EDITED: July 10th, 2020

03 — Harry

The next day, the same barn owl from the Ministry of Magic arrived at first hour in the morning.

"Dear Miss Barton,

After a high inspection was carried out at your neighborhood –" "When did that happen?" I murmured, "– Ministry officers have verified that your lack of control of magic has nothing related to do with the dark arts.

The Ministry of Magic apologizes for whichever trouble our assumptions have caused. However, we would love to remind you that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy.

Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk.

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic."

"These people are mad," I muttered, crushing the paper with my hands. I threw it away, and finally, I breathed. I was so, so relieved I felt like I could finally inhale and exhale at my whim.

Twenty-seven hours and forty-five minutes. That was the time that had transpired since the earthquake – no, not an earthquake. No one but Marie, Carol, and I had felt the building shake. There was no notice whatsoever about it on the news, either. Technically, it never happened.

It was for this particular reason that I found myself wary of Natasha. Her promise of fixing this mess had been accomplished, but I wondered – what had she done so that the Ministry of Magic didn't come to take me in cuffs?

(What did you do, Natasha? What are you hiding?)

The fact that Carol Davis did not remember a single thing of yesterday just showed Natasha's remarkable prowess in magic; the entire day – since waking up and to the incident – seemed nothing but a dream to Davis. The only evidence about yesterday's incident was Carol's body's reactions each time she saw me; although she lashed out at me with the same vindictiveness from before, her body would flinch, remembering. And no one else could see it – no one but Marie and me.

We lived in a limbo, Marie and I. Whatever fear she had before had been shed after that little display. She was still wary – for good reason –, but now she had the courage to look me in the eye. I peculiarly found it relatable: finding the strength to do something and realize you could do it again did give you confidence. It had done wonders for my self-esteem when I first punched Carol. Marie also could talk to me about everything – with her, no detail was spared. Sometimes, I would find myself wishing for some spellotape.

Truthfully, I preferred this version of her. Before, she'd played Bonnie Tyler over and over until she had memorized the lyrics and was assured I wouldn't go on a rampage again.

But I also worried. She'd been scared of me, but magic had not surprised her. It dawned on me after Natasha had left that the woman had spent an entire hour with her wand out while she muttered spells – all while Marie watched.

Was it possible? At first, I thought she was a witch. A Muggleborn, perhaps. But no Muggleborn knew of the Wizarding World or its rules like Marie did. My next idea was believing she was a squib (a magicless person born from a magical family), but I did not dare to ask in case it could offend her.

I still didn't trust her, but I didn't question her presence anymore.

•••◘◘◘•••

Marie and I developed a relationship of sorts. Could it be considered a relationship, anyways? Spending the mornings working and the afternoons sewing like old maids?

I was terrible at sewing. I avoided it like the plague when the time to sew clothes came; I changed the chore with whoever I could, usually taking two or three chores that involved heavy lifting. Sometimes, when we were in mellow moods, Carol and I would swap, as she was easily the best seamstress here.

I could forget about that now.

Marie could sew, though. She wasn't as good as Carol, but she was respectably skilled. The offer was never made nor asked, but her taking my pile of sheets and sewing them together was all it took for me to follow her instructions.

So that's how the rest of my days went – cleaning, cooking, and sewing while pop music rang loudly in The Attic. By now, I'd proceeded to attaching paper to a moldy-looking piece of leather I'd cut from an old bag.

I was still terrible at it, but not as terrible as before.

"Ouch!" I held my finger up in the air, glaring at the drop of blood sliding down the needle.

Marie lurked behind me. "What did I tell you about the thimble?" She held it under my nose.

I slapped her hand away. "I don't like using it."

I could feel her mocking me before she said, "Well, on your own head be it. Don't go getting riled up when you bleed over all the paper."

"I'll just write in black ink, then. No use in wasting good paper."

"Aha," said Marie. "Then why are you throwing all these away?"

She held out a stack of letters. I tried to snatch them from her, but she danced away.

"Give them back!" I hissed.

She ignored me in favor of screeching, "You know Harry Potter!"

I tried to follow her but she skittered around too quickly. I felt old compared to her nine-year-old agility.

"How is he like? Is he cool? Is he handsome? He's handsome," she stated firmly. "He's gotta be after defeating Voldemort twice! And how does he look like? You saw him too, didn't you? Your letter says –" she faltered when she saw my face.

I yanked the letters from her and threw them in the bin. Again.

Marie bounced lightly on her heels. "You write to him as if he were your friend. How come you don't have any letters from him?" She glanced at our jointed desk, at the drawer where Hermione's and Ron's letters rested. I huffed. She'd probably read them without my permission.

"Who knows." I took The Attic's keys. "I'm going for a walk."

•••◘◘◘•••

I didn't take a walk. I stole the red bicycle that belonged to one of the older girls and rode out of St. Louise's quickly before anyone could spot me.

The transformation couldn't be clearer. Magnolia Road – the street where the old playground was and also the street that led to St. Louise's – was terribly old. No matter how many government fund the town received, the playground was never updated. Its sister street, on the other hand, had been a little luckier; Magnolia Crescent wasn't as pretty and Privet Drive, but the houses were clearly well-cared for. Unlike Privet Drive, the people around here were humbler and kinder.

But the street was so short that I found myself passing the sign that indicated I was entering Privet Drive.

It was depressing. Sure, the houses were gorgeous and lighter, but there was a certain coldness about the neighborhood that made one shiver. You could smell the money off the lawns.

A shiny black truck drove next by, honking its horn at me. I quickly moved up to the sidewalk before it could run me over. The driver shot me a nasty glare before continuing.

I stopped to look back. He seemed familiar. The handle-bar mustache wasn't exactly common around here.

Then a woman with a long neck and haughty expression appeared out of a lawn. She stared at my bike, at my clothes, and looked away dismissively. She walked towards me, and I couldn't help but believe the nagging in my head.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dursley," I said, as politely and cheerfully as I could.

Her sour expression brightened somewhat, and she nodded at me, a confident stride in her step now.

I kept walking with the bike, though I spun every once in a while to stare at Mrs. Dursley's back. It was when she went into a house that I turned the bike and ran six houses back – to Privet Drive Number Four.

Making sure that the coast was clear of Dursleys, I leaned my bike against a neighbor's white fence, and coincidently where the larger bushes were. Casting quick look around, I approached the front door.

I rang the doorbell. I pressed the button again after a pause, then a third time after a minute. When no one came to answer, I called.

"Hello? Is anyone in there?" Then, more hesitantly, "Harry? Harry Potter?"

I kept calling, but no one answered.

Disheartened, I turned to leave –

But whirled around, frowning. I stuck my ear on the door, and heard, to my surprise, pounding. The sound was so far away that it could be my imagination.

I decided not to listen to logic.

Glancing behind me, I pulled out a worn out pin from my pocket and worked on the lock. Surprisingly, the doorknob turned by itself, and the door sprung open. I jumped inside before anyone could spot me, closing the door firmly behind me.

It was... odd. Cozy. The wallpapers were peach, the carpet of the stairs was salmon, and the wood was white. I wouldn't have minded living here.

The further I walked, the odder everything was. While I was facing the stairs, the room to the right kept drawing me in. It was open in a way that expressed the Dursleys were confident in who they were, and the pictures in the living room were proof of that. The kitchen, similarly small to the dining space, was really pretty, too.

Odd. How odd.

I looked up as the pounding returned, this time stronger. Reprimanding myself, I went back to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. Just as cozy as downstairs, the tight hall led to five different doors, but it was the last one on my right that was noteworthy.

I approached it cautiously, examining the three heavy looks and the cat-flap below.

The pounding came to a stop. Then the cat-flap flung open many times, as if they were kicking it.

Once I was in front of it, I knocked on the door. A warning so that they wouldn't hit me accidentally.

"Harry?"

His voice was startlingly pleasant. "Anya?" The flap once again flung wide, but this time a hand stuck a stick – a wand – to hold it up. Green eyes framed by round frames peered up at me in shock.

I dropped to my knees. "Harry! What the hell? What is this? Why are you locked like some sort of – of animal?!"

"Never mind that," he said. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"I picked the front door lock." I stood, and then rose on my tiptoes to work on the first lock. "As for how I found you, it was coincidence, really. I was just walking around the neighborhood when I saw your aunt, of all people."

"Why were you in Privet Drive?"

There was a click. "Because I live in Magnolia Crescent." I began to work on the second lock.

"The orphanage," said Harry, astounded. "You live across the old playground."

I grunted. This lock was a little more complicated to work with. "Yeah."

"But I've been to the playground. I've never seen you before."

"Maybe you did, but not recently. I wasn't exactly the image St. Louise's wanted to promote; I caused a lot of trouble when I was young –I spent most of my time serving my punishments inside rather than outside."

The second lock finally gave away.

"How long do the Dursleys stay out?"

"Uncle Vernon won't return until night. Aunt Petunia just went out, right? She'll be away two hours away, tops. And Dudley –"

There was a click I didn't expect. One that came from downstairs.

"Dudley comes and goes as he pleases," Harry finished bitterly.

"Shut up," I hissed as the door shut, shaking the walls. I tried to remember where I had put the bike, whether Dudley Dursley could have seen it, and what could be used around me to knock him out.

The answer? Nothing.

Unless...

I opened the closest door and went inside. I left it half open, peering out as feet pounded up the stairs, until a boy came to the top. Dudley Dursley had grown to impossible sizes, if you asked me. There was little space for him to walk, though his height kind of made up for it.

He made to reach the door next to Harry's room, but stopped. With a wicked grin, he walked over, covering my view of the door.

For god's sake, don't notice the locks.

"Hey, freak! What did you have for dinner?" Then, to my disgust, he began a detailed description of what he ate and how he ate. I looked away – and my eyes landed on a plunger.

Well, that worked better than my original idea.

I grasped it and kicked the door open. Dudley turned around, his blue eyes squinting down at me –

I swung the plumber as hard and I could. While the rubber slapped him hard, the smell only got him distracted. He gagged; seeing the opportunity, I swung down on his head again.

This time, I did knock him cold. The floor shook with his fall.

Harry opened his flap almost hesitantly.

"If I were you," I said after a beat where we could only stare at each other, "I'd gather my things."

"All my Hogwarts stuff is locked in the cupboard under stairs," he said, though he still got up. I heard him move things inside his room.

"I'll work on that in an iffy."

The third lock had been clearly an afterthought. It broke easily when I stuck in the pin. And then it was just the last lock – perhaps the easiest -, and the door swung open gently.

Harry was waiting for me on the other end, with Hedwig's cage under one arm, and a bunch of clothes under the other. He looked awed.

"I can't believe it's you."

"I can't believe this is happening either," I said disbelievingly. I jumped to help him with Hedwig's cage; the owl looked at me beadily, and I made sure to hold it carefully. "Come on. I doubt a blow like that can keep down your thick cousin down longer."

Harry ran ahead and I followed him, bouncing a little.

The cupboard under the stairs was unnoticeable. The door was relatively small and it faded with the rest of the wall. The doorknob was also small, the size of a marble. Yet there was a lock above it, and it took all of my concentration to work on it.

"You better write something to your aunt and uncle," I said before settling down Hedwig and preparing to work.

From the corner of my eye, Harry shrugged. "They won't care."

"Well, tell them you'll come back next year and to not worry about their son – his thick skin softened the blow he received."

Snickering, Harry disappeared into the kitchen. Once I was sure he would be busy, I easily brought out the lock. With my thumb and forefinger, I turned the knob.

It was dark, but a chain dangled from the ceiling so I pulled – the light revealing a very dusty room with cobwebs hanging in every corner. Harry's trunk had a layer of dust on the top – it'd probably been locked here all summer. Or Mrs. Dursley didn't clean as often a she should.

I pulled out the trunk as gently as I could – and it landed with a loud thud on the floor, dust flying everywhere. I coughed, waving my hand; Hedwig hooted indignantly, her wings rattling her cage.

But I didn't look at her. I was too busy frowning at the bunk bed that had been under the trunk, at the worn fleece and yellowed pillow.

Too busy to notice Harry coming up behind me.

"I'm ready," he said, picking up the trunk's handle. He made to move, but I blocked him.

"Harry, what is this?"

"Anya, we're wasting time. Let's go."

I turned to him. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is."

He glared at me. "And what is it?"

How could I say it when words failed me?

He gently pushed me aside. I let him.

•••◘◘◘•••

Hedwig flew above us, flapping her winds every once to slow down at our pace. The walk to St. Louise's was long and awkward halfway there, until I cleared my throat and asked Harry why he hadn't written back to Hermione, Ron, or I.

"It wasn't because of your aunt and uncle, was it?" I asked hesitantly.

He shook his head adamantly. "It was a house-elf."

"A house-elf," I repeated. "What business could a house-elf have with you?"

"You know what they are?"

"Yeah. Slaves. Unless we are talking about the house-elves at Hogwarts, then servants. Not much of a difference, if you ask me, but what can one do against a century old tradition."

"Hogwarts has house-elves?"

I nodded, adjusting my grip on the bike. "They don't let themselves be seen, though. I only know of them because I glimpsed one changing the bed sheets an early morning. They consider it shameful – a dishonor. They are really determined to not fail their masters."

"Someone probably sent Dobby, then," Harry said.

"Tell me everything."

He did. My response was to frown harder.

"I don't think he was sent. But – a house-elf that thinks for himself" – I mused – "that's something worth to see. If his master – whoever it may be – is trying to attack Hogwarts, I doubt they'd sent him to warn you – I mean, you have stopped Voldemort twice, after all." I sighed. "Pity you couldn't get back our letters."

But Dobby's presence explained something I had tried not to think about. Natasha said the orphanage was not susceptible to the Ministry, so they shouldn't have been able to know what I did.

A house-elf's magic, however, was vastly different from a wizard's. I could only imagine what effects it can make over the mundane.

"Anything I should know?"

I shrugged. "The usual. Ron and Hermione bickering, Ron inviting us to his house, Hermione nagging about whether we did our summer homework or not."

St. Louise's loomed ahead. I'd never really considered the building from outside – it looked like a prison. Or the setting of a horror movie.

Drawing closer to the gates, I spotted a face that filled me with dread.

"Brace yourself, Harry," I said, and plunged forward.