bothered everybody."
The front door clicked shut firmly, echoed by the sound of the bolts being pulled into place. Harry stared down at the floor and waited for the explosion.
It had been years since Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia had hit him, and even then it had usually been a half-hearted slap or a brief smack. Usually they didn't touch him at all, other than to haul him into a room or pull him away from something. Usually they tried to pretend that he didn't exist. But after the howler - Magic, Hogwarts related things, and the neighbours heard. He wondered why he wasn't scared.
Why he wasn't running or trying to explain - or even angry.
Why don't I feel anything?
"They're gone. No good busy bodies." Aunt Petunia said as she closed the kitchen door behind her.
Harry looked up, meeting their eyes more out of habit than any bravery. Does this matter? Shouldn't it matter? Could he force himself to feel something so it did matter? Does receiving howlers count as illegal use of magic - or accidental use of magic? No Ministry agents or owls had appeared.
Uncle Vernon was still red, hands clenched into fists; Aunt Petunia merely looked - frozen. No emotions, merely a face. He had seen her look that way every time she had been forced to talk to teachers about him when he was in primary school.
"I want you and your - your -" Uncle Vernon spluttered, avoiding the dreaded 'M' word, " - your unnatural things out of my house in one hour."
Half a hundred responses appeared in Harry's mind. Voldemort, Professor Dumbledore's reasons for wanting him to stay with the Dursleys - and found that he didn't want to argue. Professor Dumbledore said you had to stay with the Dursleys for your safety. If you leave, Voldemort will be able to find you. What happens if he throws Avada Kedavra at you? You should owl Professor Dumbledore or at least Sirius. A voice - logical and staid (and sounding strangely like Hermione) - counselled. You should care - this matters.
Doesn't it?
Harry stared at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia - and left the kitchen quietly. I can't care.
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A/N: Review? Please? If only to point out plot holes? Or out-of-characterisation?