Chapter 19: Summer 1993
As a patient, there wasn't much for Harry to do in the Hospital Wing other than study. This was fortunate, considering he had a lot to catch up on after his involuntary three-week nap. Still, as the days dragged on, Harry grew more restless, especially when his energy began to return. By the end of the first week, Madam Pomfrey had all but threatened to tie him to his bed.
His friends were another wonderful distraction from his boredom, and he seemed to have a revolving door of visitors now that he could go more than a few hours without falling asleep. Cedric responsibly showed up at mealtimes and during his free periods, bringing handwritten notes that Harry didn't really need but appreciated nonetheless, whilst Grace shamelessly skipped her lessons and forced Harry to tutor her. The Quidditch team visited on more than one occasion, although always Marcus stayed the longest, swatting at Harry's hands when he scratched the itchy boils that covered every inch of his skin. Even Luna Lovegood stopped by, hanging a bouquet of tulips, clovers, and oregano over his bed, which she insisted would cure his ailments.
The only people who had yet to visit, however, were the two people Harry wanted to see most: Ginny and John. Cedric said the Weasleys had taken Ginny home for a week after she woke up. Still, even after she had returned, she remained silent and withdrawn. John was similarly distant, Teddy had said, and was rarely seen outside of the company of Ron or Hermione.
"Give him time," Cedric said when Harry contemplated sneaking out of the Hospital Wing to track down his brother. "It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him."
"He was fine in the Chamber," Harry grumbled, but he let his friend push him back into bed. "I'm not even mad. I just wish he'd talk to me."
Cedric gave him an impatient look, clearly believing that Harry was being purposefully dense. "He's embarrassed, Harry," he pointed out. "John idolises the ground you walk on. But with your fights and now being possessed by You-Know-Who… Just give him some time, yeah?"
It wasn't widely known what had happened to John and Ginny, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the effectiveness of Hogwarts' rumour mill. Only Harry's closest friends were given that information, and it was only ever discussed under privacy charms. The last thing Harry wanted was for John or Ginny to experience the abuse that he himself had suffered at the hands of the other students.
"You have the entire summer," Cedric reminded him gently.
"Hardly," Harry grunted. "Dad has already said I'll be confined to the house, but I doubt he'll stop John from waltzing off to the Weasley's."
There was a sigh from the end of his bed. Grace had appeared, a wicker hamper on her arm and an irritated expression on her face. "We're feeling sorry for ourselves today, I see. And here I thought we were going to have our celebration."
"Our celebration?" Harry shot a look at Cedric, who gave him a knowing grin in return.
Grace dropped the hamper on the end of Harry's bed. "It's the last day of term," she reminded him. "But if you want to have a pity party instead, I suppose I can return this to the kitchens. Only, I don't think the house-elves will be particularly chuffed."
"Madam Pomfrey will kill us if she catches us," Harry said, eyeing the wicker basket with interest. It might have been his imagination, but he swore he could smell treacle tart. Medusa, poking her nose out of the burrow she had created in Harry's bedsheets, also gave the hamper a curious look.
"That's why I'm here." Marcus appeared and began casting privacy charms that would deter all but the most dedicated Healer from interrupting them. Once he was done, he began magically enlarging the little area around Harry's bed, which he also charmed to be three times the size it should have been. It was as impressive as it was shocking—Marcus wasn't exactly known for his charm work.
"I brought the tea!" Teddy said, also appearing from around the privacy curtains with a laden tray.
Marcus snapped at him to keep his voice down and set up another privacy charm.
"I told you to get pumpkin juice," Grace grumbled as she unloaded the hamper. She swatted Cedric's hand away when he tried to take a jelly slug from the large bag the elves had packed.
Teddy pursed his lips, his face twisting in confusion. "But you said we were having a party? It isn't a party without tea."
Grace rolled her eyes and muttered, "Purebloods," under her breath. She crawled onto the bed and pulled out a slug from her stash, which she pointed at Harry. "You look disgusting, by the way."
Harry ran a hand over his face, which was as rough as sandpaper. Before Healer Rodriguez had left that morning, he had lanced most of Harry's boils and collected the fluid for examination. It had been uncomfortable at the time, but Harry was happy he didn't have boils on his backside anymore. "Just wait until next week. I've been told the skin will start to peel off."
Marcus' face twisted in disgust, and he placed the pumpkin pasty he had been eating back on his plate. "Thank you for sharing, Harry."
"I'll shed like Medusa," Harry explained, flicking his tongue out like a snake before taking a bite of his treacle tart. "Isn't the human body amazing?"
Their conversation turned to more pleasant topics, such as Slytherin's third consecutive Quidditch cup win and Professor Lockhart's announcement that he was leaving Hogwarts to travel the world. The five friends spoke late into the night, leaving only when they were discovered by Madam Pomfrey, who chased them off. Harry was released from the Hospital Wing the following day, only to be ushered onto the Hogwarts Express. Fortunately, Marcus had had the foresight to pack Harry's room up beforehand, which was a relief because Harry still wasn't allowed to use magic. Not that he had the energy for it, of course. It was amazing how exhausted he was after walking from the carriages to the Hogwarts Express. He ended up sleeping for several hours on the ride back to London.
His father and Uncle Remus were waiting on Platform 9¾ when Harry stepped off the train, deep in discussion about how to best get Harry home.
"We're not going to Apparate?" Harry asked, frowning.
His father shook his head. "You're not," he explained, hugging John when he appeared. "The Healers said you won't be able to withstand it for a few weeks at the very least."
"Taking a train would be the safest option for you," Uncle Remus explained. "You need to avoid large amounts of magic whilst you're unstable."
"He can't be around Muggles," Mr Potter sighed. "He'd break the Statute of Secrecy."
Harry gave him an affronted look. "I know not to use magic in front of—"
"Harry, your hair just turned to grass," Mr Potter said, conjuring a hat and shoving it on Harry's head.
Uncle Remus peered curiously at the blades of grass that stuck out from under the hat. "If you don't look too closely, it just looks like he's dyed his hair green," Uncle Remus noted. "You could say he's going through a punk phase."
"No Muggles," Mr Potter said firmly, leaving no more room for argument. "We'll have to take the Knight Bus."
Harry felt as green as his hair. "Can't we just fly?" he asked weakly.
His father shook his head. "Brooms require you to channel magic to say in the air—it's too risky in your state. The Knight Bus is the safest option." He didn't look any more pleased than Harry did at the decision, but he seemed resolute to follow through.
After waving off John and Uncle Remus, Mr Potter led Harry through the barrier and guided him out of Kings Cross Station. Harry was glad he had the foresight to change out of his robes as they entered Muggle London. They wove through the crowded streets until they reached a quiet alley to summon the violet triple-decker bus. Twenty-two sickles and an hour later, Harry and his father stumbled through the doors of Potter Manor, with Harry declaring he wouldn't leave for the rest of the summer if the Knight Bus was to be his only mode of transportation.
True to his word, Harry remained shut up in Potter Manor as he recovered, which was a wise decision. Though less frequent than they had been at Hogwarts, his bursts of accidental magic still required significant cleanup, and he would have been embarrassed to have them at a friend's house. His family didn't seem to mind all that much; his uncles even seemed to find the odd outbursts hilarious. Acorn, meanwhile, was in her glory caring for him, and it took Harry several weeks to convince the house-elf that he didn't need to be spoon-fed like a baby.
Without being able to fly or leave to visit his friends, there were few things for Harry to do other than read books and write letters. Cedric and Marcus could always be relied on to reply quickly to any letter he sent them, which was a blessing, considering Grace was unreachable on her holiday in Chile and Teddy wasn't permitted to write to anyone who wasn't approved by his father. In addition, Harry wrote once a week to Luna, who sent flower petals and intricate drawings of cryptids in reply. He also maintained a steady correspondence with Katie, who kept him entertained with the drama unfolding in her small village in the West Country, which involved two rival fruit stands and a runaway guard donkey.
However, the one person who never responded to any of his letters was Ginny. He knew that she was getting his letters (Hedwig, offended, nipped his ear rather hard when he questioned her about the matter). Still, for whatever reason, she never replied. Harry considered questioning John about her, but it seemed that his little brother could be just as elusive as Ginny.
It took Harry and Acorn two entire weeks to devise a plan to entrap John and force him to have a conversation with him. They had to wait for a day when their father had left for a business meeting, and Uncle Remus had left to visit his father before enacting their plan. Acorn would lure John into the library before locking the door, giving Harry, already inside, the opportunity to talk to his brother. The plan worked as expected, and John acted just as predictably. After realising that he was alone with Harry, John panicked and tried to run, only to find that the door wouldn't budge.
For several moments, John faced away from Harry, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge his presence. Harry shoved his hurt down at the action and tried to remember what Cedric had said about John's behaviour. He needed to be gentle with his brother, even when he felt like throttling him.
"How are you?" Harry asked, not entirely sure where to start. After all, how were you supposed to talk about your little brother being possessed and trying to murder you? Cedric would know, Harry supposed. He was good at things like that.
John bit his lip and shrugged. "'m fine," he mumbled, only to belatedly remember to return the question.
Harry replied in general terms, knowing that if John was aware of the extent of Harry's injuries, he'd be even more distraught and stubborn. "How were your final exams?"
John sighed and shot Harry an irritated look. "Are we really going to talk about school?"
"Okay, have any of your classmates caught your eye? Who do you fancy?"
"My final exams were fine," John replied quickly, a blush working its way up the back of his neck.
Harry snickered before waving his brother closer and motioning for him to join him on the loveseat by the fire. John did so hesitantly, perching on the end of the furniture as far away as he could without falling off.
"What courses have you chosen for next term?" Harry asked, continuing on with the safe topic of school.
"Divination and Care of Magical Creatures."
"Not Ancient Runes?"
Something dark twisted John's face. "I don't have to do everything like you," he snapped.
Harry fought the urge to snap back and fixed his brother with a look far more patient than he actually felt. "I wasn't suggesting it for that reason," he explained steadily. "I merely thought you'd take it because you already know the languages Professor Babbling teaches. It would be an easy class for you."
John's cheek's flushed, and the anger drained out of his body. "Sorry," he muttered. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Puberty?" Harry suggested, trying to keep the conversation light.
John shook his head and raised a fist to rub his eyes. "It's not that. It's just… I'm so angry. All of the time. Ever since I started writing in—" he cut himself off, shame and self-loathing twisting his features.
Harry slid closer on the loveseat and placed a hand on John's shoulder, feeling heartened when he didn't shake it off. "When you began to write in the diary?" Harry guessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
John nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He turned his head away, but not before Harry saw a tear slip down his cheek. "It's like this hazy black fog is in me, poisoning me. Sometimes I get so angry—for no reason at all—and I feel like I can't breathe. All I want to do is hurt people and destroy things, and I know that it's not me, but at the same time, it is me and I—" he cut off again, this time by a sob that wracked his body.
Throwing caution to the wind, Harry lunged forward and pulled John into a tight hug. His heart soared when he felt his brother wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face into his chest.
"It's an effect of Dark Magic," Harry explained. "Outbursts of rage, the desire to hurt others, destructive tendencies—what you are experiencing is completely normal."
His words were meant to comfort John, but they had the opposite effect. With a wail, he wrenched himself away and huddled against the arm of the loveseat, his back to Harry and his arms wrapped tightly around his body.
"John?" Harry said, his voice cracking in concern. He inched towards his brother like he might a wounded feral animal, pressing his fingers into his back. John flinched at the contact but didn't lash out or run away. "What is it?"
"Why do you put up with me? Sometimes, I feel like I'm more trouble than I'm worth."
Harry chuckled and pulled John into a hug. "I'm your older brother," he explained. "And I happen to think you're worth the exact amount of trouble you cause."
Their relationship wasn't magically fixed with one conversation—not after a year of blame and hurt. John had a long way to go to learn how to forgive himself for what had transpired before and in the Chamber, whilst Harry needed to relearn how to trust his brother. They both needed to work on their communication (or lack thereof) and acknowledge that they both had roles to play in the fights that plagued them throughout the term. That meant that John needed to learn how to communicate his feelings with his brother. Harry had to accept that he had been neglectful of his brother, no matter how unintentionally.
In the weeks that followed, the two brothers had frank conversations that their relationship hadn't seen since Harry had started at Hogwarts. With Harry unable to leave Potter Manor and John's friends out of the country (Granger in France and the Weasleys in Egypt), there was little to do besides talking with each other. There were a lot of aired grievances that summer, with tears shed and hurtful accusations thrown around by both parties. It took a lot of patience and willingness to cast egos aside and admit that the other person had a point. It meant acknowledging that John was highly sensitive and reactionary, whilst Harry's instinct in the face of adversity was to shut down and ignore his problems—and it meant overcoming these reactions when one brother said something to upset the other.
But it was a start.
It had been difficult for Harry to admit that he had stretched his attention rather thin during the previous term. Between his apprenticeship and Quidditch, Harry barely had time to study, let alone socialise. The fact that John was in a different Hogwarts house only made it more difficult. Still, John pointed out that Harry had more than enough time for Cedric. They settled on studying together several times a week in the library, which helped solve another one of their problems—John's academic record.
Although John was far from a poor student, it was apparent that he lacked Harry's studiousness—something that John thought disappointed their professors. Unlike Harry, John couldn't manage silent spell casting, no matter how hard he tried.
"You hold yourself to too high of standards," Harry mused when John described his perfectly acceptable (if perhaps boring) rabbit-to-slippers transfiguration final exam. "When you inevitably fail to reach those ridiculously high standards, you decide you're a failure."
John scowled at the assessment. "But it's possible. You can do it, and you can do it silently. Why can't I?"
"Because you're not me," Harry pointed out. "And frankly, that's a good thing. You have other strengths that are just as valuable, and you're wasting them by pretending to be someone you're not."
"Talents?" John scoffed, tossing another log into the fireplace. It was near the end of July, and despite the sweltering temperatures outside, the fire in the library was roaring. This might have had something to do with the snowstorm Harry had accidentally conjured inside Potter Manor. "Like what?"
"Well, for one, people tend to like you," Harry replied.
"They like that I'm the Boy-Who-Lived," John snapped.
Harry hummed in thought. "I don't think that's necessarily true. At least not after they get to know you. You can be quite charming when you're not a massive prat." He laughed and ducked when John lobbed a cushion at his head. "I mean, look at you. You've made it through your Second Year, and you're still in the dormitory with your peers. That's loads better than me—I got kicked out for being a menace to society."
"I can't imagine why they'd think that," John grumbled, though a smile played on the edges of his lips.
"I blow things up a lot," Harry reminded him with a blithe smile.
John laughed before shaking his head. "All I'm saying is that people expect better of me—of the Boy-Who-Lived."
"Then let them. It's not your fault that they've created a fake personality for someone they don't know," Harry said. "Besides, do you really want people to like you for someone you're not?"
John shrugged a little, his expression pensive. "I s'pose not," he admitted.
A tap at the window interrupted their conversation. John rose from his seat to let in two tawny owls, each barring letters emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest.
"Supply lists," John groaned, taring his open before remembering to hand Harry his. "I don't even want to think about school right now."
Harry laughed. "You're telling me? I have my O.W.L.s this year!" Unfortunately, no matter how much he had begged Madam Pomfrey, he couldn't be excused from taking the standardised examinations like he had from his other courses. He wasn't even allowed to take them early, either, despite firmly believing he could sit—and pass—the exams. "And that's not even—" he broke off as something fell out of the envelope and landed on his lap.
Harry stared down at the little silver and green badge, his brain unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Fortunately, John had no such issues and dove for the badge.
"Prefect?" John asked. He was silent for a moment before a slow grin split his face. "They made you, the bloke who blows up the castle at least once a year, a prefect?"
"This is terrible," Harry mumbled through numb lips.
John gave him a funny look. "You're probably the only one who has ever complained about being chosen for a prefect."
"I have an apprenticeship!" Harry cried. "I don't have time to be a prefect! What was Snape thinking?"
A desperate search of the accompanying letter couldn't offer a satisfactory explanation. Instead, he found a short note, penned in Professor Snape's cramped scrawl:
I am showing an extraordinary amount of faith in you by granting you this honour. Do not disappoint me.
"You've got to be joking," Harry mumbled to himself, flipping over the note, hoping that he had missed something.
"Well, honestly, Harry," John huffed. "Who else could they choose from your year? Warrington? I heard he skins cats for fun."
"Adrian could do it," Harry said, willfully ignoring that Adrian was twenty minutes late to everything and was barely passing most of his courses. Still, Adrian was well-liked by the Slytherins. What he lacked in leadership and scholarly aptitude, he made up with enthusiasm.
"Clearly, Snape doesn't think so," John said. "And he hates you. If he's chosen you, he's judged you as the least awful option."
Harry shot his brother an impatient look. "Thank you for your vote of confidence."
John shrugged and went back to browsing his letter. "I wonder why the supply lists are late this year," he mused.
"Best guess is that Dumbledore had trouble filling the Defence post," Harry replied.
John nodded. "I wonder what poor sod has taken it. They've got to be desperate if they've taken a cursed job."
As it turned out, John's musings weren't that far off. That night, Uncle Remus joined them for supper and announced that he'd be teaching at Hogwarts. In previous years, Mr Potter had employed Uncle Remus as a tutor for Harry and John. After they had started at Hogwarts, he had moved on to tutor the youngest Greengrass daughter. But as she would be starting at Hogwarts this autumn, Uncle Remus was left in the difficult position of finding new families that were willing to accommodate his 'furry little problem'. Not that the Greengrasses had known that Uncle Remus was a werewolf, of course. They had simply assumed that he had a chronic illness like their daughter did.
"Albus promised me access to the Wolfsbane Potion," Uncle Remus explained.
Harry grimaced at this declaration, catching his uncle's attention. "That's as good as poison," Harry said when his uncle gave him a curious look.
Uncle Remus gave Harry a tight-lipped smile. "It's a poison that would allow me to remain sane during the full moon," he replied softly. "I would never think of taking a post at Hogwarts if I couldn't take it. It would be too dangerous to have a monster on school grounds."
"You're not a monster," Mr Potter snapped before Harry had the chance to.
"You're ill," Harry agreed. "All medical literature supports that lycanthropy is an illness which expresses as an involuntary human-to-wolf transfiguration."
"The Ministry would disagree," Uncle Remus replied. "We're beasts or beings, depending on the year, but we're still classified as non-human entities either way."
"Well, the Ministry is wrong," Harry replied, his temper beginning to flare. "There could be a cure for lycanthropy if the Ministry would bother to fund it."
"Yes, well," Uncle Remus said, his tone colouring with annoyance. "Good luck finding anyone in the Ministry who would be willing to support that."
"You could, Dad," John said quietly, startling everyone at the table as they were reminded that he was still present. "You're a Lord—people are dying to know what you think. All you have to do is say that the Ministry should fund research, and they'd do it."
"It's not as simple as that," Mr Potter replied, though his expression was pensive. "Damocles Belby has a patent on the Wolfsbane Potion, and his legal team attacks any portioners they hear are experimenting on adjacent remedies. The social stigma that werewolves face isn't a minor issue either. The problem is that most people don't care enough to want to heal lycanthropy. They want to forget that it even exists."
"If someone developed a cure, it would go away," John said, his gaze darting between Uncle Remus, Harry, and Mr Potter. He finally shrugged and returned his attention to his plate. "I don't know. It's just a thought."
"It's a good one," Harry agreed vehemently. "A cure—not just a poison that happens to alleviate symptoms—exists. Someone just needs to find it."
"Harry, not even the Asklepion will research lycanthropy—we're not worth the bureaucratic red tape or upsetting the majority of the wizards they serve," Uncle Remus said.
Harry blinked, stunned. It was as if Uncle Remus had reached over the dinner table and slapped him across the face. Perhaps he had been naïve in thinking that the Asklepion was some sort of magical medical paradise that accepted everyone simply because they accepted Parselmouths. The disappointment and shame he felt when he learned that they could be just as bigoted as the rest of the world was indescribable. Was he a bad person for wanting to join them?
"I thank you for your enthusiasm and support, but there really isn't anything anyone can do," Uncle Remus said with a gentle smile that bordered on pity.
The sight of it ignited some fire in Harry's chest. It was akin to anger, but it left him feeling twitchy with an energy to march down to the Ministry and demand funding himself. There was also the small part of Harry that did not like being told he couldn't do something. It reminded him of days when he couldn't talk, and everyone assumed he would never amount to anything.
"Fine," Harry said, picking up his fork and turning back to his meal. "I'll do it myself."
Genius Fratris
The dawn of Harry's fifteenth birthday began with a loud crack! when Uncle Sirius Apparated into his bedroom. Despite the rude awakening, Harry was glad to see his uncle after so many months—as a curse breaker, Uncle Sirius was often travelling for work, and he had been in Mexico since last summer. He allowed himself to be dragged down to the kitchen for breakfast. As she generally did, Acorn prepared an over-the-top breakfast feast for his and John's birthday, which the family devoured before moving on to presents. After opening several books from his friends, a handmade quilt from Mrs Weasley ("You must be so cold in the dungeons!" she had written in the accompanying letter), and a signed jersey from the Bulgarian National team from his father, Uncle Sirius presented the brothers with identical long, thin packages wrapped up brown paper.
"Firebolts? Really, Sirius?" Mr Potter groaned, breaking the stunned silence that had fallen over the kitchen.
Uncle Sirius gave him a lazy shrug. "I'm a wealthy man with no biological kids to spoil. I've got to settle on bestowing lavish gifts on yours," he explained, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips. "Now, who wants to go flying?"
Whilst Harry still hadn't been given permission to fly from his Healer, John had no objection to the suggestion. Harry watched with one of his new books from the ground as his brother zoomed around the field behind Potter Manor, offering his own Firebolt of Uncle Sirius to use. They even managed to cajole Mr Potter into having a go on the Firebolt, who admitted that the flying experience was superb.
"Malfoy will be furious," John said gleefully, his dark hair windswept and his cheeks rosy.
"Mr Malfoy bought his place on the Slytherin team last year by buying everyone Nimbus 2001s," Harry explained to his father and uncle. A realisation occurred to Harry then, and he groaned. "He's going to be insufferable when he finds out."
John nodded, his grin wide and showing entirely too many teeth. "I can't wait to tell him. Do you think he'll be at Diagon Ally today?"
"I hope not," Harry replied. "Some of the Quidditch team is meeting up for dinner, but we were careful not to let him find out." The last thing Harry wanted to do on his birthday was entertain Draco Malfoy.
Uncle Sirius raised an amused eyebrow. "Considering how much you hate the kid, you seem to spend a lot of time thinking about him," he told John, who flushed.
"To be fair, John doesn't get much choice in the matter," Harry explained, rushing to John's defence. "Malfoy's a bit obsessed. We've started a drinking game in the common room every time he mentions John's name. Not that I partake, of course. That would be irresponsible."
"Of course not," his father agreed lightly.
The day only got better from there. After their exciting morning, Harry and Mr Potter took the Knight Bus to St Mungo's. There Harry was issued a clean bill of health by Healer Rodriguez, who had travelled back from Greece to check on Harry's progress.
"It looks like you've made it through the worst of it," Healer Rodriguez explained with his thick American accent and terrible bedside manners. "I'm honestly shocked you're still alive."
The Healer explained that there would still be random bouts of accidental magic, and it would be something Harry would struggle with for the rest of his life. Learning to control his emotions would be paramount to leading a life with minimal outbursts of accidental magic. His body would also be more sensitive to magic, which was as much of a blessing as it was a curse: spells would be more powerful and easier to perform, but one overpowered spell could quickly put him in another coma (if he was lucky) or kill him (if he was less lucky).
"You'll hafta do a lotta magical therapy," Healer Rodriguez said. "Preferably with a specialist. Poppy could do it, but she's got enough on her plate, and St Mungo's has a great programme."
Mr Potter agreed to write to Dumbledore and get Harry permission to Floo to St Mungo's on the weekends. After setting up his appointments, Harry and Mr Potter Apparated to Diagon Ally to do some pre-term shopping. They met John and Uncle Sirius at Madam Malkins, where both brothers were forced to endure a robe fitting—especially Harry, who had shot up over the summer and was nearly as tall as his father. The other stores were marginally more interesting inasmuch as restocking potions kits and purchasing more ink bottles could be. Flourish and Blotts was their last stop by design, simply because Mr Potter knew that Harry would have spent all day in the book shop if he could.
Fortunately for Harry's money bag, that was where Cedric found him sometime later.
"I'm kidnapping you," his best friend informed him cheerfully, plucking Blood Curses and You! out of Harry's hands and tossing it back on a bookshelf.
"Hi Cedric, it's good to see you for the first time all summer. I'm doing well, thank you for asking. How are you?" Harry replied evenly.
Cedric waved off the admonishment with a lazy flick of his wrist. He wrapped his arm around Harry's neck and began to pull him towards the exit. "I'll have the birthday boy home by midnight, Mr Potter."
"Ten," his father corrected with a firm look and a smile.
Cedric saluted and pulled Harry out of Flourish and Blotts. Harry listened to his friend chatter about their plans for the evening, beginning with dinner at the Banging Banshee on Cashew Alley and ending at the Diggory's house for a bonfire. Harry couldn't have cared less about where they were going if he was honest. He was just relieved to see his best friend and be out of Potter Manor.
Their friends were already waiting for them when they arrived, sitting around the largest drum the Banshee offered.
Marcus pushed a menu into Harry's hands the moment he sat down. "Hurry up and pick. I'm starving."
"He wants Shepard's pie," Cedric said before Harry had the chance to focus on the menu.
"Have you ever been here, Harry?" Pucey asked. When Harry shook his head, Pucey launched into an explanation about how the restaurant worked. "If we want the waiter's attention, we have to play the drum. The thing is, though, if you're rubbish, they ignore you."
"That's why I'm here," Miles Bletchley explained, recently returned from a summer intensive in Italy. "I'm something of an expert musician."
"You play the harp, Miles," Grace drawled, having also recently returned from her trip abroad.
This fact didn't seem to change Bletchley's mind. He conducted them to follow his beat, and they began pounding on their table in semi-unison. This went on for several minutes before it became clear that their beat was not catchy enough to gain the waiters' favour.
"New idea," Marcus said. "Let's make enough noise that they'll have to pay attention to us to shut us up."
That plan worked out much better, although it might have had something to do with Grace loudly accompanying their discordant ruckus with an opera aria. Dinner passed relatively peacefully, and Harry only had to endure one round of his friends badly serenading him with a birthday song. From there, Harry was frog marched down Diagon Alley whilst his friends loudly called, "Make way for the birthday boy!" as they walked through the crowded street. Harry was so flustered by his friends' behaviour (he was seriously reconsidering their friendship status at that point) that he couldn't even speak when they eventually reached Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
"He'll have the honey avocado," Katie said, appearing out of seemingly thin air and gracing him with a sweet smile. "I had it a few weeks ago—you'll love it."
Harry gave her an appreciative smile and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, ignoring his friends' wolf whistles, and threaded his fingers through hers. After receiving a cone of green ice cream ("On the house, birthday boy!") from Florean Fortescue himself, he led his girlfriend to the patio outside the shop. There, Harry managed to get about three bites of his ice cream before he was forced to pass it around to his friends to try, all of whom agreed that it was an excellent choice.
"I've missed you," Katie said in a low voice. "How did your Healer's visit go?"
Harry opened his mouth to reply, only for nothing to come out. Frustrated, he sighed and collected his thoughts, trying to will himself to calm down. Clearly, he was unsuccessful at this because the parasol over their table snapped shut on its own accord. A moment later, every umbrella within a ten-foot radius began to open and close, catching the attention of curious onlookers and his friends alike. Harry tried to pretend that he was as confused as everyone else, but his expression was too mortified to convince anyone of his innocence.
"Oh no, we broke Harry," Cedric said, his tone joking but his expression contrite.
Harry waved away the apologies with a shrug and took a bite of Bletchley's chocolate cayenne ice cream when it made its way to him. Katie settled for leaning into Harry's side and asked Grace about her trip to Chile instead. Harry forced himself to relax and listen to his friends' conversations. After a month of little human contact besides his family, it was nice to be able to see his friends and be out in public again.
A barn owl swooped down and landed in front of Pucey, dropping a copy of the Evening Prophet on the table before sticking out a leg for payment. The owl's arrival sent confusion and a ripple of unease through the group of teens. Unlike the Daily Prophet, the Evening Prophet was only published when a particularly noteworthy event happened in Wizarding Britain. In fact, it was so rare that Harry could only think of a few instances they had been printed in the last year.
Bletchley dropped five knuts into the leather pouch tethered to the owl's leg and snatched up the paper before Pucey could reach for his money bag. A second later, he let out an oath so foul that even Grace was startled.
"Read it out loud," Marcus suggested, his lips set into a concerned grimace.
When Bletchley put down the paper, he fixed Marcus with an uncharacteristically serious expression. "Go home, mate."
A highly affronted look twisted Marcus' face. Marcus gave orders. He didn't take them. "You want to try that again?"
Concerned, Cedric plucked the Prophet out of Bletchley's hands and angled it so he and Harry could read the paper together.
AZKABAN BREAKOUT! The headline said in bold block letters.
In the early hours of this morning, the guards of Azkaban discovered that a maximum-security cell had been vacated during the night. The cell in question belonged to the convicted Death Eater, Aurelius Flint. Flint, now 47, was incarcerated in Azkaban in 1981, following the defeat of You-Know-Who by John Potter. A devoted follower of the fallen dark lord, Flint was responsible for the deaths of at least 143 Muggles and the extinction of the Peters family (for a summary of these crimes, see page 5). However, his most gristly act was committed just days before the fall of You-Know-Who. On the orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Flint murdered his entire family to prove his devotion to his master.
By the end of the night of 26 October 1981, his wife, Fionnuala Flint née Greengrass (33); daughter, Aurelia (10); son, Augustus (8); daughter, Claudia (3); daughter, Cornelia (2); and son, Sextus (4 months); were dead. Only five-year-old Marcus, the third Flint child, escaped with his life (Read about Marcus's harrowing escape, page 7).
Diagon Alley had fallen eerily quiet when Harry finally pulled his attention away from the Prophet, a thick, stifling tension falling over the warm summer night like a noxious cloud. People were speaking in low voices as they bent over the evening paper, casting nervous looks about the street as if they were expecting Aurelius Flint to pop out at any moment—for Marcus's father to appear and murder them.
And Marcus, his one surviving victim, had no idea.
"Marcus, we should go," Harry said quietly, surprising his friends with his sudden ability to speak. "Let's not do this here."
"Do what here?" Marcus asked, a shadow of unease appearing in his eyes. He glanced around Diagon Alley, which was beginning to buzz with tension. The hush that had descended over the street was beginning to lift. And with it, snatches of panicked conversations began to make their way to their table.
"—no one's ever escaped before."
"—thought Azkaban was—"
"It says he slaughtered his—"
"—his poor son."
Before anyone could react, Marcus extended one of his ridiculously long arms across the table. He ripped the Prophet out of Cedric and Harry's hands so violently that the two boys were left holding the corners of the newspaper. Evidently, there was still enough of the article for Marcus to read because every drop of blood drained from his face.
"I—" Marcus broke off, his voice cracking as it slipped from his trembling lips. "He—" The words were even more croak-like than the first. He dropped the Prophet on the table, his eyes wide and his pupils reduced to pinpricks.
Concerned, Harry rose to his feet and crouched next to his friend. Marcus didn't seem to notice the movement as he was too busy staring at the moving photograph of his father's smirking mugshot. Harry placed a gentle hand on Marcus's shoulder, which his friend either ignored or couldn't feel.
"Let's get you home," he said gently, mind racing. Obviously, Marcus wouldn't be able to Apparate in this state—he'd surely splinch himself. But taking the Knight Bus was hardly the safest option either as it was too public. And if the Flints were smart, they would have already closed their connection to the Floo network. "We need to find someone who can Apparate him," Harry decided, speaking to Bletchley when it became apparent that Marcus wasn't listening.
Bletchley nodded, his lips pressed into a firm line, and he rose to stand on Marcus' other side. Together, Harry and Bletchley helped their hulking friend to his feet, Cedric rushing to help when they nearly collapsed under Marcus's full weight. Pucey offered to see Katie and Grace home, which Harry greatly appreciated when Marcus fainted a moment later, taking Bletchley and Cedric to the ground with him.
Unconcerned with underage magic laws, Harry drew his wand and began to cast diagnostic chams. If the situation hadn't been so dire, he might have relished in the feeling of magic pulsing through his body as he performed magic for the first time in months. As it was, Harry was a bit more concerned with Marcus's blood pressure and figuring out just how they were going to get their unconscious six-foot-nine-inch friend home. Fortunately, that problem was solved by Mr Flint—Marcus's uncle, not his father—appearing not long after Pucey had taken Grace and Katie home.
Mr Flint took one look at his nephew before scooping him up into his arms like he was a baby and not a grown man who was nearly as tall as he was. Mr Flint gave each of them a solemn nod before Disapparating.
Taking their cue from Mr Flint, the remaining friends departed quickly, their plans for the night forgotten in their determination to get home. Harry arrived home just in time for his father to finish reading the Evening Prophet and forbidding him from stepping foot outside of Potter Manor for the rest of the summer. For once, Harry didn't even argue with his father's overprotectiveness. He simply nodded, hugged his father good-night, and went to bed.
It wasn't until the following day that another statement was issued by the Ministry, which disturbed the Potters far more. In the chaos that followed the escape of Aurelius Flint, the guards of Azkaban didn't think to check on the other prisoners. By the time they did, Peter Pettigrew was long gone.
"Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath." –Eckhart Tolle
A/N: Here it is! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! Leave a comment, if you like. They make me happy! -CA
