― CHAPTER TWO ―
His Mother's Best Friend
At number four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter was jarred awake by the burning of the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He had been dreaming about the two people he loathed most in the world, the murderers of his parents and of his beloved mentor. In the nightmare, Voldemort had been praising Snape for killing Dumbledore, and then said something else –it was fading already –that made Snape smile …
Harry groaned. Whatever Snape was smiling like that about could not bode well. Fury and resentment coursed through Harry's body as he remembered the ex-Potions Master's sallow face contorted with hatred just before the green flash of light exploded from his wand … No, I can't think about that right now, Harry told himself. I have to focus on the present, and what lies ahead …
All notions of sleep driven away, Harry sat up in bed, his untidy black hair even more rumpled than usual, and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. He glanced at the clock: it was midnight. He had exactly twenty-four hours left of being underage in the wizarding world –at this time tomorrow, he would turn seventeen.
Which means goodbye to the Dursleys forever, thought Harry elatedly. Then his face fell. Leaving his aunt and uncle's home meant losing the protection that his mother's blood had been shed for, the only thread that remained connecting Harry to his lost family. He was quite alone now; despite the pledges of his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who wanted to accompany him on his forthcoming quest of destroying a mortal Voldemort, Harry had no wish to endanger the lives of any more of his loved ones. Too many people have already died because of me.
Shaking his head to clear it of the webs of pessimism that threatened, as they had been doing all summer, to turn into morbid depression, Harry picked up a heavy leatherbound book from the floor by his bed. Dusty gold lettering in an antiquated script on its cover read Magick Moste Evile. Harry had been studying this manual to the Dark Arts –a gift from his former (and favorite) Defense instructor, Professor Lupin –as a guide to preparing himself for what he might encounter when facing the Death Eaters and their Lord. Know thy enemy: Harry chanted the maxim like a mantra these days.
So far he had covered the chapters dealing with seven branches of "black sorcery" that corresponded, oddly enough, to the seven deadly sins in the Muggle version of evildoing. The illegal curses for killing and torture were classified as Wrath, the Imperious was under Pride, and there was even a Seduction enchantment for Lust. Although the text censored the topic of Horcruxes –objects that concealed a part of soul, ripped by killing –Harry had no trouble guessing that they bordered between Greed and Gluttony: stealing innocent life; craving excessive existence
Or in other words, thought Harry bitterly, eating death.
He passed over the chapters on Dark Creatures, since he was already painfully familiar with the horrors of Dementors and Inferi, as well as less horrific but equally undesirable species of trolls, dragons, arachnids, werewolves, and … suddenly, an interesting heading caught his eye.
Harry stared at the word. Serpentry.
A kaleidoscope of images began tumbling through his mind. The duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic two years ago, where Voldemort had brandished a huge, hissing, whiplike snake in midair, its venomous fangs ready to strike … his own duel with Draco Malfoy, in their second year, Malfoy yelling 'Serpentsortia' … Harry's ability to speak Parceltongue, snake language, a legacy from the Heir of Slytherin … Riddle's basilisk, whose gaze was lethal … the Dark Mark, which was a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth … and of course, the possibility that Nagini, Voldemort's cherished pet snake, might be a Horcrux …
Serpentry is Voldemort's signature Dark Art, Harry realized. If this was his enemy's forte, then Harry would have to educate himself in it thoroughly, mastering both offensive and defensive spells.
With an unexpected jolt he recalled Snape's words from that last fateful night. "Blocked again, and again, and again, until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!" As much as Harry hated admitting it, Snape had been right. Harry's non-verbal spellcasting skills were not up to par even by N.E.W.T. standards, much less for attack or defense against a wizard known to be the world's most powerful Legilimens.
A soft hoot interrupted Harry's musings. He leapt to the window to let in his beautiful snowy owl, whose arrival he had been eagerly anticipating.
"Thanks, Hedwig," said Harry, feeding his bird a chocolate-covered grasshopper after he had untied the piece of parchment from her leg. She regarded him with serene amber eyes, flew onto her perch, and tucked her wings into sleeping position.
It was a very cryptic letter, short and unsigned, but Harry recognized Ron's messy scrawl and grinned as he interpreted the good news:
Birthday Boy,
Operation "Muggle Liberation" 23:59 tomorrow
Keeper King & Cat Woman
They were keeping their promise to show up for his final departure from this house, then! Harry felt a drowsy wave of contentment wash over him … suddenly, his bed looked inviting again.
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The next morning, as Harry walked into the kitchen for breakfast, he was surprised to see Aunt Petunia sitting alone at the table, staring listlessly down into a teacup clutched in her bony hand. When she heard the door closing, she glanced up and mumbled, "Good morning, Harry."
Harry was so taken aback at this unprecedented greeting, that he gaped at her for a moment or two before managing to reply, "Er –morning Aunt Petunia."
She returned to perusing her teacup in a way that reminded Harry uncannily of Professor Trelawney. Wary but curious, Harry poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down at the other side of the table.
For awhile, there was no sound except Harry munching on oat bran. Then, he heard Aunt Petunia sniffing. He looked at her, and, as unexpectedly as would have been seeing a snowstorm in July, saw that her red-rimmed eyes were looking tearfully into his own green ones.
"Lily's eyes …" she moaned.
Could it be … She's crying because I'm leaving?
Harry had no idea what to do. He nervously cleared his throat and, touching his aunt's bony finger hesitantly, asked, "Are you, um, O.K.?"
She shuddered, but did not pull her hand away.
Harry was beginning to feel slightly panicky. What had happened to make his mother's sister, who for all his life had despised and belittled him, now consent to his comforting her as she cried? He tried again, "Tell me, please, Aunt Petunia … what's wrong?"
"Voldemort," she whispered shakily.
For the third time in barely ten minutes, Harry was stunned. Involuntarily, his grip had tightened on Aunt Petunia's hand the moment she had pronounced the name that only a dozen people he knew dared to speak.
"What about him?" he said, his throat dry.
His aunt's eyes refocused on him as if suddenly registering Harry's presence. "N-nothing!" she cried shrilly, snatching her hand away and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I just thought if –I was remembering –oh, never mind!"
It struck Harry that this was his chance, perhaps his only chance ever, to question Aunt Petunia about her memories of his mother. He gazed at her beseechingly.
"Auntie, please … my mum, I'll never know her –" his voice caught. "I need to know what you, her sister, remember … "
Now he was the one blinking back tears. Aunt Petunia sighed.
"I suppose since you're leaving, and," she grimaced. "We are –well, blood, after all …" She wrapped her fingers firmly around her teacup and took a sip of what must have been extremely cold tea.
"What do you want to know?"
Harry's heart soared. He blurted in a rush, "What was she like? What did she say of my father when they were at school? What did she tell you about the Dark Order or the Order of the Phoenix? What … what did she say about me when she was alive?"
Aunt Petunia's horseish features drew into a frown. "I've already told you, Lily was the golden girl in our family. Always sunny, and talented, and oh-so-" her sarcastic tone faltering, she swallowed. "Sweet." Her eyes grew misty again. "My baby sister was the friend I never had again."
Harry felt something in him ache, but said nothing.
"And then –that Potter came along and married her and I refused to see her on their wedding day or after it! I couldn't bear to have that kind of abnormality in my life, especially since I was engaged to Vernon and he disapproved direly of them."
Harry nodded wearily. He had heard this part a thousand times and it no longer angered him. "But how did you hear of Voldemort … ?"
"I don't know anything about that!" Aunt Petunia's voice went up an octave. "Just that he –he took her life, he was evil, he was after you … all explained in a letter left by that bizarre old man with the long beard, the one who was here last year." She shuddered, apparently at the recollection of Dumbledore's visit to Privet Drive, which had included watching the hysterics of a grubby house-elf on her spotless living room rug.
"Yeah, well, he's here no longer," Harry muttered sullenly.
Aunt Petunia gave him a disdainful look, as if Harry was stating a quite obvious fact just for the pleasure of irking her.
"Wait," said Harry, remembering Dumbledore's Howler sent to his aunt and the conversation that followed it. "You knew about Azkaban! What else did you overhear my dad saying to my mum that day?"
"I never said it was Potter," said Aunt Petunia. "That happened well before Lily met him, during Christmas holiday one year when she brought her best friend home, an awful, creepy, greasy boy named Severus …"
"You mean Sirius," Harry corrected automatically.
"I know what I mean, boy!" she snapped. "I remember his name distinctly because it matched him so well … that nose was severe indeed …"
Harry felt as if the room was spinning. He clutched the edges of the table to steady himself, and spat, "Severus … Snape?"
"Yes, that was his surname," Aunt Petunia nodded distastefully.
"You say … you say he was my mum's best friend?"
"Are you hard of hearing? Of course I did! They were inseparable, Lily and 'Sev' as she called him, his name was all over her letters from school, until … for some reason, in her last year, she cut off the friendship. Came to her senses about freaks, it seems." As an afterthought, she added darkly, "Only to take it up with Potter."
Harry's mind was reeling. So this is why Snape had delivered his parents to their death. Not because he hated James, but because he wanted revenge on Lily for choosing James over him! Desecrated her friendship! He hated the man with such intensity that he thought he might be sick all over the breakfast table.
"Harry … what ever is the matter?"
Aunt Petunia was gawking at him with eyes as round as her teacup saucer. Harry just grunted and, standing, muttered, "I need to go."
He left his baffled aunt sitting with her frozen tea as he rushed outside, into the bright sunlight on the perfectly kept green lawn, where he sat down by a line of ants, and, picturing each black ant as a miniscule black-robed Snape, changed his mantra. "Avada Kedavra," he repeated, over and over, practicing, letting the spell burn into his repertoire.