Turning Tables
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: In the aftermath of the Chamber of Secrets, Harry comes to the sobering realisation that Voldemort won't stop attempting to kill him. No longer content to skate by on luck and the promise of a well-timed rescue, the Boy Who Lived opts to do something about it. His decision changes his future, and that of those who surround him. OOC. Post Chamber of Secrets AU.
Rating: T for mild language, violence, and character death.
Author: tlyxor1.
Chapter One
When Madam Pomfrey discharges him from her care, Harry doesn't head to Gryffindor Tower. Hermione's still petrified, and Ron's gone home with his family, and Harry has no particular interest in being bombarded by his housemates for information he doesn't want to give. He's also got some things to work on, and the common room - or even the dormitory - aren't places particularly conducive towards peace and quiet.
With that in mind, Harry makes his way outside, and to the secluded little hollow he'd found within a cluster of boulders by the Great Lake. It's sort of far from the castle, closer to the Forbidden Forest than most students care to tread, and it's peaceful. The waters of the loch lap at the boulders firmly rooted in the sand, and Harry, propped up against another boulder, trousers rolled up to his knees, watches the ebb and flow absently, his mind elsewhere.
Namely, on his most recent confrontation with Voldemort, and on the terrifying reality that Harry is hilariously, hopelessly outmatched against him. It's blatantly obvious that at the age of 16, Voldemort - or Tom Riddle, rather - had had it in him to kill a person, to kill children, and however many years later, that has not change.
No, what has changed since then is that Voldemort has acquired decades more knowledge and experience, has somehow defied the laws of death, and if the school year prior is anything to go by, he holds an unquestionable grudge against Harry for the events of Halloween, 1981.
He's not going to rest until Harry is dead.
It's a sobering realisation, all things considered. Harry is 12 years old. He has two years of magic under his belt, and he's made no efforts to learn anything beyond the standard Hogwarts curriculum. Even that is somewhat lacking, however, because Harry's made no particular effort to excel in his education, content in his mediocrity, more interested in having fun with Ron, in playing quidditch, in having friends.
But the thing is, quidditch, and chess, and pranks aren't going to help him survive. Harry knows that now. He'd nearly died down there, in the Chamber of Secrets, and if not for Hermione, for Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, for a great deal of luck and Tom Riddle's arrogance, Harry wouldn't have lived to see another day. It's unpleasant to think about, more so to consider what he would have to do to change, to survive whatever else Voldemort throws at him in the years to come, but Harry's not just going to roll over and let Voldemort kill him. His parents had died to protect him, and he's not going to squander their sacrifice like that. Not anymore.
Instead, he's made up a plan to improve himself, to be better prepared for his next encounter with Voldemort, to live up to the memory of - and to avenge - the parents whom he'd lost before he could ever know them.
Voldemort, after all, isn't the only one who holds a grudge for the events of that fateful night, and come hell or high water, Harry's going to make sure his parents' murderer knows it..
With that in mind, Harry produces his copy of 'Magical Theory' by Adalbert Waffling, and starts to read. He'd hardly paid attention to the content Professors Flitwick and McGonagall had covered the year prior, had barely grasped the concepts and had subsequently half-arsed his way through first and second year Charms and Transfiguration, but he can't afford to be so flippant with his education, going forward. As such, he takes notes on the laws and theories he reads, makes a list of the sources referenced throughout Waffling's writing (in order to study later), and he learns. It's not much - Harry has a long, long way to go before he will ever be able to hold his own against Tom Riddle - but it's a start, and for the moment, it's all Harry can manage.
When Harry enters Professor McGonagall's office for the second time that week, it's empty of anyone else but the Head of Gryffindor House. She looks about as relaxed as Harry's ever seen her; relieved from her role of Acting Headmistress, relieved that the danger from the Chamber of Secrets and the monster therein has been taken care of, relieved for the summer rapidly approaching.
Harry almost feels bad about disturbing her.
'Almost' being the operative word.
"Mr Potter," she greets him, "May I help you?"
"I've chosen my electives, Professor," Harry explains, "I thought I might get them to you before I change my mind."
With an arched eyebrow, McGonagall accepts Harry's sign-up sheet, studies it wordlessly, and nods her acknowledgement.
"You do understand you only require two electives?"
"Yes," Harry confirms, "But they're all useful. I couldn't decide which one I shouldn't take."
Harry isn't about to discount the value of Ancient Runes and Arithmency for his future. They're more work, undoubtedly, but the subjects are stepping stones to Ward Construction, Curse Breaking, Enchanting, Spell-Crafting, Ritual Magic, and then some, and Harry is going to need every advantage against Voldemort he can get.
As far as the subject of Care of Magical Creatures is concerned, however, Harry's reasoning for that is fairly straightforward. He has, in his two years at Hogwarts, encountered a giant squid, trolls, a baby dragon, a unicorn, a cerberus, centaurs, a house elf, a phoenix, a colony of acromantula, a basilisk, and pixies, and quite frankly, Harry just wants to know what else he might encounter, and in particular, how to make it out of those encounters alive and in one piece.
Admittedly, Professor Kettleburn doesn't inspire much faith for the latter, but forewarned is forearmed, and Harry's quite done with not looking before he leaps.
"And you understand it will be quite a difficult workload?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry answers solemnly, swallows his pride, and continues, "I understand my behaviour these last two years probably doesn't inspire much faith in my ability to manage it, but I know what I'm capable of, and I know I can handle it. Beyond that, though, I realise now that I need to do and be better, because he's not going to stop targeting me, and eventually, my luck will run out."
Professor McGonagall sighs, sets down the sign-up sheet on her desk, and rubs wearily at her forehead. She looks exhausted, suddenly - exhausted and sad - an Harry fidgets, unsure of what to say to the usually taciturn Head of Gryffindor. Harry is out of his depth, and this is not what he'd anticipated when he had walked into McGonagall's office earlier.
"Professor?"
"Mr Potter, it is not every day I hear one of my students tell me he needs to improve himself because there is a bloodthirsty megalomaniac intent on his murder."
"I wish I was lying, Professor."
"As do I," McGonagall replies, "More than I can ever express, I believe. If wishes were sickles, however, I'd certainly not be teaching the likes of Fred and George Weasley, and so for now, I will approve your chosen electives. Bear in mind, though, I will be watching your progress next term, and if I'm not satisfied with your marks, then I will intervene. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry nods, "I won't disappoint."
"Be sure that you don't," McGonagall acknowledges. She banishes the elective sheet into a filing cabinet in the corner, and queries, "Was there anything else you needed, Mr Potter?"
"No, Professor. Thank you for your time."
Harry leaves her office, unsure of how he ought to feel regarding the meeting. He's not sure what he'd expected from his Head of House, but it's not the relatively calm - even resigned - reaction he'd received from her. It's disappointing, in a way, because why should it be acceptable that a 12 year old is preparing for yet another encounter with the monster who'd killed his parents?
But then, everyone seems to have different expectations of the 'Boy Who Lived'. Maybe that's all it is, or maybe Professor McGonagall is just realistic enough to see the truth behind his words, or maybe she knows something Harry doesn't.
Either way, Harry's not going to ask her about it. Professor McGonagall is not nearly approachable enough for that, and also, in spite of his grades, her attitude has just guaranteed his placement into the classes he wants.
Harry, therefore, isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He returns to Gryffindor Tower instead, makes himself comfortable in his dormitory, and continues with his study of Adalbert Waffling's 'Magical Theory'.
It's going to be a long afternoon.
The Mandrake Draught is administered that evening, and Hermione is released from her petrification in time to join Harry - and the rest of the students - for dinner. It's a festive affair, the petrified students welcomed back with open arms, with a truly delicious array of food, and with the announcement that all exams have been cancelled for students not about to sit there OWL's, or presently entrenched in their NEWT studies.
A little further along the table, looking oddly out of place among the first years, Colin Creevey looks even more relieved than Hermione. It's no wonder why, though. He was petrified in November, it's now June, and there's no possible way the boy can catch up on six months of material in a matter of days.
Hermione follows his gaze, and informs him, "Professor McGonagall's arranging tutors for us to catch up over the summer. It will be free of charge, because we were petrified while under the school's care. He'll be all right."
"That's good," Harry acknowledges, "I'd wondered if he would have to redo first year."
Colin Creevey is an odd duck, with an uncomfortable amount of hero worship for Harry himself, but it would suck to have to repeat the year all over again.
Hermione shakes her head. "He'll probably have a tutor next year; to help him catch up on what he isn't able to during the break. I feel bad for him, though. He lost six months of his life."
Harry grunts his acknowledgement, and doesn't point out that Colin should count his blessings. He's still alive, after all, in one piece and with his whole life ahead of him. He could have very nearly died that night, and compared to that, six months is a small price to pay.
"Anyway, Professor McGonagall said the situation was resolved, but she didn't explain how. Do you know?"
"Yes," Harry confirms, "I'll tell you later."
Hermione seems about to protest, but she takes in the sight of the students around them, some unabashed in their eavesdropping, others less so, and nods her reluctant acquiescence. "Later, then."
In the meantime, Harry starts up a conversation with Neville, Dean, and Seamus, about their plans for the summer, about the welcome break from their exams, about how quiet their dormitory is without Ron's sleep talking to fill the silence.
Sophie and Fay patiently indulge Hermione's questions concerning the classes she's missed, but they're both relieved when Harry finishes his dinner, and more so when he excuses himself from the table. Hermione follows suit, and tries unsuccessfully to hurry him out of the Great Hall, but Harry is unfazed by her impatience.
"Well?" Hermione prods, "What happened?"
Harry sighs. He's not thrilled to relive it, but Hermione's like a dog with a bone when it comes to information she doesn't know. It's better to just get the inquisition over with, rather than prolong the agony over a course of hours - or days - until they eventually part for the holidays. "It was Voldemort. Again. He was possessing Ron's little sister…"
-!- -#-
Chapter Two:
"If I wanted to travel to places during the holidays, but I didn't have access to a floo-connected fireplace, how would I go about it?"
Harry, Neville, Dean, and Seamus are spread out around a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. The table between them is burdened by a pile of sweets, a haphazard stack of Exploding Snap cards, a standard non-magical deck of playing cards, and a small pile of books they'd each abandoned to the draw of fun and games with friends. Hermione had left them a couple of hours ago, frustrated by the noise, intent on catching up on the classwork she'd missed, and uninterested in participating, but Harry doesn't miss her absence.
Perhaps it's the fact he's gotten into a routine during her time in the hospital wing, or perhaps it's the fact he knows she's just happier in her privacy; with her books and her knowledge and with her quiet, but Harry doesn't dwell on it much. He banters with his dorm mates instead, about quidditch, and football, and the matter of which sport is better..
They talk about other things, too; their holiday homework, their plans for the break, the events of Gryffindor Tower's end of year party the evening prior.
Harry asks his question in a lull between conversation. Neville's mouth is full, having just been dared to eat an entire ice mouse whole. Dean and Seamus are intently watching him do so, amused and fascinated, but Harry's seen Ron manage three at once, and he's got other things on his mind.
"I guess there's the non-magical side of things," Dean muses, "You can catch the train; or the tube if you're in London. Or there are busses, too, and taxis."
"Your broom?" Seamus shrugs, "Thing about that is you have to be careful about being seen."
Neville chews noisily, swallows hard, and punches his chest with a gasp. His eyes are watering, though there's no telling whether it's from the absurdly strong mint flavour, from the ice cold on the way down, or from the rather violent consumption. "Gods, I'm dying!"
As Dean and Seamus start laughing, Harry wordlessly slides over an unopened bottle of gillywater. Neville chugs it down gratefully, finishes it off with a relieved sigh, and then turns the attention back to Harry's enquiry.
"There's also the Knight Bus," Neville informs him. He explains it's purpose, and how to go about using it, and Harry listens attentively. He's made up a to-do list for the early days of his break from school, but the issue of transport is one he's not been able to solve, thus far. Asking his friends is a last-ditch effort before resigning himself to the time-consuming, non-magical public transport system, but as it turns out, it's a fruitful one.
"Thanks, Neville" Harry says, "You've probably just saved me hours of travel time."
Neville smiles, abashed, and shrugs. "No problem. I'm happy to help."
"I don't think we have that in Ireland," Seamus says, "I guess it doesn't go over the Irish Sea."
"Could get me to a ferry that does, though," Dean opines, "Save my parents the trip."
Dean has plans to spend the first two weeks of August in Northern Ireland, with Seamus' family, before they both return to London to spend the last two weeks with Dean's parents. It's a convenient set up - one that saves Seamus' parents the trip to and from London around the start of September - and Harry sort of regrets that he's not close enough to join them. Ron's home, the Burrow, is great, but other than that brief escape to Devon, Harry's only ever travelled out of Surrey for primary school tours from which his relatives couldn't justify excluding him, trips to Diagon alley, and for his school year up at Hogwarts. He'd love to see more of what the world has to offer.
"Where are you thinking of going?" Neville queries. He looks as though he regrets asking the second he does so.
"I need to head to Diagon Alley before anything else," Harry explains, "After that, I guess it depends on what I'll find at Gringotts."
"What are you hoping for?" Dean wonders.
"I'm not hoping for anything, really. I just want to find out what resources I have access to."
"Your inheritance," Seamus concludes.
"My inheritance," Harry confirms. "No one's ever said what they left me, so I don't have a clue. I figure it's something I need to know, though."
Neville's expression is thoughtful. He seems to come to a decision though, and hesitantly, he suggests, "You should look into the Wizengamot, too. The House of Potter has a seat on it, and as the 'Boy Who Lived', you'll probably have a lot of political power when you become Head of House."
Harry has no idea what the Wizengamot is, or what Neville means when he refers to the House of Potter. He knows there are family houses, of course - it's hard to miss, with Malfoy strutting about like he owns the place because the House of Malfoy is in favour with the current Minister of Magic - but he'd not considered the possibility that his own family had made up one such house. Despite this oversight, Harry produces his daily planner - a Christmas present from Hermione he'd never thought he'd actually use - and jots down a note on his to-do list to research the Wizengamot, the House of Potter, and what rights and responsibilities are entailed within the title of 'Head of House' at his earliest opportunity.
"Thanks, Neville, I'll do that. Any other suggestions?"
"No," Neville denies, "But I'll ask my gran and let you know. I can owl you?"
"Sure," Harry acquiesces, "I'd appreciate that. You're welcome to write outside of that, though. That goes for you two as well, if you want."
"Sure," Dean acknowledges, "Maybe we can go see a football game or something. Godric knows, Finnigan never will."
"That's because football is shite," Seamus interjects.
"And you clearly wouldn't know quality entertainment if it bit you on the arse."
Harry and Neville share a glance, and they each roll their eyes, long-suffering. It's a conversation Dean and Seamus have already resurrected twice since they'd left Hogsmeade. It's also something brought up at least that often throughout the school week, and it's gotten to a point wherein everyone else has taken to tuning them out every time it does. Not even Ron - who takes any opportunity to wax poetic about quidditch - gets involved anymore, and all things considered, that's really saying something.
While Dean and Seamus are preoccupied, Neville turns to Harry, and asks quietly, "What are you trying to do? I mean, What are you trying to accomplish? Not that I don't think it's a good idea to learn about your family. Honestly, I'm sort of surprised you don't already know about it all - it's why I never mentioned any of it before; I thought you already knew - but why now?"
"Because my family's legacy is important," Harry explains, "And I've only now begun to realise it. You remember, when all of that Heir of Slytherin shite started, Malfoy and his lot started going on about how far back they could trace their family trees, and everything?"
Neville grimaces, but he nods his confirmation all the same. He'd gotten a lot of flack from Draco Malfoy and his lot about how the Ancient and Noble House of Longbottom had fallen so low, and wouldn't his forbearers be ashamed of him?
It hadn't seemed to bother Neville at the time. He'd usually countered with something about nouveau riche foreigners reaching higher than their station, and without fail, Malfoy would skulk away with a red face, the warning that Neville would go the way of his parents if he wasn't careful, and the promise of retribution.
Despite Neville's undeniable shutdown of the Slytherin, however, Harry can't imagine insults like that are easy to forget.
"I realised I didn't know anything about my own family. I decided to do something about it. I've got some other things to think about too, but that's one of the main things. I don't want to, I don't know, let them down, you know?"
Neville nods solemnly. "I understand."
And as Neville's sincerity is obvious, Harry realises that, yes, his dorm mate truly, unfortunately does.
With only a couple of hours remaining until they reach King's Cross Station, Harry and Neville split from Dean and Seamus in order to seek out Hermione. She's only a couple of compartments down, curled up in a corner by the window, an array of textbooks in front of her. She looks frazzled, flicking through pages with ink-stained fingers, the end of a sugar quill in her mouth.
"Hi, Hermione," Neville greets her.
"Hi, Neville, Harry," Hermione acknowledges them, "Are you lot done with your boys' day?"
"Dean and Seamus started challenging each other to see who can fit the most Berty Bott's beans in their mouths," Harry explains, "I thought I'd leave them to it, come see how you're going, instead."
"Ugh, gross," Hermione grimaces, "Why are boys so disgusting?"
"Hey, now," Harry protests mildly, and pretends to be offended, "I resent that."
Harry likes to think he's fairly non-disgusting, actually. He showers every day - twice if he has quidditch - and makes sure to brush his teeth morning and evening. He regularly cleans his ears and washes his hair, and as of the summer prior, he's started wearing fairly inoffensive deodorant. He eats with the table manners Ron and Dudley lack, chews with his mouth closed, and never talks when his mouth is full. His section of the dorm room is tidy, his clothes - although hand-me-downs - are always clean, and he rarely - if ever - participates in the burping and/or farting competitions that regularly take place in Gryffindor Tower's second year boys' dormitory.
As a side note, Neville's the reigning champion of both, but no one's ever going to declare that outside of the dorm room.
Hermione rolls her eyes, and answers dryly, "Yes, Harry, we all know you're a rare sort."
"You flatter me, Hermione," Harry parries. Neville snorts, and smothers a laugh behind a minor coughing fit.
Hermione half-heartedly punches Harry in the arm, perches her elbow on the table, and props her chin in her raised palm. She glances down at the textbook in front of her, sighs disconsolately, and curls her fingers into the chestnut hair at her temple.
"What are you working on?" Neville queries. He tilts his head, tries to make sense of it upside down, and wonders, "Is that our Transfiguration textbook?"
Hermione nods. "Yes, it is, and I'm never going to catch up."
"You're only a couple of weeks behind, aren't you?" Harry questions, "You were practically a month ahead before…"
Before she was petrified.
Harry doesn't want to say it, honestly. He doesn't like to acknowledge what had happened to her, to acknowledge how close she'd come to dying. He doesn't even like to think about it.
Hermione, though?
Well, she's a Gryffindor for a reason.
"Before I was petrified?"
Harry and Neville glance between themselves, uncomfortable, and they each nod awkwardly.
"Yes," Harry reluctantly confirms, "That."
"A few weeks," Hermione concedes, "But it's not just one class I'm behind in; it's all of them. And then there's all the supplemental reading I have to do, not to mention the summer homework, and the pre-reading for next term, and I don't even know where to start with my electives, and Mum and Dad want to go to France-"
Hermione looks on the verge of hyperventilating, and Harry, in a move uncharacteristic of him, pulls her into a hug.
A lot more tactile than Harry himself, Hermione, at the first indication of offered comfort, collapses against him immediately, and stays their for a while, just breathing.
Across the compartment, Neville makes every effort possible to avoid looking at them. He's blushing, awkward, and Harry almost laughs at his discomfort.
"I have every faith in you, Hermione," Harry says earnestly, "You can do it. You just have to take it all one step at a time. Don't let it overwhelm you, all right?"
Hermione nods wordlessly, takes a moment to pull herself together, and then pulls away from Harry with a smile. She wipes at eyes damp with tears she hasn't shed, and acknowledges, "Thanks, Harry. I think I really needed to hear that."
Harry shrugs, vaguely sheepish. His face is hot, and he doesn't need a mirror to know he's blushing to the tips of his ears. Neville's gleeful grin is indication enough. "Anytime, Hermione."
They settle into conversation regarding the electives they've each chosen, and Hermione's surprised to learn that Harry's switched his initial choice - Care of Magical Creatures and Divination - to something that's guaranteed to be more academically challenging. Neville, who has chosen to sign up for Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes, wishes him - and Hermione - the best of luck for their Arithmency class, and Harry tries to avoid any explanation for why he'd changed his mind. He talks about his thoughts of each subject instead, his hopes and expectations, Neville and Hermione share their own, and they are only disrupted by what promises to be yet another unpleasant - and ultimately pointless - confrontation with Draco Malfoy and his obligatory bookends.
At Kings Cross Station, Harry and Neville help each other haul their respective trunks off the Hogwarts Express, and then do the same with Hermione's. It's heavier than their own, presumably packed full with supplemental textbooks, and once on a trolley, Harry and Neville each take a moment to recover from the effort of moving it.
"You know how there's an Ancient Runes end of year project next year?" Neville asks Hermione. She nods her confirmation, and Neville continues, "You should think about putting a feather-weight enchantment on your trunk."
"It's not that heavy," Hermione argues.
"Do you ever carry it?" Harry parries. Hermione bites her lip, and Harry assures her, "It's that heavy."
"I'll think about it," Hermione reluctantly concedes. "I can't imagine it's very original, though."
Neville shrugs. "Probably not, but it's useful."
"Might save some unsuspecting sod from breaking their back, too," Harry quips.
Hermione rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Now you're just being dramatic."
Harry's about to counter - with what, he's not exactly sure yet - when they're approached by a small cluster of their classmates from Hufflepuff. It's Justin Finch-Fletchley, surrounded by an entourage made up of Ernie MacMillan, Susan Bones, and Hannah Abbott, and Harry has avoided every one of them since that unpleasant encounter in the Hogwarts library.
Harry eyes them warily now, Hermione and Neville do the same, and Harry's mercifully rescued from actually addressing them by Hermione.
"May we help you?" Hermione asks. She's polite, at least, but she doesn't hide the fact that she's not remotely pleased to see them.
Barring the possible exception of Hannah Abbott - who'd not bought into her friends' nonsense finger-pointing, at least - Harry more or less feels the same.
"I came to speak to Potter," Finch-Fletchley informs Hermione, and then makes eye contact with Harry, "I came to apologise for the way I treated you this year. It was unacceptable, and being afraid was no excuse for my behaviour. I'm sorry for any hurt I caused."
"Thanks," Harry acknowledges. He's surprised, but he at least knows his manners, "Apology accepted, FInch-Fletchley."
Neither MacMillan or Bones meet his gaze, but their own eyes are downcast, their faces flushed with shame. They don't speak up though, and Harry doesn't have anything to say to them.
"And thank you, Hannah, for having faith in me. I never said before, but it meant a lot."
Hannah blushes, her smile sheepish, and she explains, "My father was an auror in the last war. I know perfectly fine who the Heir of Slytherin was."
Harry glances at Susan Bones, who has made no secret of the fact she was raised by the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but he doesn't mention his thought that a relative among the aurors hadn't stopped Hannah Abbott's best friend from believing the worst of him. It's probably petty, anyway, and there's no use in making things worse between Gryffindor, himself in particular, and Hufflepuff. He already has Voldemort to worry about, and schoolyard antagonists in Draco Malfoy, Professor Snape, and the Slytherin Quidditch team. He doesn't need more.
"Anyway, we'd better go find our families," Finch-Fletchley excuses himself and his friends, "I hope you have a nice summer, Potter. Granger, Longbottom."
"You too," Harry acknowledges, "Good luck with the tutoring."
Justin nods curtly. "Thanks."
They disappear into the mass of people congregated on Platform 9 and 3/4, and leave behind a trio of nonplused Gryffindors.
"That was nice of him," Hermione says. She props her arms on the handlebar of her trolley, "But I suppose we ought to follow their lead. My parents will be waiting on the other side. Neville, what about your grandmother?"
"She's over there," Neville gestures towards Augusta Longbottom's unmistakeable (and infamous) vulture hat, visible over the crowds, "But you're right: I'd better go over there. She'll be getting impatient."
"My relatives, too," Harry agrees, "They're on the other side, as well. Do you mind if we take off, Neville?"
"That's fine," Neville assures him, "I'll write you, but if I don't see you until next term, have a nice summer. You too, Hermione."
"Likewise," Hermione answers. She clobbers a startled Neville with a bone-crushing hug, follows suit with one for Harry - accompanied by the explanation that her parents will ask questions, and there's no use risking his relatives' ire besides - and then takes hold of her trolley.
After knocking fists with Neville, Harry does the same with his own, and they depart for the non-magical side of Kings Cross Station. As Harry does so, he suppresses a resigned sigh, and starts counting down the days before he can return to Hogwarts, and to the only home he's ever known there.
-!- -#-
Chapter Three:
Privet Drive hasn't changed much. Uncle Vernon has a new car, Dudley's somehow even wider than the summer prior, and Aunt Petunia has a new haircut, but No. 4 is exactly the same, and Harry is not remotely surprised. He's seen new vehicles, new neighbours, new flowers in flowerbeds, but overall, Privet Drive - and Little Whinging - remains the suburban monotony Harry remembers from years earlier, and it's not likely the place will ever change.
Not in the handful of summers he has left there, anyway.
When he reaches his age of majority, when he can leave Privet Drive and never look back, Harry won't miss it. He's spent his last two years at Hogwarts, with moving staircases and ghosts and talking portraits and any number of wondrous things, and in comparison, Privet Drive is extremely boring. Dull. Lacklustre.
It's a relief, then, to be able to measure the amount of time he has left at Privet Drive in months, rather than years. Those months are spread out over the remainder of his time at Hogwarts, admittedly, but it's only 10 months over all, and he'll impatiently count down every single day.
"Hurry up with that nonsense of yours," Uncle Vernon says gruffly, "Dinner won't cook itself."
Harry, already at the top of the stairs, bites his tongue on a response his uncle wouldn't appreciate, and makes sure Vernon doesn't see him roll his eyes. He nods wordlessly instead, carries his trunk the rest of the way to Dudley's second bedroom, and deposits it at the foot of the decrepit bed therein.
"Home sweet home," he mutters sardonically. His accompanying smile is bitter, and the prospect of at least eight weeks in Little Whinging is far from a pleasant one.
His 17th birthday - the day he'll come of age in the magical world - can't arrive soon enough.
"Hurry up, boy!" Uncle Vernon bellows from downstairs. It's hardly been a couple of minutes, but wherever Harry is concerned, Vernon Dursley isn't remotely patient. "If dinner's late, you'll be sorry!"
"I'm coming!" Harry calls back, and pulls a face in his uncle's general direction. He can picture the colour rising in Uncle Vernon's round face, can imagine the vein throbbing at the man's temple, can picture the bristles of his moustache with every rough exhale through his nose, and opts not to tempt fate. He changes quickly into a set of Dudley's threadbare hand-me-downs, makes his way downstairs, and carelessly avoids the cuff Vernon tries to land on the back of Harry's head. He strides into the immaculate kitchen, Vernon follows with a beady-eyed glare, and Harry observes, "Looks like Aunt Petunia wants me to make beef wellingtons."
Aunt Petunia is on the phone, gossiping noisily with one of the neighbours, and by the sounds of it, she'll be on the line for a while. She's laid out the fixings for her family's dinner though, and Harry doesn't need to look at her - or her husband - to know what she expects of him.
Vernon grunts his acknowledgement, helps himself to a beer, and instructs him, "Get on with it, then."
Vernon leaves Harry to his own devices then, to watch the evening news, and Harry proceeds with preparing dinner. It's easy enough, and by the time he's done, Harry's snuck himself enough food to tide him over until morning. It's not filling by any means, but it'll do, and Harry knows better than to expect he'll get away with anymore. He doesn't dwell on it though - just looks forward to the breakfast he'll purchase in the morning - and plates up his relatives' meals. He cleans up afterwards, ensuring the cleanliness meets Aunt Petunia's unrealistic standards, and then retreats to Dudley's second bedroom before Uncle Vernon can take offence to something else regarding Harry's begrudging presence there.
With the threat of magic between them, it's been years since Harry had earned himself a belting from his uncle, but he would rather not risk another one. Not when there would be no teachers to ask uncomfortable questions of his relatives, and not without the accompanying threat of social workers, police officers, and public scrutiny to keep his Uncle Vernon contained to the non-buckled end of his belt, the occasional wooden spoon, and the excuse of heavy-handed discipline for his unruly, delinquent nephew.
Inside Dudley's second bedroom, Hedwig is perched on the back of the rickety desk chair there, and Harry's mood lightens. He's not happy by any means, but it's good to see her, even better not to feel so alone in the hellhole that is Little Whinging, and Harry can't decide if he should chide her for coming back, or thank her, instead. He'd offered her the opportunity to spend the summer at Hogwarts, or flying free wherever she pleased, and he'd assumed the fact she'd flown away from Hogwarts was answer enough.
Evidently, he'd assumed wrong.
"Hello, Hedwig," Harry greets her fondly. She croons softly, flaps her wings, and somehow exudes determination, loyalty, and satisfaction from her every feather, "I'm glad to see you."
Hedwig croons again, buts her head against his outstretched hand, and demands pets. Her innate magic protects her feathers, allows him to dote on her without worry of damaging them, or risking her general wellbeing besides, and Harry indulges her. He chats, too, about his plans for the holiday, about the possibility of letters to and from Seamus, Dean, and Neville, about his most recent observations regarding his relatives, Little Whinging, and the non-magical world in general. Hedwig listens until he's run out of things to say, makes all of the appropriate - albeit quiet - sounds of acknowledgement at all the right moments, and then starts grooming her feathers.
Harry, meanwhile, gathers up a towel, a change of clothes, and his toiletry kit from his trunk, and makes use of the bathroom while it's free. He doesn't take long though - his relatives aren't nearly charitable enough to let him use more hot water than strictly necessary - but by the time e exits into the hallway, he's clean, his breath minty fresh, and Dudley is lumbering his way up the stairs.
Unwilling to deal with yet another in a long line of confrontations with the tub of lard he calls his cousin, and in particular, the unfair and inevitable punishment Harry will receive for having the gaul to stand up for himself, Harry retreats into Dudley's second bedroom, shoves his trunk in front of the door, and proceeds with hiding his valuables under the loose floorboard beneath his bed. Namely, his invisibility cloak, photo album, wand, Gringotts vault key, and the pouch full of magical and non-magical currency he'd withdrawn and exchanged the summer prior, secure in his satchel, and firmly out of Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley's reach.
Afterwards, Harry sits down at the old, weathered desk in the corner of his room, with a roll of parchment, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. He writes a letter to the bank, considerately outlined by Neville on the Hogwarts Express, rewrites it twice more, and then carefully seals his final draft with a stick of wax.
In the letter, Harry requests a meeting with his family's accountant, and outlines his reasoning for the meeting in question. As Neville had advised, he does his best to be polite, to not demand anything of the goblins, to be clear and concise in his explanations, and by the end of it, Harry's sweating buckets. Neville might have been taught the intricacies of formal correspondence since he'd been old enough to hold a quill, but Harry's pre-Hogwarts years had consisted of frequent bouts of Harry Hunting, an endless list of chores to complete, and hours upon hours spent in Little Whinging's public library, reading books, and avoiding all three of his relatives.
As such, he wonders if letter writing - the formal, official kind, anyway - will ever get easier.
Godric, if he has to write even more letters like the one he's just finished, he hopes so.
"Hedwig," Harry approaches her quietly, letter in hand. She makes a low, enquiring sound, and Harry asks, "Would you be willing to deliver a letter to Gringotts for me?"
Hedwig flaps her wings enthusiastically, holds out a talon, and waits impatiently as he attaches the letter with a piece of twine.
"Thanks, girl. You're off to London, but I bet you already knew that." He carries her to the open window, "I'm not sure if you need to wait for a reply. I guess they'll let you know. Fly safe though, yeah?"
Hedwig shifts to the edge of the windowsill, gives his hand an affectionate nuzzle, and then alights off her perch. She flaps her wings once, twice, until she catches an up-draught. Then she's soaring into the sky, and soon she's gone, out of sight, and Harry is alone again.
Not for long, though. Neville's family owl, a proud, self-important Eagle Owl by the name of Archimedes wings his way into Harry's bedroom, perches himself on the back of Harry's decrepit desk chair, and offers it's talon - and the attached letter - with an expression that is simultaneously scornful and expectant.
Evidently, Archimedes still hasn't forgiven Harry for favouring Hedwig over him.
"A letter, already?" he asks, anyway. Archimedes doesn't respond - just stares back - and Harry cautiously proceeds with detaching the letter before the owl can make it's impatience known. "Thank you for delivering it, Archimedes. Help yourself to a drink, if you want."
After a baleful glare, Archimedes does so, and Harry opens the letter with an uncertain frown. He's not yet sure of the contents, but whatever his friend has written, it's probably important.
At least, Harry can't think of any other reason why Neville would send something so soon after parting ways at Kings Cross Station.
As it turns out, though, the letter isn't from Neville at all. It's from his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, and it seems she has a lot to say.
-!- -#-
Dear Mr Potter
I am writing to you in response to a conversation I had with my grandson, Neville, earlier this evening. From him, I learned you intend to spend your summer looking into your family estate, and all that which goes with it, and I commend you for your initiative. Moreover, as a firm believer in the value of family, heritage, and traditional wizarding culture, I feel it prudent I do what I can to aid you in this endeavour. In doing so, it is my hope that the information and advice I provide is both welcome and useful, and I apologise if it's not.
First and foremost, I would suggest you look into hiring a solicitor. It may be that your parents had one on retainer before their passing, and if so, it would behoove you to get in contact with them. Gringotts may help you in this matter. At least, they would point you in the right direction. Another option, however, is to contact the solicitors of Davies, Jones, and Pritchard. They are a law firm based in Cardiff, and they were retainers of of Lord and Lady Potter until their passing in 1978. I cannot guarantee your father retained their services, but again, they can at least point you in the right direction.
Mr Potter, I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to have a solicitor at your disposal. Their service can and will be invaluable to you in the years ahead.
Another suggestion I have for you would be to hire a tutor in etiquette, customs, and dance lessons. It may seem irrelevant to you, and as an individual raised in the non-magical world, they may seem dated and superfluous. I guarantee, however, that our traditions are the backbone of our society. As the future Head of House Potter, you would be expected to know them all (dances included) by the time you come of age.
Mr Potter, I cannot force you to take my advice. I only ask that you consider doing so. Otherwise, I wish you all the best in your search for answers.
Sincerely yours,
Lady Augusta Longbottom
-!- -#-
Harry sighs, resigned, and produces his daily planner. Although he's grateful that she'd thought to help him, Neville's grandmother's letter has only left Harry with more questions - who were Lord and Lady Potter, what would it mean to be a Head of House, and what, exactly, does a solicitor do, to name a few - and it seems his self-appointed task has just gotten more complicated.
It's going to be a long summer.