Bright light pushed against Harry's eyelids and warmed his face, though the breeze from the window was still early-morning cool and damp. He rolled to his side hoping to escape the blaze of sunshine and rummaged around for his glasses on the table by his bed. He could hear Hedwig on her perch atop his dresser—her small noises pecking away at the mass of the dread that had settled around him when he learned he was returning to Privet Drive weeks early. Hedwig seemed chipper; he guessed she had found a good meal.
Padding across the hardwood floor of his bedroom, he found the dresser with his outstretched hand and traced his hands over the surface until he found the cage and the open door. He reached inside her cage and stroked her downy head.
He was wondering how long he could avoid the Dursleys. He didn't have to wonder too long… Petunia's sharp steps (he'd been able to recognize all of the Dursleys by their footsteps for a long time, even as Dudley's grew similar in heft to Vernon's—his survival depended on it) ascended the staircase. She rapped forcibly on his door making Hedwig squawk in alarm, and shouted, "You'd better come down and make yourself useful in the kitchen if you expect to eat!"
"I'm coming," he replied resignedly. Harry wondered if the neighbors could hear her through his open window as her steps descended down the steps again.
He thought about changing (he was still in the clothes he'd worn to St. Mungo's the day before), but couldn't muster the energy, though he did take off his school robes because he knew that wearing them down to breakfast would earn him a boxed ear at the very least. He'd become very good at dodging blows, but now what? And the thought made him sink a bit deeper into his muck of despair.
He left his staff in his room as he made his way downstairs to the kitchen, but not before checking the time. "It is 6:45 am," the melodic voice rang out. He wondered if there was a volume knob on the staff, but feeling the staff and pushing on knots in the wood didn't seem to have any effect.
His usual job at breakfast was managing the stove—eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausages, mushrooms—whatever else was on the grill. He could smell the skillet heating up, but didn't think anything was on it yet. He froze at the door remembering all the burns he got as he learned how to cook under Petunia's callous instruction. His breath quickened. He'd rather face the Basilisk again. He imagined Aunt Petunia facing the serpent and with a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips, was able to cross the threshold into the kitchen. He could orient himself in the room by the sunlight coming in the windows and was glad of his glasses that made the light bearable.
A few steps into the kitchen, Harry stopped to listen, trying to figure out where Aunt Petunia was. She must have stopped doing what she was doing to look at him because after a moment, the water at the sink came on accompanied by the clinking of dishes and silverware.
Her usual mode was to point with whatever utensil she had in her hand and gesticulate harshly—her disgust with him etched on her face.
Well, that's not going to work anymore, Harry thought.
His Aunt was going to get very fussed, very quickly.
Maybe she'd already done that when I came in the room.
"Uh, Aunt Petunia," he asked tentatively, "what do you want me to do?"
"Humrumpf!," she protested, "I already told you, put the sausages on."
He knew better than to respond and bit back the sharp retort, What part of blind don't you get? He moved carefully toward the stove, listening to the hissing of the gas stove, his hands held out in front of him. He felt the heat of the flame before he found the stove and edged toward the counter next to the stove. He guessed that she'd placed the food next to the stove, and groped gingerly along the surface of the counter until he located the package of sausage, tightly wrapped in plastic.
Hmmm. I'm going to need to get the tongs and scissors to cut open the package.
In the meantime, the pan was starting to smoke.
I need to put on the fan and turn down the heat!
His hands, ghosting along the exhaust hood, found the switch for the fan and turned it on.
She'll hit me with that hot pan if I burn the sausages.
He was breathing in sharp gasps and took in a deep shuddering breath to try to calm himself.
The stove is a Basilisk. I have to slay it. Without further dama… he cut off the thought. That doesn't help.
He found the knob for the burner and turned down the flame.
Shoot. I turned it off. Maybe that's better. I can gather the tongs and scissors and open the package and then heat up the skillet again. She's going to slap me if I'm too slow.
He listened to her at the sink. He thought she was wiping down the counter; he didn't have much time to find the tongs and the scissors and get around her. As he started moving in the direction of the drawer, the back of his hand trailing along the edge of the counter, he heard her throw down the wet rag with a snort of disgust.
She yanked open a drawer, rooted around in it, and then her sharp heeled shoes tramped toward him. He braced himself for a blow, but it didn't come. Instead, he heard her slam something metal on the countertop. Nervously, he reached for it—it was tongs and scissors!
He was in shock. He couldn't ever remember his Aunt helping him. He tensed again waiting for a blow and was not disappointed. He was cuffed on the back of the head, "Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it!" she huffed and moved away, opening cupboards and taking out plates.
He found the knob and after a few tries, got the burner to light again, and did his best to set the flame by relying on memory. He noticed that the flame was not bright enough for him to see it and wondered if he'd be able to see it in a dark room.
The shrink-wrapped sausages were really hard to get out of the package and the pan was starting to smoke again, and when he put them on the skillet (using the tongs to feel around for the edges of the pan after his first attempt left a stinging burn on the side of his hand), they hissed and spit pricks of grease at his face. He turned them and turned them, listening and smelling to try to figure out if they were done. When Aunt Petunia gave him a plate to put them on, he guessed that they were done and took them out. He had to set the plate on the counter and transfer them inefficiently one by one because they were in danger of rolling off the plate when he held it over the pan. He was exhausted—the mental effort required to do this simple task was daunting. He hoped that was all that he was expected to do today, but then his aunt shoved a carton of eggs, a whisk, and a bowl at him.
He did his best to crack the eggs smoothly, wondering how he'd tell if there were shells in them.
Uncle Vernon will let me know, no doubt.
Cooking the scrambled eggs was just as tough as the sausages, though he decided to keep the temperature low so that the grease in the pan wouldn't splatter so much when he added the scrambled eggs.
He found the salt and pepper shakers in their usual spot without much fumbling and hoped that a couple shakes of each were enough. He was surprised again when Aunt Petunia slammed the spatula down on the counter. Why is she being so helpful? he wondered as he pushed the eggs around in the pan. He was having a hard time telling if they were done or not.
He figured they must be done when Aunt Petunia banged a platter down on the counter next to him. Scooping the eggs out onto a platter was so much harder than actually cooking them. They were slippery like the tomatoes and he wondered if Uncle Vernon was going to complain about them being too wet.
Next up were tomatoes and they were just as slippery to fry up as they'd been to spoon out of the bowl in the Great Hall. Aunt Petunia took them over and thrusting him out of the way with her bony hip. After he regained his balance, he was relieved.
Uncle Vernon thudded into the kitchen for breakfast—Dudley was still at school—and was reading his paper and slurping his tea. Harry hovered by the counter, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but he knew he'd have to sit down at the table soon.
He didn't fancy stumbling around trying to find his chair under Uncle Vernon's scrutiny. When it sounded like he was engrossed in a story, Harry made his way toward the table using the sounds of the rustling newspaper to guide him. But he misjudged the distance and slammed into a chair, hitting his knee painfully with a bang.
He crouched next to the table cradling it as Uncle Vernon exploded in fury, "Watch where you're going, you klutz! I can't believe we have to put up with this! First, you're dumped on our doorstep and we have to feed, shelter, and clothe you for eleven bloody years and now you've gone and blinded yourself! Insufferable!"
"Hush, Vernon," Petunia said in a steely voice, and Harry nearly fell to the floor in shock. He bent his head to look at her, then remembered, Right. Can't see. He desperately wanted to know what was going on. He'd never heard her defend him, ever. Maybe this wasn't Aunt Petunia at all!
Polyjuice potion, maybe? Is there a witch or wizard in there?