A/N: Yeah, funny story. I'm a moron. If Chapter 1's end confused you, that's because those were ideas for other chapters. So, if you read it, pretend in never happened. Becuase it didn't, now did it? Anyway, next Chapter should be up soon, and I won't do that ever again hopefully.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Otherwise, I'd be rich.
Chapter the First
He came walking up the front driveway about midmorning. Harry always walks the same way: stiffly and slowly, as if he has something to hide. I think he may have a slight limp, but if he does, he hides it incredibly. I sometimes wonder why he feels the need to hide it around us... I mean, we're like, his family practically... Then again, Harry has always had this problem showing any kind of weakness or need, according to Dad. Dad told me once how Harry used to put up silencing charms around his bed, back when they were at Hogwarts, so that no one would hear his screams when he had nightmares, especially Dad.
I don't like it when Dad tells me these things about Harry- not because I don't want to know about him, but because I feel so sorry for him. You have to understand, Harry is the nicest guy you'll ever meet, and yet you hear about all the shit that he's been through, and you know that the man deserves better than the hand that life dealt him. It's also painful to hear this stuff because Harry still doesn't open up to people- not really, anyway. I don't think I've ever seen Harry cry, or scream, or even laugh... I mean, he laughs a lot when he comes over, but it's not real laughter. There's always something in his eyes when he laughs, something haunted that seems to be holding him back from true joy.
Mum keeps poking him to go to a therapist or something, because she says he's heading for a nervous breakdown. Mum is rarely wrong.
I was reading Witch Weekly, which had a vapid article on the new hot, young(the only words that Witch Weekly needed to hear) Seeker prospect from Durmstrang, Sven Harkina, when I looked up and saw Harry ambling down the walk towards me. I dropped the magazine and, not bothering with shoes, ran to him, jumping into a hug.
Harry hugged me back with those strong arms of his, and swung me around a few times. As he swung me, I buried my face in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, and inhaled deeply. He had the most amazing, intoxicating smell- like grass after a hard summer rain- and it always brought me comfort whenever he gave me a hug. I could have stayed that way forever, held in Harry's arms, my head resting on his shoulder, but all too soon I found myself being put down on the grass, the dew covered blades tickling my bare feet.
Harry looked at me with a grin that stretched that stretched ear to ear.
"Hey kiddo," he said, his deep, gruff baritone filled with amusement, as he rumpled my hair. He always called me kiddo, though its meaning had changed over the years. When I was little, it was legitimately true. When I turned twelve, and wanted everyone to think I was grown up, he had done it to tease me- which had annoyed me to no end. Now, he used it out of habit, and there was always a hint of nostalgia in his voice, like he was sad that I had finally grown up. Harry has always had this thing about childhood which I will never understand. He tells me that five is the greatest age to be, which is in sharp contrast to Mum and Dad (who feel the need to keep reminding me that these are my best years). I think he's a bloody loon, but he's my bloody loon. Or rather, he will be.
"Hello, earth to Jen Weasley, your Godfather is on the line two, he wants to know how you've been."
I snapped back to reality, and blushed crimson. Damn Weasley genes.
"Oh...um...I've been good. Still wish summer wasn't over. God, it's bad enough that Mum's a Professor, but now that I have NEWTs coming up... ehehehe," I shuddered, and Harry chuckled.
"You seem to forget, I knew you mother when she took the NEWTs. That, my dear girl, was a traumatic experience. Ever been woken up at midnight for a study session?"
I shook my head, and Harry continued with his story, "Well, I have. About a month before NEWTs began, your mother began waking me up at midnight, and dragging me down to the common room to study because, well, with only a month to go, we couldn't waste any time doing something as frivolous as sleeping. That went on for about two weeks before finally, your father heard about it, and gave her one of those long lectures he likes to give when he thinks Hermoine is working too hard."
"Well, thanks a lot for that, Harry," I quipped sarcastically, "That really reassures me about having to spend a year with mum."
"Oh... I wouldn't worry too much. Your dad and I have an amazing knack for corrupting your mother, or getting her to calm down, especially when it comes to you."
He was right, and I knew it. Mum had been adamantly against me even getting near a broom until Harry had pulled her aside. I'm not sure what he said, but by the end of it, I was soaring on Harry's old Firebolt. I've never let my head leave the clouds since.
We walked toward the house, chatting amiably. I found out that he had been in Cairo, and that he really hated the Egyptian monetary system. I nodded sincerely, pretending to know what he was talking about. As we approached the steps, I eyed Harry's large leather duffle.
"You might want to shrink that," I reminded him, "You know how Mum gets about that thing."
Harry had had that duffel ever since he had been on the run. In it were all of his worldly possessions, save a few which he kept at our house, and a few which were in his vault at Gringotts of Switzerland. Mum always said that it reeked to high heaven, and that Harry should really buy another one, because it wasn't as if he didn't have the money.
Personally, I had always loved Harry's bag, as ratty as it was (and that thing was rattier than a cheap motel). When I was little, I used to crawl in there, hoping he would take me with him. In it, I could smell the street markets of Deli, the cafes of Paris, the bath houses of Tokyo, and the leather soles of a thousand stock brokers treading over a New York City street. To me, the smell of that bag was refined and worldly, filled with a never ending wanderlust. And, as I had become a teenager, that smell had only become more appealing. If my dream of Harry and I settling down ever became a reality (and I was ready to wring every drop of sweat from my body to have it become such a thing), a piece of that bag would sit in a place of honor on the mantle.
He nodded at my comment, and tossed his bag up in the air. It shrunk in midair, and he caught the now palm sized item in one hand. With a cheeky grin, he stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. I really needed to get him to teach me wandless magic, though I hear its ruddy difficult. Harry, of course, is used to it by know- he hasn't used his wand in seven-teen years. Though it wasn't snapped (it's actually in the attic of the Burrow), Harry can't use it. Apparently, a wand leaves an easily traceable magically signature, if you're powerful, that is. And dear god is Harry powerful. I've only seen it once first hand, and that was back in Third Year. I really don't like to talk about it... I still have nightmares sometimes. All of those poor Muggles...
Harry was looking at me funnily, and teased with that adorable, wry, sarcastic smile of his, "Jenn, I know my absolute, godlike power is enough to make a mere mortal such as yourself stand awed in shock, but really, you must get used to it. You're almost seventeen."
"I won't be seventeen until October, whereas you'll be 37 in what... a week, old man?" I said in the dead serious voice that Dad thinks I get from Mum. The smile on my face, however, showed the tone for the farce it was.
"Old? Me? I am not old, young lady. I am dignified, and refined."
"Oh, so you wouldn't mind me, say, blasting The Black Irish?" The Black Irish were the new 'in' band, and were rather heavy on the metal. Harry hated them with a burning passion.
"You won't be blasting that confounded racket while I'm in the house, ya scallywag!" Harry rebuked his voice a perfect imitation of a true codger. By this time, we had reached the kitchen, and Harry turned to me, an inquiring look on his face, "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm famished, so I'm making breakfast. Have you eaten?"
My stomach growled in response, but I hastily cut it off, announcing, "No, but I'm good. Dad had to go out early for an interview, and I didn't want to take my chances with Mum's cooking. I'm feeling way too lazy to cook, so I'd thought I just get some cold cereal..."
"Cold Cereal! For a growing young girl? Your grandmother would skin both of us alive if she were to hear you say that. No, I shan't hear of it. You shall have a proper breakfast, no ifs, ands, or buts!" Harry exclaimed, bursting with excitement(how he is that awake in the mornings, I shall never understand).He always liked to cook for me which, if Witch Weekly is to be believed (and the opinion there is varied- Aunt Ginny swears by it, while Mum considers it rubbish), is a sign that a bloke fancies you. Suddenly, I didn't feel quite so hungry, as a wave of butterflies filled my stomach.
Harry went to the refrigerator, and started getting out the ingredients: four eggs, and six strips of bacon. He took out a large frying pan, cracked open the eggs, and started cooking them in the over-easy style. That was another weird, endearing thing about Harry- he never cooked with magic, always preferring to do it the muggle way(and something cooked under the sweat of someone's brow tastes infinitely better than something cooked with a few waves of the hand and some fancy Latin words). He said he learned it while living with his aunt and uncle. He doesn't talk much about those two, and whenever he does, he gets this far off look, like he's looking into a pensive. I've learned not to ask much when he gets that look.
Of course, his reluctance to talk about his past is one of my pet peeves with him. Oh, he's told me loads about Hogwarts, no dirty detail edited out. And by everything, I mean everything. I even keep my emergency stock of firewhiskey in the Shrieking Shack, in case Mum ever finds my cache hidden in the secret passage behind the portrait of St. Jude on the 6th floor corridor. However, despite his eagerness to talk about Hogwarts, Harry refuses to talk about the first eleven years of his life, when he lived with his Aunt and Uncle. He also doesn't talk about his summers- except those that he didn't spend with his Aunt and Uncle. And he was always lecturing me about how happy he felt whenever he boarded the train to Hogwarts(usually, he does this in response to me complaining about school). I'm sorry, but any going back to any school, even Hogwarts, sucks. Harry wouldn't have been that happy without a reason. There's also some other information that I found out about Harry's Aunt and Uncle that I'm sure I'm not supposed to know. Once, I woke up at what must have been well past midnight, and started walking downstairs to get a glass of water. However, as I reached the landing right before the kitchen, I heard my Dad screaming in fury. I stopped, and, sitting on the stairs, began eavesdropping.
"Moine, are you insane?" That was definitely Dad- no one else could sound that pissed, or roar as loudly.
"I'm just saying dear, that it'd be a good house to hide in. It's not like they are living in there anymore." That was Mum, sounding meek and reasonable, like she did when she was pretty sure that she was wrong, but would never admit to it.
"Moine, he lived in that place with bars on his window! There are probably still blood stains in that cupboard! And you want to send Harry there? Aren't you the one who keeps saying that he's bound for a nervous breakdown?"
My twelve year old eyes had widened in shock at that, one thought running through my mind, "Harry had bars on his window?"
You must understand, I was twelve, and could not really fathom any home situation other than my own loving one. The thought of living with bars over ones window simply boggled my young mind.
I was snapped out of my reverie by Mum's shocked voice, "Bloodstains?"
A pause, during which Dad was probably nodding sadly.
"I'd forgotten you weren't there when we went to get him after Sirius died," Dad whispered in a sad, angry voice, which my sharp ears caught through the dead silence of the kitchen. "You didn't see. It...It wasn't good. You probably have the right to know the whole thing, and because Harry would never admit that it happened, even today, I had better tell. Okay, so, you remember how they sent some Order members to get Harry, so that he wouldn't go get all depressed and do something stupid after Sirius' death? Well, they let me come, because I knew the way around the house, just in case something bad happened. I remember having this really horrible feeling when I saw the house after we had portkeyed over. It was so... quiet... and peaceful. But the quiet was like the silence of death, Mione. I didn't notice then, but all the windows were shut..."
I quickly realized that this story was quickly going to go into realms far darker than my young mind should tread in, and scampered back upstairs.
Of course, it wasn't just his relatives that Harry refused to talk about. He also never talked about the war- even less than Mum and Dad. He kept saying that thousands didn't fight and die for me to be traumatized years later by an old man's ramblings.
That was the inherent contradiction of Harry- for a man who packed light and traveled light (that leather duffel was his only bag); he had more baggage than anyone I had ever met. Sometimes, I just wanted to hug the poor wretch, and let him sob into my arms, sob and sob until he let out all the pain that he foolishly felt obligated to carry on his shoulders. Sometimes, I wished I could be his rock.
Harry's tap to the shoulder startled me, and he looked down, his green eyes brimming with concern, "You feeling all right? The Jenn Weasley I know would have gossiped all during my cooking. It's not like you."
"Sorry...just thinking," I stammered out, as I blushed. Something about Weasley women and green eyes, according to Aunt Ginny.
"Oooo, has ickle Jenny got a boyfriend? You do realize that now I have to give him the over-protective male speech," Harry sighed out, with a bit of nostalgia. He must have gotten a lot of practice with Aunt Gin's boyfriends.
"No...it's not a boy," I stated, my blush deepening.
"Well, I didn't know you swung that way, but that's okay. I wouldn't have told Sirius if I had been gay either. So, who's the lucky gal?" Harry grinned, looking insufferably cheeky.
"And insufferably snoggable," my damn subconscious added.
However, even as I thought this, I was spluttering out a denial, "H...Har...Harry Potter! You are an insufferable prat!" My eyes quickly glanced around; looking for something to throw at him that wouldn't cause any permanent damage. Key word there being permanent.
Harry finally couldn't help it any more, and burst out laughing, wheezing, "Oh...oh...god...the look on your face! Oh...god...I wish I had...a camera...so priceless."
I harrumphed angrily, and shooting a glare (another wonderful ability that Mum had given me), I turned to my plate. The eggs lay near the top, their yokes looking like eyes. On the bottom, three pieces of bacon were arranged in a curve, and the entire thing looked like a smiley face. Oh god, the man had done it again.
"Harry, how, exactly, old are you?" I asked innocently, batting my eyelashes.
"Thirty-seven." He remarked distractedly, muttering quietly at The Quibbler, the most respectable newspaper in the wizarding world.
"Then why have you not outgrown smiley face bacon and eggs yet, for either you or me?"
Harry put the paper down, and sighed, then spoke with an exasperated note in his voice, "Jenn, as I've told you a thousand times, the smiley face cheers you up, allowing you to start your day off right. It's simple logic really."
"It's childish, and you know it," I retorted, annoyed by his childishness.
"Dear Merlin," Harry said, holding his hands up defensively, "No reason to get so testy. I'm sorry, god..."
He gave me a sad, puppy dog look with those green orbs of his, begging forgiveness. I, however, decided to let him suffer, as my fork viciously began assaulting the eggs. He was going to suffer through this meal in silence, if I had anything to say. Or, in this case, not to say.
Harry, however, had other plans.
"Oh, is someone being Ms. Grumpyface?" He teased, in a voice a normal person would only use on a five year old. "You see, you're just proving my point here Jenn- the lack of joy in the morning has warped your brain."
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, as he nodded sincerely. Sometimes, I really hate that man, with his devilish good looks, his wry wit and sarcasm, and his absolute selflessness. Damn him and his being the ideal boyfriend.