Chapter -5

Harry had been sitting on a swing in the nearest playground in his neighborhood as it seemed for hours absolutely motionless. It was nice for his sore body to remain still, even if the boy knew that this peace wouldn't last for long. At least he would get all the necessary rest he needed so badly.

The summer holidays were fascinating as always, maybe even a little bit harsher than the previous ones but all in all the same merriment. If Harry knew then that the following school year would turn to be even more fascinating experience, he would probably have never leaved the playground to save the day. But it was Harry Potter we were talking about, and all self-respecting boys-who-unfortunately-lived always made sure to have a knack for finding trouble.

The boy knew that it would be a hell to pay for when he was back at his loving household for taking his spectacular leave last summer. The greeting, to put it mildly, had been enough to cripple him for a week, the Dursleys had even left him alone to nurse his injuries and that days had flown in relative peace. However, he couldn't find it in himself to regret him blowing up his enormous aunt Marge, a fanatical admirer of nasty creatures that her dogs were. It had been such an ephemeral spectacle that even now Harry recalled the event with a hardly suppressed laugh. Besides the bitch deserved this for telling cruel things about his parents.

Harry's stomach rumbled and the boy rubbed it absentmindedly through the old hand-me-down t-shirt. The sound snapped him from his thoughts and reminded him that it was quite long ago when he had last eaten. The Dursleys perhaps truly believed that their freak of a nephew could survive only on photosynthesis. For some time in the last few days young wizard had believed in it too, as it happened that he was still breathing and even able to do his endless chores, with results of which his relatives almost always pretended to be not satisfied. Actually, they weren't satisfied with many things regarding their unwanted burden.

He was frequently accused in glaring at his aunt or uncle, even if he didn't rise his eyes at them at all. How dare he, if locking his gaze on the floor while speaking with them was one of the earliest lessons his beloved relatives taught him years ago when the child could hardly see over the dining table. If Harry bravely, or better say foolishly, tried to assure them in his innocence, they started calling him names and occasionally slapping him across the face, as though simply giving out candies judging by the indifference written in the Dursleys' eyes. It sucked.

Harry deeply inhaled and then in instant doubled up as a sharp pain pierced through his chest. Uh oh, he shouldn't have forgotten about his doubtlessly broken rib which he had received in his previous battle with his whale of a cousin. But by all means, Harry should be truthful with himself, that battle could hardly have been described as one. He had been nothing less than beaten by Dudley and his goons. If you could see the positive aspects of this, Harry had got quite easy off with only one damaged rib and some bruises on his stomach. It could end much, much worse, he should know.

The boy imagined for a minute that his loud breath of pain had been heard by his uncle Vernon from here and nervously giggled, as the angry purple face of the man appeared in his mind's eye. Fortunately, Dursley didn't have such a good hearing, or else Harry would be in constant trouble. It's better pretend he didn't exist at all. This skill had saved him his life, no less. Driving by his temper, Vernon had more chances to squeeze the life right out of him than his magical rival Voldemort. The thought was just ridiculous. Being a twelve-year-old boy, Harry slayed the basilisk, for Merlin's sake! But he couldn't stand his uncle's blows and prove he wasn't their family's punching bag. His instinct for self-preservation switched on on its own automatically, however, regrettably, not as often as he would like. No doubt, his Gryffindorish stubbornness had something to do with it.

Golden dusk painted the ground and soon started transforming itself into star-sprinkled night. Only then when it was already dark Harry noticed he remained the only one occupant of the playground. The boy owlishly was looking around the deserted area, feeling of loneliness found its way to his worn heart. He had nobody to wait for his return. He had nobody to concern if he didn't return at all. If he hadn't survived in that damn Chamber of Secrets, it would be much simpler for him and his relatives. For his part, it wouldn't be necessary any longer to cope with all this pain and traumatized emotions practically on daily basis. And as for the Dursleys, they would be a normal family again, as it had been until Harry Potter was dropped on their doorstep like a morning paper which at least was a welcome thing unlike one certain freak. It was hard to resist the dark thoughts in the dead of night.

A gust of cold wind gave the boy chills and Harry shivered. His overlarge t-shirt couldn't keep him warm, but Harry didn't care. He was already late and knew he wouldn't be allowed in the house, so it left him only one option to stay in the streets and make it through the night. He was used to it.

Anyway, it was for the better that he was stuck in the streets instead of his sorry excuse for a bedroom. The perspective of drowning in fear of falling asleep and seeing again something terrible didn't attract him at all. The events in his previous night's nightmare had shaken him to the core. He saw an old man been killed by none other than Voldemort himself. How come he had such odd dreams? The understanding was beyond himself. There was no way his subconscious could create a conversation between Wormtail and his disgustingly looking baby-shaped Master about the murder of Bertha Jorkins ('Daily Prophet' – Harry subscribed for receiving the paper before the departure from Hogwarts last month – had announced the woman gone missing on her way to Albania for her holiday) and a mysterious plan to be hold after the Quidditch World Cup, right? The part involving Harry seemed the most logical among the other issues as the Voldemort's desire to see him dead wasn't something new to him, and he of course could experience it in his nightmare.

Well, Harry did know before, thanks to dementors, that the spell that had put his parents' lifes to an end was of a green colour. He then started to see in nightmares that Halloween night thirteen years ago. However, the boy was ignorant of incantation behind that green light. Until last night. Had he made up those words or were they the real Killing curse? He could ask his godfather about it when the next time he would have a chance to use an owl post, but it would gonna be a strange letter. "Hello, Padfoot. How are you? I hope you don't see Voldemort throwing Killing curses back and forth in your dreams too. Oh, I've said 'too'? Well, for my part, I did have such an occurrence and in this regards I'd like to ask you if the one truly says 'Avada Kedavra' if he wants to murder another guy? Cheers, Harry". Even if Sirius was the only adult he could ask it wouldn't be wise doing it. The last thing Harry needed is to make Sirius pick up from his hiding place cause of his godson's whimpers. No, it wasn't worth it. He would investigate it later.

When he was almost numb from the cold air, Harry decided to stand up and stretch his limbs. The sharp pang reverberated in his right shoulder when the boy too fast raised his hands up. Harry hissed and grabbed his shoulder with another arm. After brief examination the boy made sure that indeed it was dislocated. Damn! And how would he be supposed to work on his chores tomorrow? His aunt and uncle would not accept any excuses and would only again accuse him in laziness. Harry could almost hear his uncle Vernon's rebuke over himself, "You brought it on yourself, boy" and his heavy breathing as he would be unbuckling his leather belt.

Harry shut his eyes for a moment and opened them again when the pain decreased to acceptable level and now was throbbing in his damaged shoulder. His relatives never took him to see a doctor even when Vernon's punishments went too far. They were afraid that someone somehow would find out about their treatment of Harry and decide to involve authorities. To their credit, the most severe results of disciplining their nephew, as they called it, were usually cured by his own magic which helped to avoid unwanted consequences.

Annoyed, the boy kicked a small stone from his way and started pacing back and forth beside the bench near the swing. He wanted so badly to hear from his best friends right here and now – despite he received the invitation from the Weasley family to join them for the World Cup promising to come for him in a fortnight which actually would happen soon – that he looked up in desperate hope to discern among the stars another white spot of his dear familiar bringing him a message from one of them. The first thing Harry did upon his return to 4, Privet Drive was sending Hedwig away to the Burrow. He didn't want his owl to suffer in violent hands of his uncle if he was displeased with the noise she made.

Harry didn't like to lie to his friends in his letters to them pretending to be a happy teenaged boy in the middle of the summer holidays, but he couldn't help it. Ron already knew few pieces from his homelife and, not fooled at all by his friend's reassurances, constantly asked if Harry needed to be rescued again. It was nice to have such a good friend that cared enough to even ask.

Nobody had asked before if he needed help.

Suddenly the boy stopped pacing. He was frozen with confusion as he couldn't figure it out what actually had made him act so funny. His eyes, unseeing, were feverishly looking around trying to find a solution. Harry's thoughts refused to gather in his mind, and the feeling of anxiety led its way to his heart. But then the boy understood. His gaze was gliding now and then on the trash can near the bench.

Harry gulped heavily and tried to suppress nausea at the thought of what his brain was making him do. And Harry knew he would obey.

With his feet struck with unpleasant weakness, the boy wobbled closer to the trash can and got a glimpse inside. His attentive gaze caught a picture of what people had thrown away recently. There were a lot of cigarette butts, some beer and soda cans, candy wrappers, and… oh, that was it! There was also approximately one-third of a sandwich which someone so graciously had left for Harry. His hand trembling, the boy reached for the unappetizing bit and fished it out from the trash can. Before he could change his mind, Harry held his meal closer to his mouth. The boy was so focused on thinking of some other stuff, but a rubbish in his hand, that the tears on his cheeks remained unnoticed by himself. He needed to survive, didn't he? Would his parents be proud of him, if they could see him now, a waif in rags that lived on scraps of food which other people didn't want? Maybe survival didn't matter after all?

When the mess of a sandwich was almost in his mouth, a silky angry voice came from behind him, "Potter, what do you think you are doing?"

Severus Snape was seething.

How it was common of the meddling old coot to implicate him in assignments he would happily shirk from. Severus had been peacefully spending his well-deserved holidays free of obnoxious dunderheads in his Manor by the small muggle village on the south coast of England in East Sussex County. He wasn't a superstitious man but such clear sings of looming threat couldn't be ignored even by him.

In the morning the owl that was ought to bring him a copy of 'Daily Prophet' landed accurately in his plate of eggs and bacon meanwhile looking very smug. After he had payed for the paper he angrily shooed the owl away in the process knocking back his cup of coffee. Breakfast was utterly ruined. In a state of agitation, he couldn't get any work done ergo even his beloved potions making activity couldn't satisfy him. After lunch in attempt to calm down he decided to promenade along the beach. But it went horribly wrong too. The wind was unpleasantly strong and his long strands of dark greasy hair were aspiring to fill his mouth and get into his eyes which didn't facilitate to lighten his mood very much. Upon his returning home he found on the window sill of his study another owl which he recognized to be a school one. The owl brought him a message from the Headmaster where the old man had cleverly camouflaged the demand to pick up Potter brat and deliver him to the Burrow into request. The decision, Severus knew, was final, otherwise Albus would have invited him to his office to discuss the matter on hand. Well, it was the last nail in the coffin.

Struggling to cease his tantrum fit by erecting the strongest Occlumency shields Severus took his time to come up with his senses and after dinner time he changed into muggle attire and apparated to Little Whinging starting to look for the right house.

Severus sneered at identical boring-built houses. Muggles nowadays didn't posses any sense of style. Got to give ol' Petunia credit, though, her garden looked at least nice and neat. The Potions Master had a hint of curiosity to see Lily's sister after all these years not quite hoping for drastic changes.

Snape, crossing a well-maintained garden, hated this world with every fiber of his being. In particular, Albus Dumbledore, his bloody lemon drops, which he tried to feed him whenever he could, Harry Potter, who would make this day absolutely unbearable, the Weasleys and stupid World Cup which the famous boy-who-lived-to-annoy would have certainly wanted to make an appearance in, and, of course, the said well-maintained lawn of the Dursley family, which, with the lack at hand of the items listed, took on the chest all the anger that now spilt inside the Potions Master; it was only left to wonder, once the poor grass had not yet withered away from such a pejorative gaze.

Menacingly coming to a halt at the doorstep of number 4, Privet Drive, and wincing with dismay, without hearing the usual rustling of his robes, the wizard hid his indignation behind an impenetrable mask and knocked on the door, expecting the Dursleys, or at least one of them, to be home at this hour.

Inside sounds of fuss and shouting could be heard. But then the door was finally opened reveling Severus' old acquaintance in the person of Petunia Dursley nee Evans who was gawking at him stunned and unable to pronounce a word. Were manners so alien to muggles?

"You!" she cried out pointing a bony finger to his chest.

Severus only rolled his eyes. It was a predictable reaction but he made himself to look offended.

"Why, Petunia, it's been a long time, however your greeting me with hostility".

"You deserve nothing more, Snape!" the woman hissed clenching and unclenching her fists. "Get out! I've told the boy more than once we will not tolerate your lot somewhere near our family".

"Shush, Petunia, or else you will attract unwanted attention. Do you actually want to be associated with 'my lot'?" Severus mocked her knowing what she hated the most.

Petunia hurriedly glanced around checking if someone of her neighbours had seen them talking. Convinced that nobody had witnessed she turned her angry horse-looking face back to Snape and asked in muffled voice, "What do you want?"

"I've been apparently mistaken for Mr. Potter's guard and tasked to escort him to his friend's residence. Is the boy inside?"

"No", she pursed her lips in annoyance, "He is out somewhere".

"I beg your pardon?" Severus rose his eyebrow in bewilderment. What the brat was thinking of himself roaming the streets at such an hour? Arrogant, little… He hadn't signed up to chase down disobedient dolts in the muggle neighbouhood! Arghhh!

Petunia huffed, "That little brat has been avoiding his chores for most part of the day. Perhaps he is lazing about in the nearby playground. Such an ungrateful boy he is!"

Severus didn't like Petunia but he did like the fact that his picture of Potter was precisely right whatever the boy had been babbling all that time in his own defense. "Well, it seems I have to find the boy at first before I can lecture him", he grumbled.

"Good luck", pronounced Petunia with feeling and slammed the door in the Potions Professor's face. Now Severus knew where Potter had got his good manners. Charming.

Sighing in resentment Severus got his wand and whispered, "Point me Harry Potter".

The playground was found a few blocks farther from the Dursleys' household. It was deserted except for one Harry Potter standing under the flickering dull light of the lamppost with his hand sticking in the trash can. 'Is he going to scatter rubbish pieces all around himself just because nobody can see him now?' Severus mused, disgusted at the view. Irresponsible, filthy little brat! But the boy as it seemed had other intentions. Potter grabbed something from the trash can and lifted it to his lips. Severus was beside himself with shock. Rooted to the spot, he reacted only when the boy had almost put the rubbish in his mouth. The man thought his opinion of the brat couldn't be possibly lower than it was now, but it turned he had been mistaken.

Severus stepped out from the shadow, came closer to the brat and angrily exclaimed, "Potter, what do you think you are doing?"