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Chapter Eight
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I still haven't figured out if they're going to kill me or not. Revenge and all that. But now I'm sure that little girl is a Weasley. It's strange. Like being stuck in the past. I wonder whose she is. One of the twins, probably, it's their shop I'm going to.
I didn't wait to recover. I don't want to say it but I'm petrified Dumbledore will find me and stick me back into an asylum again. I don't think I could stand that after escaping.
I am walking to Hogsmeade. It sounds ridiculous but I can't risk going on the Knight Bus. Dumbledore will keep tabs on that. So I figure all I have to is find Kings Cross Station and follow the tracks. I can't take the underground, I have no money and I wouldn't know how to anyway, so I'm in for a very long walk.
I ask a man for directions. He gives me a disbelieving look, I think because he is wondering why I don't take the underground, but tells me anyway. I thank him, sigh, and start walking. The betrayal is in the very front of my mind and inescapably strong.
After a very long hour of envying the drivers who sweep past me doing 50 miles an hour, I catch a ride with an outgoing old man who tells me about each one of his nineteen grandchildren in detail. I welcome the distraction. I learn that Timothy turned nine in July and wants to be like his older brother Ian, who is a firefighter. Their cousin, Eleanor, has just had her first child with her husband Dean, she is a photographer. I know embarrassing stories about when Roland was three and a half. I know how Amanda once had chicken pox. I wonder if the ride was really that long or if the man just talks that much. I could tell you that Wyatt flunked out of some prestigious school to join a band and that Connor, his youngest brother, lost his first tooth yesterday.
I could tell you many, many things about the Cameron family but I won't because we just arrived at Kings Cross Station and my attention is elsewhere. Before I leave I thank Leo and as an afterthought I ask the date.
"1 September, 2000." He answers and I freeze. There is no way. But it seems there is. There is no sour luck like mine.
I look at the clock. 4:30pm. I could have stowed away if I'd arrived five hours earlier. Now I just have to stick to my original plan and follow the tracks. There are no words for how bitter that makes me feel. Life seems to blow up in my face on purpose. I wish I could do to it in kind.
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I notice as I walk that my stomach appears to be eating itself. I have a strange yearning for roast chicken right now. Roast chicken with ice-cream. And pistachio nuts. Is this what happens when you're about to die of starvation? You get weird cravings? I suppose I should know, having lived with the Dursleys for sixteen years.
I slept under the stars and I felt the cold. I have been institutionalized for the past three years, I haven't adapted to this harsh weather and am ill-equipped for the situation. Despite this, I didn't freeze to death and I was able to get up in the morning to continue on my way.
I imagine Ron walking beside me with his usual grin. And maybe Hermione on my right, chatting about exams, her book back gently bouncing off her knee as she steps. I imagine answering a question one of them asks with a carefree laugh. I think of how we smile at each other. How Ron and Hermione look at each other when they think no one is watching. Ron and Hermione walk beside me and I'm happy. But they're not really there and, as crazy and unbalanced as I may be, I do realize that. It hurts to know I'm alone inside my head and I'm alone for real. If I dreamt that night I don't remember it. It is a relief, usually I don't sleep for the nightmares.
"Just a few more steps," I lie to myself. It is the only encouragement I have.
It is with great surprise that I see the beginnings of Hogsmeade. Surprise and overwhelming relief.
I duck my head as I pass the Three Broomsticks. I don't want anyone to recognize me, the havoc it would cause would have Dumbledore on me before I knew it. However, I cannot stop myself from staring at it longingly. What I wouldn't give for a butterbeer. Beyond that, what I wouldn't give to be back when I could walk in there with my friends and not worry about Dumbledore incarcerating me. Coming back here has made me nostalgic. The sight of these shops unharmed by Voldemort and age makes me feel like I haven't been away for so long. And maybe I haven't.
Opposite Honeydukes I find the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. A hint of apprehension creeps into my mind as I turn the handle. Apprehension of what? I don't think I fear death anymore. I'm too tired to. More tired than I could've imagined at fifteen, when I thought my life sucked beyond any degree to which it had before. But I fear... atonement? No, that's not right. It's something completely different to that. I'm afraid of judgment. I fear my day of reckoning. To be less dramatic: I fear the Weasleys blaming me.
I am ushered in immediately. Someone mutters a spell and the sign says closed. I recognize the person holding my arm. She is...
"Eloise?" I manage to ask as I realize where I know her from.
She smiles brilliantly but there is a bit of worry in there.
Before I can say anything else - but I don't know what it is I would say - Fred and George are in my face. They look older. Why am I surprised? Do I forget that this happens? People get old. They go cold and they die.
"Harry." One nods seriously. They look more grim than I've ever seen them.
I can't say anything though. It's as if my hunger and fatigue, both mental and physical, catch up with me.
"He needs to eat." I hear Eloise say. I agree. Starvation seems less of a joke than it did a few hours ago.
In spite of their anxious expressions they all exchange a look which seems to make them come to a decision.
"We're taking you to the Burrow, Harry, is that okay?" George asks. I think he thinks I'm still a kid. Or perhaps he believes I'm insane. Of course, I probably don't look entirely certifiable, so I really don't blame him.
"That's fine." I say, more shaken up than I will admit.
"We're not going to hurt you." Fred assures me.
I wonder if there's a look on my face that makes them think I think that. Do I look like I'm terrified out of my mind? I suppose I've said all of three words and that reflects on exactly how I'm feeling. I don't think I'm entirely coherent. Very soon I will have to face the family of my dead best friend. It's strange, all I can think is that they don't use plastic knives and forks at the Burrow.
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