Title: Family Affair
Author: Daeleniel Shadowphyre
Feedback: darkone2813 at mindspring dot com
Fandom: "Harry Potter" series, by J.K. Rowling
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating: R (Maybe only PG-13, but R is safer.)
Notes: Please reference the prologue for the summary, disclaimer, and any other relevant information. I would like to add that, contrary to popular fan fiction fashion, there is little to no canonical evidence of the Dursleys having been physically abusive, aside from Dudley's bullying. As convenient and well used as the idea is, it is stretching things somewhat and so will not be used.
Distribution: Ask, and ye shall receive.
Chapter Three:
July 31, 1999
4 Privet Drive, Smallest Bedroom
Harry Potter stared fixedly out the window of "his" room, watching as the last light faded from the sky and the sun went down on his birthday at last. Once again, the day had passed unremarked upon by the Dursleys, for which Harry was glad. The less attention he drew to himself, the better. His uncle had been increasingly irritated ever since Harry had come back from Hogwarts for the summer holidays. Whatever it was that had caused this, Harry didn't know and, from the way his uncle glowered at him, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Not like he didn't already have enough to brood on as it was.
The end of the Triwizard Tournament loomed at the fore of his mind, taunting him cruelly as he replayed the scenes over and over. Cedric's death was always first, the subject of many nightmares that woke him violently in the night, always a hair's breath from screaming. He never did, though; he didn't want the Dursleys to have anything else to hold against him. He hadn't told them anything that had transpired that year, but he doubted they would feel any sort of compassion to know that he was haunted by the memories of that day. His fault. The death of an innocent. And it wasn't always Cedric that was killed in his dreams. Sometimes the deceased Hufflepuff boy was replaced by Ron or Hermione. Or Sirius. Logically, he knew that hadn't been the way, and that no one really blamed him for Cedric's death-- well, a few Hufflepuffs might, but Harry expected that. And it was not his fault! But the nightmares persisted, with Cedric's eyes staring up at him, dead and accusing. The flash of green light that had played so often in his nightmares before this. And that high, cold voice repeating those three words.
"Kill the spare."
Harry flinched as the words echoed in his ears, seeming for a moment as if they truly had been spoken aloud. But no. He was in the smallest bedroom of 4 Privet Drive, protected from the Death Eaters by the wards Headmaster Dumbledore had set so long ago, and Voldemort was nowhere near.
Voldemort. It was the name that struck fear into the hearts of most of the wizarding world. Harry still blamed himself for the Dark Lord's return, despite his friends' assurances that he was not at fault. Ron, Hermione, Sirius... they hadn't been there when Peter Pettigrew had cast the spell to resurrect his master. They couldn't know. And perhaps it was foolish to try and protect them, but Harry hoped they never found out. He knew that his friends and godfather were worried about him, but... well. He couldn't tell them he was fine; that was a lie, and they'd know it. He also couldn't tell them what went through his head every night, about the nightmares and the self-blame and... everything. They wouldn't... couldn't understand. And the part of Harry that wanted desperately to protect what innocence his friends had left and to keep his godfather from putting himself in more danger because of him was glad of that.
The rest of him, however, wished desperately for someone -- anyone -- who knew and understood his pain that he could talk to.
A soft hooting drew his attention from the window to the corner, where Hedwig sat in her cage, patiently waiting for her master to let her out for the night to hunt. Harry smiled fondly at his owl, the only friend he really had here. The snowy owl turned her head to look at him sideways, ruffling her wings slightly. 'You can talk to me,' she seemed to be saying. Harry sighed and crossed to the cage, undoing the latch and opening the door.
"I know I can talk to you," he said as Hedwig inched her way out of the cage and over his hand to his arm, where she closed her talons ever so carefully to perch there. "You might not understand, but you won't pretend. And you won't try and send me to St. Mungo's, either, I bet." Hedwig hooted once in agreement, and Harry grinned.
Better not let the Dursleys catch me talking to an owl as if she can understand me, or I'll have worse things to worry about than St. Mungo's...
Biting his lower lip, Harry crossed to the window again, Hedwig balancing on his arm, and wrenched it open. The cool night air hit his face as he leaned out, stretching his arm far enough out the window for Hedwig to launch herself into the sky. Harry stared after her until she was nothing more than a tiny white dot against the blackness of the night sky before he ducked back into the room and returned to his bed. Hedwig would be back in two hours, unless she decided to stay with Hermione for a day or two.
The thought of his friend brought a sad smile to Harry's face. Hermione had no owl of her own, so Hedwig and Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon, had taken it upon themselves to act as her correspondence deliverers. Harry shook his head. Ron had had Pig for over a year now, and the tiny owl had yet to calm its erratic, jittery behavior. How the little runt had made peace with Hedwig -- who seemed to look upon Pig as a disruptive interloping youngster -- and for the two of them to cooperate, the boy surely didn't know, but for Hermione's sake, he was glad.
Merlin take it, this is just too much to deal with at fourteen!
Harry flinched and mentally erased that statement. In one case, it sounded too much like whining for his comfort, and the other... well, he wasn't fourteen anymore. The stash of cards and presents under the loose floorboard beneath his bed was testimony enough of that. Acting on impulse, Harry ducked under the bed and pried up the board, dragging the bundles up to his bed again. He'd looked at them all when they'd been delivered at 12:01 that morning and was still amazed at them all the same.
From Hermione, he'd received a book, which was to be expected, but this book was on transfiguration and illusions. Harry had leafed through it, curious, and had gotten the impression that it would be very useful to get some time to himself to read it. Even more useful if he could find someplace shielded where he could try some of the spells. The likelihood of either circumstance presenting itself to him before term started was next to nothing.
Ron's gift had apparently been combined with the twins' gift, a carved cedarwood box with a false bottom. The immediately visible contents were the newest products in Fred and George's joke shop; the false bottom contained birthday cards and well-wishes from Ron, Fred and George, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasely, and even missives from Bill, Charlie, and -- oddly enough -- Percy. A separate parcel from Mrs. Weasely contained cookies and sweets of several types, all distinctly wizardly in make. Harry was deeply touched by both gifts, even though the cedar reminded him uncomfortably of Cedric; he wasn't quite sure why.
To Harry's surprise, there had been a package from Sirius and Remus, with whom Sirius was supposed to be hiding out. It contained a strangely shaped shallow dish, which, upon closer inspection, had proved to be a dragon scale. The scale was from an Opaleye dragon hybrid, or so Sirius said, and had been found at the edge of the woods around the cabin Remus was living in. Harry picked up the scale again, marveling at the pearly quality of the inside of the scale and the harder, iridescent jewel-like substance that coated the outside. He'd have to remember to show it to Charlie Weasley some time; his textbook had said that Opaleye dragons were found in Australia.
Reluctantly, Harry set aside the scale and turned his attention to the last two presents in the stack. The first was from, of all people, Oliver Wood, a full poster of the Appleby Arrows that had been autographed by the whole team. Harry unrolled the poster again and felt that tiny surge of pride again as his eyes sought and found Oliver's own signature on the poster. Glancing at the picture, Harry grinned as the miniature Oliver waved at him and winked. He hadn't had time to miss the former Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team the past year, especially not after--
You're hopeless, Harry. You know that, right?
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, both at the direction his thoughts had taken so quickly and at the fact that he was talking to himself, Harry carefully set aside the poster and picked up the last present with equal care.
It was an oval box made of redwood and shaped more like an even-sized egg than a box. The wood had been polished to an almost glow, and had no doubt been spelled with magic to preserve the shine. The lid -- and there was a lid to the odd little box, a smaller oval of the same curve as the "egg" set in the exact center of side that Harry assumed was the top -- was trimmed in rosy copper, the same metal having been used in an inlay of delicate flowers around the longest points. On the center of the lid was a single flower of the same type as the design.
A lily.
Harry felt the tears prick at his eyes as he gazed at the little box. With one finger, he carefully traced the curves of the lily's petals, stem, and leaves, then dropped his hand to cradle the box more securely. There had been no note to accompany the box, but something instinctive had told Harry that the flower set in the wood of the box was as much an identification of the owner as it was a decoration, and that it had once belonged to his mother. And from what he knew about metals from his schoolbooks, he guessed that it had been given to her by someone who loved her very much.
With a quick, jerky movement, Harry wrenched his glasses off his face and set both them and the box down in front of him on the bed. With the world blurred and unfocused so that all he could discern in the faint twilight was the subtle play of light and shadow, Harry let go of his restraint and let the tears come. He cried for his parents, for his friends, for Cedric and his family, for Mr. Crouch and his wife, for Crouch's Death Eater son, for everyone who had ever died at the hands of Voldemort and his followers, for Sirius who was on the run because of Pettigrew's betrayal, for Remus who was cursed to live almost in exile for something he could not control. And he cried for Professor Snape, who even now was playing the role of spy in Voldemort's circle, risking his life with every second in the hopes of gaining information to give the side of Light an edge over the Dark wizard. His arm came up mechanically and he reflexively bit into it, muffling any sobs that might fight their way to the surface; no reason for the Dursleys to ever hear him and learn that their despised nephew had a few weaknesses after all.
How long Harry sat in the darkness, the tears streaming down his face, he would never be able to recall. But as the flow gradually slowed to a trickle, then stopped completely, he became conscious of someone -- or something -- staring at him. Harry tensed, but when he extended his senses a little more, reaching with something inside him to 'look' at the presence, he was reassured by the aura of 'friend' it gave off. Unclenching his teeth from around his arm -- Oh, boy, I'm probably going to have a bruise from that... -- he took several deep breaths and scrubbed his face dry with the sleeve of his pajamas before his hand sought and found his glasses and placed them on his nose. At once, the room leapt into focus and he turned his head to look for the source of those staring eyes he'd felt.
It was an owl. Had Harry been standing, he would have staggered with the combination of relief, fear, and annoyance. That last startled him a little bit, but he shrugged it off, telling himself that he'd analyse it later. Instead, he swung his feet to the floor, stood slowly so as to be sure that he wouldn't topple over, and crossed to the owl to greet it and untie the letter he could see bound to its leg. The owl swiveled its head to look at him and hooted once, softly, in greeting. Harry smiled and stroked a finger down the tawny bird's chest before his hand fell to the letter. He made swift work of the ties that secured it and then gestured to Hedwig's food and water dishes. The owl spread its wings, dipped them once in thanks... and then lifted itself into the air and soared out the open window.
Blinking, Harry stared after the retreating owl, feeling a funny sense of deja vu. Then he turned his attention to the letter and frowned slightly. The letter bore the insignia of the Ministry of Magic, which was ominous enough, yet the fact that it had been delivered at night by owl and directly to him instead of through the regular muggle post the next morning made it seem all the more sinister. Whatever the Ministry had to say, it was obviously important, secret...
...And personal.
A shadow fell across Harry's face and the frown turned to a scowl. Tossing the letter on the bed, he crossed swiftly to the door of his room, put his ear against the wood, and listened carefully. Silence, and the sounds of his uncle snoring from down the hall greeted his ears. That meant that his aunt and uncle were asleep, and who cared where Dudley was? It wasn't like his cousin would care if Harry was awake after all. Feeling a bit justified in this, Harry returned to the bed. After digging around under the floorboard, he retrieved a wide candle and a matchbook. Setting the candle on the floor, he struck a match and touched it to the wick. In the resulting orange glow, Harry extinguished the match and picked up the letter, seating himself cross-legged on the floor next to the candle to read it.
Dear Mr. Potter-
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has requested permission to assume guardianship of you for the remainder of the summer. Naturally, this request has been thoroughly reviewed, and...
Harry's scowl deepened as he continued reading. The idea of going back to Hogwarts for the rest of the summer sounded terrific, but the entire tone of the letter was so... pompous! Cutting his eyes down to the bottom of the letter, his scowl turned to a grimace. It figured any correspondence from Fudge would sound so... full of it? Harry had hardly had a good opinion of the Minister of Magic after his third year, and that opinion had only dropped since. With a sigh, Harry returned to where he'd left off in the letter and continued reading.
As he read, he felt his fury growing within him at Fudge's blatant condescension and undisguised self-satisfaction. The Minister expressed his doubts as to the safety of the school, hidden beneath veil of gratingly polite comments on the lack of proper security-- after all, that criminal Sirius Black had managed to get past the defenses with seeming ease and escape just as easily. It annoyed Harry no end to read that carefully-worded pseudo-polite letter, all the time feeling his teeth begin to ache as he ground them together.
...and after thorough review of the castle's security and additional measures suggested to the good Headmaster, the Ministry has reluctantly decided to allow you to return early to Hogwarts and spend the rest of the summer there, should you so choose. You are advised to send a reply to Headmaster Dumbledore, notifying him of either your acceptance or your decline. Should you accept, a professor of Hogwarts will arrive in two days time to collect you from your Muggle relatives.
Signed,
Cornelius Fudge
Minister of Magic
Order of Merlin
When he'd reached the end of the letter, Harry found he could only sit there and simmer in his fury with the man. Coldly, before he really registered his actions, he stretched out the hand holding the letter and touched the parchment to the flame of his candle. It caught instantly, and he watched with mild detachment as the parchment curled around the edges, turned brown, then black, and was shortly reduced to ash. As the flames crept closer to his hand, he dropped the remaining scrap onto the candle where it was quickly consumed.
Trembling with rage and a hint of fear at what he'd just done, Harry leaned back against the edge of his bed and let out a long breath. So Dumbledore wanted him back at Hogwarts for the rest of the summer. On the one hand, it meant that he wouldn't have to stay with the Dursleys, but on the other hand, he'd bet that he wouldn't be going to the Burrow, either. Harry felt a momentary pang -- he missed Ron and the twins and Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and even Percy -- but he ruthlessly squashed it. With Voldemort back, he'd undoubtedly orient on Harry as the prime target, and Harry did not want to put his friends in danger like that. At Hogwarts, he would be well protected, if not entirely safe. He couldn't guarantee his own safety, much less the safety of those he cared about.
Harry frowned slightly, thinking. Fudge was an idiot, and didn't like to have his authority questioned. He was easily susceptible to suggestion if that suggestion came from a "reliable" source. Like Rita Skeeter, perhaps? Harry's scowl returned with a vengeance; it cleared, however, when he remembered Hermione's outwitting the gossipy reporter. He had no love for the woman, but no true hatred either, and it made him feel a bit better that her punishment -- such as it was -- wasn't particularly harmful to her. Physically, anyway.
That didn't make him feel any more charitable towards the Minister of Magic. Harry was beginning to realise, the more time he thought about it, that he had surprisingly little patience for incompetent fools, Fudge in particular. He chuckled at that, though bitterly. Poor Ron, he thought. He's going to hate the fact that I'm growing up.
Not half as much as I hate it, though.
Well, at least this was a good solution to his dilemma. He really didn't want to stay with the Dursleys, despite the protective wards around the house. And yet, when he'd received Ron's invitation to stay with the Weasleys for the rest of the summer, his first thought had been to refuse. In retrospect, Harry wondered if that had been his first step towards growing away from his friend of four years. Then he chided himself for being silly, especially when he considered the fact that his being at the Weasleys' would put them in serious danger from Voldemort. He didn't think he could bear it if any member of that family got hurt because of him. Not like--
Oh, for Merlin's sake! Harry thought to himself, irritated. Can't I just put that out of my mind for five whole minutes?
There was really only one thing left to do, he supposed. The letter from Fudge -- that miserable, blind, incompetent git -- had indicated that Dumbledore was expecting a response. Somehow, Harry doubted that was the case, but it was something. Of course, he thought, an odd sort of glee twisting in the back of his mind, he'd have to remember to owl Fudge back to inform him of his 'gratitude.' And suddenly, he wanted to owl Sirius and let him know about the change in plans. Yes. Writing letters was a good way to pass time. He'd have to wait for Hedwig to return to send them, of course, which would leave him with plenty of time to work out everything he needed - wanted - to say in the letters. Particularly to Fudge, he thought darkly.
His hands stilled. Something about the way his mind was working disturbed him a little bit. True, he had no fondness for the Minister of Magic, but he couldn't remember feeling... well... malicious towards him. Not before the Thir- before that day. It twisted in his gut, remembering the condescending way the Minister had treated him in the Hospital Wing, the way the fury had just built up inside him until it exploded in a roar. Okay, so perhaps his words had been rather rash, and certainly less censored than they might ordinarily have been; he had, after all, been suffering from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. But damn, it had felt good to do that!
Now why had he reacted like that? Stress? Residue pain? Intense frustration? Fear-turned-anger? Combination? Harry felt his lips twitch in amusement. When had he gotten so analytical? He'd probably always been like this, and it was merely surfacing more now that he was dealing with... well, his 'destiny,' for lack of a better word. That realisation made him feel both sad for the loss of what little innocence he'd still had, but also rather relieved that this wasn't a side-effect of... that night. Besides, Fudge had that coming to him. If not from me, certainly from Dumbledore and Snape!
With a decidedly hearty mood, Harry once again delved under the loose floorboards to retrieve parchment, quills, and ink. He had letters to write.
To be continued...
