It Only Takes A Drop of Blood
Chapter 4: Dementors
Harry triumphantly closed and taped the last box of books shut. Carrying it to the large pile of Taylor's belongings, Harry added it to one of the smaller stacks. He stretched out the sore muscles in his back and wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.
He was officially finished with his job and he had completed it two days ahead of the schedule. Taylor would be pleased to find everything packed and ready to be placed in the lorry he had hired for the move. Harry was relieved that he didn't have to carry them down to it. His back protested at the very thought.
Glancing at the clock, Harry realized that he had nearly an hour before Taylor would return from his appointments to see him; the doctor wanted to discuss his treatment schedule for the upcoming months. Instead of counting the unnaturally white floor tiles, Harry stepped outside and walked along the ward.
Coming up to a room, he recognized it from Saturday night. Knowing how much he enjoyed receiving visitors while in the Hogwarts hospital wing, he decided to have a go at being one.
"Hello," Harry said quietly, knocking on the door of the hospital room.
"Harry!" the girls cried out together.
Clarisse sat up straighter and beckoned him to enter. "Why didn't you come around sooner?" she exclaimed.
"I've been busy," Harry said evasively, trying to change the subject. "How have you been?"
"Very well thanks," Lucy said, shifting against her pillows.
"Excellent," Clarisse added. "How're you?" She gave him a brilliant smile and patted the bed in front of her. "Please, sit!"
"Fine, thanks," he returned, perching on the mattress. It was firm and springy, like his hospital bed in Hogwarts. "I'm supposed to meet with Dr. Taylor in an hour, so I thought I'd stop by for a visit."
"Well, it's wonderful to see you again," Clarisse said, her eyes sparkling. Heat touched his cheeks and Harry grinned sheepishly.
Lucy giggled and settled back on her pillows. "You came just in time. Clarisse and I were talking about calling everyone to watch a film tomorrow night in the common room."
"Yeah?" Harry said, grinning. "That sounds great!"
Clarisse beamed. "Since this one here," she pointed wryly at Lucy, "hasn't seen Frankenstein as yet, I thought it would be great if we watched that."
"I'd love to," the wizard offered. "Although I've never seen it either."
Clarisse looked scandalized but, after a moment, shrugged it off. "Well, that settles it then, doesn't it? I'll call Michael and James. Lucy, you want to get Patrick and Gertie?"
"Sure," Lucy said. Harry watched as both girls grabbed the phones in the room and started dialing.
Harry looked awkwardly around the room, made apprehensive by the sudden lack of attention. He worried the fraying edge of his shirt, thoughts swirling in his mind. He'd never seen a film before. The Dursleys never had a reason to take him to the cinema and he hadn't actually been given a reason to go.
The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Even if it was with Muggles, he was going to spend a whole evening away from the Dursleys and in the company of people who didn't hate him.
Click! Harry started, looking up at Clarisse. She winked coyly at him and gestured to Lucy. The girl was twirling the telephone cord in her fingers and was giggling into the phone. She looked like the type of girl that traveled in packs and acted strange whenever she saw a bloke walk by. Harry's face remained a mask of utter confusion.
Clarisse laughed aloud, causing Harry and Lucy to stare perplexedly at her. Waving off their concern at her apparent hysteria, she fell back onto her pillows, gasping, choking and utterly red in the face.
When Lucy hung up the telephone and shot a confused look at Harry, all he could do was shrug. He just couldn't understand girls.
Harry quickly learned that Clarisse, while also slightly mad, was not the person to ask for film recommendations. All of the teenagers rapidly agreed that this particular version of Frankenstein had to be one of the worst films in the history of moving pictures.
After all the electronics had been switched off and the film was chucked in the bin, the teenagers lounged on the plush chairs and chatted aimlessly.
Harry was filled with a warm and comforting feeling as the talk filtered around him. The boys had struck up a conversation centered on the local football teams, while the girls were giggling and whispering to themselves. He was content to simply listen, as he couldn't contribute to either discussion.
Regardless, Patrick insisted on pulling him into their conversation.
"So, which team do you follow, Harry?" he asked inquisitively.
Harry felt the back of his neck warm with embarrassment. "I actually don't follow football," he said with a shrug.
All the boys looked scandalized. "You don't follow football!" Michael echoed dumbly. "How can you not like the bloody best sport in the world?"
The wizard laughed nervously and felt more heat rush into his cheeks. "Er…um…" he stuttered.
"I'm sure he prefers rugby to football, Michael. Isn't that right Harry?" James said carefully, looking at him. He was possibly the least offended of all the Muggles.
Harry opened his mouth and answered honestly, yet quite stupidly. "Actually, no."
All of the teenagers' jaws fell to the floor in horror. Harry blanched and mentally walloped himself. He tried to amend his statement. "It's not that I hate football or rugby, it's just that I like the sport that I play at school better." And just managed to dig himself into an even deeper ditch.
"Oh, really?" Michael retorted, extremely upset over the affront to his two favorite games. "So, what is it?"
Harry felt his hands shake and suddenly he wanted a drink of water. "Er, well… it's really obscure, you've probably never heard of it…" he fumbled, searching for a good lie.
"Try us," Patrick challenged, not unkindly. He was still sitting with his arms crossed and his raised eyebrow was twitching madly.
Harry paused for a moment, before replying semi-honestly, "We call the game Quidditch. Someone who went to my school ages ago created it."
James, Patrick and Michael shared dubious looks before shrugging simultaneously. "So, how do you play this 'Quidditch'?" James asked curiously.
Harry swallowed and felt the words come a little easier, although his shoulders were practically shaking from the tension. He really needed to change the subject fast. "There are seven players on each team. Three of them are called Chasers. The Chasers pass around a big red ball and try and score on the goals. Each goal is worth ten points. The Keepers defend the h-goals," he said.
The tension in his shoulders eased as the hostile looks from his new friends faded into small smiles and nods. "Next, two of the players are called Beaters. They, er, chuck black balls at the other team to keep them from scoring. And last is the Seeker. This player is responsible for finding and … capturing a tiny golden ball. The golden ball is worth 150 points and getting it ends the game."
James, Patrick and Michael were wide-eyed after Harry's explanation and shared a glance.
"Blimey, that's madness!" Patrick exclaimed, staring at Harry. "I think I prefer rugby and I don't even like playing sport."
"You actually like that?" Michael asked dubiously.
James simply shook his head. "You're off your rocker, mate."
Anger at the insult to Quidditch rose in his chest, but sense finally arrived and told him to let it go. It sounded suspiciously like Hermione. Harry conceded, smiled gamely and shrugged.
The conversation lulled with bated breath before Patrick started with another curious and difficult question. "So, which school do you go to anyway? I don't think you ever said its name."
Harry blanched yet again. "Er, it's a really small school that nobody really knows about because admission is by invitation only. I only got in because my parents went there," he lied, an uneasy churn developing in his stomach from all these half-truths.
The boys looked generally disinterested after the last bit. James, however, had paused. He looked at Harry, confusion clearly written on his face. "You said that your school is in Scotland?" he repeated.
Harry looked at him, his stomach swirling uneasily. "Yeah. Why?" he returned.
"And you're going back this term?" James persisted.
"Yes," Harry said, almost impatiently. "What of it?" Patrick and Michael sat up stiffly and looked incredulously at Harry. The wizard looked at all of them with impatience and irritation clear on his face. "What?"
They all looked at each other blankly, before Patrick volunteered to answer. "You can't receive your treatments and live so far away from hospital. Not if you aren't in remission, like James is. It would be too much to travel so far every week," he explained.
Realization dawned on him and the uneasiness in his stomach disappeared instantly. "Actually, Dr. Taylor arranged it all. For the next few weeks, Dr. Richards will sign off on my treatments, but when the term starts, Taylor will be my doctor again. My school isn't terribly far from his new post."
James smiled at him. "You're quite lucky, you know. Doing induction during the summer," he said. "They first found out I was ill, just after Christmas two years ago. I had to miss the first half of the term from chemotherapy alone. Then they kept me out because my cell count was too low. I was almost a whole year behind before I finally went into remission."
"Really?" Harry asked weakly. He felt lightheaded and dizzy at the thought. "Is it always like that?"
"Usually," Michael contributed. "I was pulled out in the middle of last term. At first I thought I could handle being an outpatient, but after my white blood cell count dipped… Taylor had me at home first, so I could be with my parents. But then I got really ill when my little sister accidentally brought home a cold. So I was put here."
Patrick put a hand on Michael's shoulder and looked at Harry. "You should be alright, I think. For having leukemia, you are terribly energetic and healthy. I'd been ill four times and lost a stone or two by the time I checked in here. It means that they've caught it early and that's only good news for you."
"Yeah, like Patrick said, you'll be alright. Taylor will know what to do. If you're lucky, your cell counts will recover enough for you to return for the term," James said optimistically.
Patrick cut in, "But if you do end up in hospital, you should come here. Richards is just as good as Taylor and you'll be able to join our study group!"
Michael nodded eagerly, but Harry was only able to muster a half-hearted grin. His heart was beating painfully against his ribs and his stomach had dropped to the floor, leaving emptiness inside him.
What if his cell counts dropped so low? He would have to leave Hogwarts… Harry hadn't thought of the effect of the treatments on his body. Would being a wizard make any difference? Would he be well enough to go to school?
"Harry?"
A voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the three Muggles looking at him worriedly.
"Are you alright?" James asked.
He smiled weakly and nodded. They looked unconvinced but sympathetic as they started a new conversation. Harry tried to keep his thoughts from drifting back to the dark places in his mind by focusing to their idle talk.
James, Patrick and Michael tried to include him, but it was clear that Harry was distracted. Having been through similar situations, the three Muggles let him have his space while also keeping him from descending into absolute brooding.
It wasn't long before the conversations waned and the two groups joined to turn the talk to the hospital staff. Michael and Patrick apprised everyone on an argument that two orderlies had gotten into on Tuesday. Harry remembered hearing the screams and crashes as he was boxing Taylor's books.
Patrick revealed that the orderlies had started chucking filthy bedpans at each other at one point, ultimately drenching the head nurse with the contents of a particularly foul pan. That had everyone falling into a fit of laughter, since hatred of the head nurse was unanimous on the ward.
When Harry managed to regain his seat, he heard a familiar tapping sound behind him. Spinning around, he saw Hedwig at the window and all the blood left his face. In his experience, the owl post and Muggles typically did not mix.
However his quick movement had caught the attention of his new friends and they were all very curious as to why a snowy owl was knocking on the common room window. Harry had no choice but to let her in, as she wouldn't leave until he told her to.
"Hey Hedwig," he murmured to her, stroking her soft breast. His owl wearily climbed to his shoulder, nipped his ear in affection and stuck out her leg. Harry untied the parchment scrolls and tucked them into his pocket. "Thanks."
"Why do you have an owl on your shoulder, Harry?" Michael asked with eyes so wide, they were almost comical.
"She's my pet," Harry said carefully.
"Your pet?" Lucy repeated dubiously. "How can you have an owl as a pet?"
"Well," Harry started, uneasily thinking up another lie, "my school is next to a forest and one of my professors rescued her when she got hurt. I helped him take care of her and she's stayed with me ever since." He dared not look at Hedwig, worried that her incredulous look would keep him from remembering such an elaborate ruse.
"But why did she have that paper on her leg?" Patrick asked inquisitively.
Harry tried to keep his story simple by replying, "My friend actually trained her to carry mail. She's dead useful and much faster than the postman."
Clarisse grinned and came closer. "Well, I think she's brilliant," she said softly, putting a hand on Harry's arm. "Do you think I could pet her?"
"I don't think she'd mind," he said, grinning stupidly as his skin tingled comfortably.
Hedwig looked very disgruntled when Clarisse reached a hand towards her, and expressed her irritation by snapping at the Muggle's fingers.
"Hedwig!" Harry scolded, frowning at her. "What was that for?"
Hedwig clicked her beak and took off from his shoulder, clipping him with her wing as she turned and soared out of the window. Harry was left feeling utterly confused and slightly embarrassed.
"Sorry about her," he mumbled to Clarisse, warmth staining his cheeks. "She's usually not like that."
"It's alright," Clarisse said, sounding only a little disappointed. "Maybe some other time."
"Speaking of 'another time'," Gertie piped up, checking the clock. "We really ought to be heading out. It's getting awfully late."
After a glance at the time, Harry agreed. Uncle Vernon would already be cross that he went out and he didn't need him angrier.
Within minutes, the group broke off. Those who stayed in hospital went to their rooms, while James, Gertrude and Harry went back downstairs. James and Gertie waited on the bench for James' mother to retrieve them, but Harry departed for the station despite their many protests. He didn't want to risk another parent taking him to Privet Drive, especially when he was already in trouble with his uncle.
Therefore, Harry quickly went to the station and called the Knight Bus. Another eleven sickles and some minutes later had him on Magnolia Crescent. He stumbled home in the moonlight, dreading the wrath that would descend upon him when he arrived home.
Harry trudged up to the hospital doors, his back already damp with sweat and perspiration dripping uncomfortably down his forehead. When the sun had risen Saturday morning, the hot night had turned into a blistering day.
Sighing in relief, Harry entered the building. The cool air of the interior washed over him, instantly chilling his hot skin. He shivered slightly as the gooseflesh on his arms became more sensitive.
The doctors and nurses, well used to his presence, greeted him as he walked to his destination. He entered the laboratory and spied the nurse's station.
"Hello," he said nervously. "Harry Potter here for an appointment."
The woman looked up at him briefly before checking the list in front of her. When her gaze returned to his, there was pity in her eyes. She gestured to a row of reclining chairs against the wall. "Please sit down, Mr. Potter," she said. "I'll be with you in a moment."
Harry chose the last chair and sat stiffly. Looking around, he saw other children with their parents and grown men or women with their friends. He was the only one sitting alone. A deep ache struck him suddenly and his chest burned with the feeling. If only Ron, Hermione and Sirius were there.
"Alright, Mr. Potter," the nurse said, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Since you've already completed your blood test, we'll start you with some Zofran and our standard round of good stuff to keep you from getting sick."
She attached a clear bag full of liquid to the top of a tall pole. At the other end was a thin tube that she gathered in her hand. Harry looked away as she inserted the intravenous line and fixed the attachments with a paper-like tape.
"When that bag finishes, I'll start your vincristine IV," she said, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder. "If you start feeling ill or you need me, just call."
Harry nodded mutely and relaxed on the chair. The liquid from the bag dripped achingly slowly and he quickly grew bored of staring at the walls. Mentally promising to bring his homework the following week, he began to consider the future.
According to his friends, Dumbledore hadn't said anything about him spending any portion of the holidays with the Weasleys, despite repeated requests. Harry assumed that meant that he was to stay at the Dursleys for the rest of the holidays. And while that generated another deep ache of loneliness within him, it also meant that he would be able to secretly finish the difficult part of his chemotherapy treatment before term.
Taylor had explained that Harry would begin with four weeks of intense chemotherapy, called induction phase. And while the medicine would kill most of the cancer cells, it also had horrid side effects like vomiting and hair loss. Harry's insides clenched at the thought of being so ill while staying with his unpleasant and uncaring relations.
At the same time, however, he was relieved that he wasn't with his friends or Sirius. Harry didn't want to worry them or be forced to tell them about the cancer before he was ready. And after all, he had taken care of himself since his parents died. The Dursleys wouldn't care if he were alive or dead. In fact, him being ill would probably throw them into fits of joy.
Harry snorted and shook himself out of his morbid thoughts. He didn't need to worry about covering his arse for the next four weeks. The wizard was more worried about after.
According to the doctor, he would begin the consolidation phase that could go from four to eight months in length. If it was successful, then the cancer would be gone and he would just have to undergo another regimen until Taylor was sure that it wouldn't return.
The problem, he imagined, was in finding a reliable method to go from Hogwarts to the hospital and back without revealing his secret. He needed something that was quiet and untraceable. Harry needed to be able to disappear from Hogwarts under Dumbledore's nose and return without anyone being the wiser.
He sat up straighter in the hard chair as everything fell into place. A Portkey was his only option.
Voldemort and Crouch Jr. used a Portkey to get him to the graveyard; they were able to do it without Dumbledore finding out and while he was still on the Hogwarts grounds.
The library at school would have the book he needed, Harry reasoned. The knot in his belly eased and he loosened his tense back. All he'd have to do was learn one more spell.
A bag rustled next to him and he looked up to see the nurse changing the now-empty bag with another full one.
"Here's your first bit of chemo," the older woman said. "I'll be back in a moment with the L- asparaginase shot. That'll be the last one for today. You're scheduled for the intrathecal chemo next week. I guess Taylor wants to start you off easy." When she came back, shot in hand, she had a kind smile on her face. "You're a lucky one, aren't you? Most patients I know would have been sick already, or at least requested a bucket. But you aren't even green yet."
Harry grinned weakly, which felt more like a grimace.
"Not to worry, dear. The bucket's right here, if you need it. Shouldn't be more than another hour or so…" the woman nattered on about some nonsense.
Harry's attention was focused intently on the particularly big and deep sick tray that was sitting on the bench in front of him. His fine nose picked up a faint trace of sick and he nearly gagged at the thought. Looking away, he tried focusing on something else to avoid the thought of being sick in the smelly monstrosity or the thick needle she was about to stick in his arm.
Harry only lasted about six hours before he was sick. He gone back to Privet Drive after the hospital and it wasn't long before he was embracing the cool, porcelain toilet. He coughed and gagged relentlessly, feeling cold sweat break out on his forehead and his throat strain with the effort.
When he finally sat back after emptying his entire gastrointestinal tract of anything it might have ever held, he groaned in agony. His chest and throat burned terribly. Harry spat back into the toilet, levering himself up to wash the taste out of his mouth.
Unfortunately, it wasn't long before he was sick again, this time bringing up nothing but acid. His throat and chest burned for ages after his stomach stopped rebelling.
Time lapsed hazily, Harry falling asleep between bouts of nausea. He eventually fell asleep and was woken by the heavy thuds of Dudley's feet pounding up the stairs. The young wizard got himself and the room cleaned up as quickly as possible in his weak and shaky state, using air freshener to rid the bathroom of the horrid sweet and sour smell of sick.
Finished, Harry left his sanctuary and padded into his bedroom. His joints ached with every movement and his back was stiff from sitting on the floor all afternoon. Looking outside, he saw that it was nearly supper, surprised that he didn't feel hungrier. Although, Harry figured, being ill could have something to do with that.
He sat on his bed, waiting for Dudley to go back downstairs. When he heard the massive movements coming from his large cousin, Harry forced himself up and to the door. Even though the empty feeling had not entered his belly yet, he knew that he needed to eat.
Therefore, Harry spent a very uncomfortable hour with the Dursleys, picking at his plate and forcing his heavy jaw to chew the beans, roast and rolls. Dudley ate like a starving animal, as usual, while his aunt and uncle glared at Harry and talked about him under their breaths. Harry felt less hungry with each comment, but forced himself to eat. It was important.
After the meal, Aunt Petunia had him clean up the kitchen until she gave her approval. Harry's wobbly knees were practically glued together by the time she let him go, but at least he could finally go to bed.
Feeling faintly nauseous, Harry swallowed heavily and dressed for bed. He lay down, burying his head in the lumpy pillow, and thought dreamily of his soft and warm four-poster bed at Hogwarts. He closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep, his stomach rolling slowly as he went.
He slept well for an hour or so, but eventually the nausea woke him up and he was back in the bathroom again. This time he was only sick a few times before his stomach was satisfied and calm. Harry washed up and trudged back to bed, his chest hurting and his throat burning. It felt even worse this time, as he had to force himself to be quieter in order to not wake up his relatives.
Curling up in bed, Harry's knees moved to his chest and he whimpered softly, squeezing his eyes shut as a different sort of burning heat rose from his chest to his throat and eyes. He smothered it down with a shuddering breath and lay there, feeling sorry for himself. Eventually the boy slipped off into sleep, his face still troubled in the darkness.
Monday came and went without much fanfare. At midnight, Harry had received a few gifts from his friends, but the card from Hermione stood out the most. She wrote, "I expect we'll be seeing you quite soon."
That had left him very curious, and a bit worried. Harry had spent the whole of Sunday in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom or retrieve the food his aunt slid under the flap in his door. (Petunia had taken one look at him before forcefully quarantining him before he "infected them all.") The pervasive weakness in his limbs shocked him; he hadn't the energy to sit up for more than an hour.
Harry was worried that Dumbledore would send for him before he could complete the induction phase. Even if he could manage to disappear to Surrey for a few hours on Saturdays, he would still spend all of Saturday evening and Sunday in bed.
Not only would that worry his friends to the point that Hermione would bite her nails to the quick and Ron would start brooding, but his presence would put a large burden on the Weasleys who already had enough problems without adding his own.
Very good examples were the gifts he had received from his friends. Both Ron and Hermione had sent him nice packages of Honeydukes chocolate. Now, of course, there was nothing wrong with the very fine sweets, but never before had he received the same gift from both of his best friends. Harry wasn't exactly certain what this meant, but it definitely wasn't something good.
The notes attached to the chocolates had no more information than the letters he received on Thursday. The roiling frustration in his chest, partly from no information but mostly from being trapped in his room all day, nearly caused him to chuck his unopened gifts into the bin; but the thought that these might be his last birthday gifts ever, stopped him.
Harry was relieved that he hadn't chucked them when Aunt Petunia served a very wilted salad that night for dinner. His sweet tooth certainly enjoyed the chocolates more than his stomach did.
Hedwig spent Monday night at the Dursleys, resting from her recent rash of trips. Harry wrote responses to his friends and Sirius, leaving them on his desk before he went to sleep, and found them all gone in the morning. He chuckled wryly at the work ethic of his faithful friend before dressing for the day.
His aunt finally let him out of his room and gave him a very long list of chores to complete before dusk set in. Harry still felt a bit weak, but better than he had been in some days. He tried not to overdo it by weeding the garden when shadows covered the flowerbeds and cleaning the inside of the house during the hottest parts of the day.
Still, the exhausting yet mind-numbingly boring work let him brood on the only thing his mind could focus on, lately. Cancer. And of course, his thoughts had to focus on how or when he would tell Sirius and his friends about it.
After learning more about his treatment, Harry was hoping that he would never have to tell them anything. Taylor was almost certain that the cancer would be nearly gone before he started school again. And if that were true, then wouldn't telling them just cause undue stress? With Voldemort out there they didn't need any more bad news, as they had enough to be getting on with.
His stomach churned uncomfortably, not from the medicine-induced nausea this time. Harry knew it was wrong. But there was this part of him, deep down inside—like a dark hole that was engulfing him every time he thought about dying in the very near future. It made him feel as if he were surrounded by Dementors. And in that dark place was this weak but very insistent voice that was telling him that it was better to be alone.
It kept whispering reasons that made utter sense, but felt cold and stung painfully when he finally accepted the arguments. This feeling felt wrong, but in a very twisted way, it also felt right. Harry didn't want to listen to this urge. He wanted to bare his soul to his friends; to Sirius; to Dumbledore… to get some comfort from those he cared so much about.
But that dark place stopped him every time he thought about penning a letter or telling the Knight Bus to take him to the Burrow. It made him see flashes of his friends crying or yelling at him for not telling them sooner. He saw the pity in their eyes, something he never wanted to imagine again. Harry felt the pain that he caused them thrice over and the agony that would be written all over Sirius' face.
And despite the near-silent voice of reason, that sounded an awful lot like Hermione, telling him that those things would happen if he kept his secret much longer, the pit of darkness within him was stronger. It wasn't something he could describe in words. All it left him with was this absolute, inexplicable need to keep everything silent.
Harry just hoped that his instincts were not wrong.
He fell asleep quickly that night; exhausted from chemotherapy, leukaemia and all the work his aunt had him complete. But sometime, in the early hours of the morning, his dreams of flying in the paddock at the Burrow changed into something much darker and more sinister.
The room was dank, dark and depressing; everything smelt of mold and long-lived dust bunnies. Harry was sitting in a large armchair, facing a roaring fire. Even though the flames were high and warm, he still felt an aching chill deep within his bones. Long, white fingers caressed the wand resting in his hands.
"M-m-master?" a weak and sniveling voice called out from the darkness behind him.
"What!" Harry heard himself shout, in a voice that was terrifyingly not his own. And then he knew, with startling clarity, who the voice and those fingers belonged to.
"It is t-t-time for your t-t-tea, M-m-master," Wormtail stuttered, grovelling while holding an old tea service.
"What are you waiting for? Serve me!" Voldemort cried. The rat immediately scrambled to do his bidding, preparing a cup of tea.
Harry shivered as a cold wind swept across his tender skin. Wait a moment… he was cold? Or rather, Voldemort was cold.
The evil wizard was soon cradling a cup of hot tea while Wormtail scurried back into the darkness. As the warm liquid slipped down his throat, Harry's vision started to fade.
Within moments the teenager was awake in his room on Privet Drive, trembling and dripping with sweat. His mind whirled with questions unanswered and even more spurned by this eerie dream. How could he see through Voldemort's head? Why was he having these visions? And what did they mean?
Lying back down on his lumpy pillow, Harry dug the heels of his hands into his forehead in frustration. He'd just have to write to Sirius or Dumbledore when Hedwig came back.
Turning over, he closed his eyes and tried to get some rest for the coming day.
Wednesday dawned hotter than any other day that summer. Harry spent most of it in the garden, trimming the rose bushes. But by late afternoon he had been released from all the work and his aunt shooed him out of the house for being annoying.
Since the dream about Voldemort, Harry's curiosity in the evil wizard's actions had peaked. The lack of news from magical sources led him to pursue the Muggle varieties. After catching him ogling the telly and scrounging through the bin for the papers, his aunt had sent him outside.
Fortunately for him, he had found a wonderful listening spot directly under the living room window. The wilting hydrangea bush hid him from all who walked by, especially Mrs. Figg. The dotty old woman had taken to inviting him over for tea and the only thing that had allowed him to refuse was his job. Now that he was most certainly unemployed, the woman seemed to be patrolling the street more frequently. It was as she was trying to catch him unawares.
Before he could go on about batty old ladies, he heard his relatives grumbling about him again. Harry rolled his eyes and ignored them. Eventually the reports began, but the lack of doom and gloom got him to sigh with relief.
While the previous night's dream wasn't the worst he had had by far, it did make him awfully nervous to think that Voldemort had enough time to mull in front of a fireplace and drink tea. Without any source of information, he had been going mad, imagining all sorts of horrible things. No news sounded like good news in this instance.
After the news dwindled to water-skiing budgerigars, Harry prepared to climb out of his hiding spot. He could go for a walk to the park. But that plan was postponed when a loud cracking sound pierced the air.
Harry jumped up, his wand in hand, narrowly avoiding a hit to the head courtesy of the Dursley's living room window. While he was peering around for any sign of the disturbance, his uncle seized his throat with both of his large, purple hands.
"Put—it—away!" Vernon Dursley said through angrily clenched teeth. "Now! Before—anyone—sees!"
"Get—off—me!" Harry gasped as his air supply dwindled dangerously.
The teenager pulled at his uncle's fingers with his free hand, but when his vision grew dim, Harry heard his uncle yelp. Suddenly, he could breathe again, and he staggered back from the window, his left hand going to his throat. It felt raw and sore, his throat burning as he swallowed.
When Harry looked around and saw the neighbours peeking through their curtains, he stuffed his wand into his jeans again, trying to look relatively innocent while massaging a mangled throat.
His uncle shouted 'greetings' at the neighbours while Harry stood and brushed off his pants. Vernon beckoned him to the window and the teenager was forced to obey, although he made sure to stand out of reach of his uncle.
His relatives then proceeded to accuse him falsely of doing magic and being a general nuisance. Eventually Harry had enough, said something he'd probably get in trouble for later, and stormed off for the park.
The walk did wonders for his disposition, but the deeply rooted anger still simmered below the surface. And that anger and frustration had been stewing for a long time.
The whole cancer bit had thrown him off for the last few weeks. Harry was confused, scared, lost and lonely. But anger at the unfairness of his situation coupled with the frustration of not being able to do anything other than follow orders was wearing at his patience and sense of calm.
And it wasn't just the cancer. He had been getting loads of letters this summer and all of them were devoid of solid information. Ron and Hermione would leave these hints and clues that didn't add up to make any sense at all, while Sirius was apologetic and cautious. With everything that had happened, Harry had expected more from his friends and godfather than that!
All that rage, frustration, anger and general upset were finally coming together. Grief and confusion had tempered them for some time, but Vernon's attempted strangling and the possible presence of a magic user had brought them to the forefront.
As Harry trudged to the locked gate of the park, he thought about the sound that had started it all. It sounded like Apparation or Disapparation, but if it was, why hadn't the wizard or witch come to speak with him? Was someone following him, or had someone been following him?
… Maybe they had been following him all summer. The thought made him feel like vomiting. What if they knew? Sitting on the only unbroken swing, Harry contemplated that particular question. Was all his secrecy for naught?
And then he considered the other side. Maybe the sound was just that, a car back-firing. Perhaps the only abnormal thing about the afternoon was his uncle's attempt to kill him.
Harry sat, mulling over his thoughts, when Dudley and his gang showed up.
In retrospect, the Dementors were probably the most typical of things to happen to Harry all summer. Granted, while the aftermath was quite unusual, the actual presence of Dementors in the Little Whinging paled in comparison to being diagnosed with a terminal disease and finding the part-Muggle and part-Wizard portions of his life could actually collide at one point.
Once banished to his room by his relatives, Harry fell on his bed bonelessly. Dementors could drain him of all his energy when he was perfectly healthy. In his less-than-wonderful condition without chocolate, adrenaline had been the only thing keeping him moving.
Too exhausted to reach for the chocolate stashed under his bed, Harry closed his eyes and drifted into a half-asleep and half-awake state of mind. He realized at some point that Hedwig had come back, dangling a frog from her beak, but he was in no condition to even open his eyes enough to look at her, let alone write letters that evening.
Therefore, it was late the next morning that he copied out notes for Ron, Hermione and Sirius. While strongly worded, they were not as angry as they could have been. He was still feeling weak and with another round of treatments coming in two days, all he could do was ask Hedwig to ensure answers.
His faithful friend agreed and flew off with the letters, quickly flying high and out of Muggle view.
Lying back down on his bed, Harry stared at the ceiling, thinking of everything that had happened. Before last night, his two worlds had been separate and he could almost control the contact they had with each other.
But suddenly, it had all changed.
The Dementors meant that Privet Drive was no longer completely safe for him. And if Dumbledore had already assigned wizards to watch him, did that mean that he would be removed from Surrey? If so, how would he continue his Muggle treatments while being so carefully monitored in the wizarding world?
Also, Dumbledore had the gall to have fully-trained wizards and witches guarding all summer, but he couldn't be bothered to tell Harry about them? The teenager bit his lip. What if they had followed him into the hospital? They had stayed outside the house on Privet Drive, but the hospital was a very large building… what if they found out about the cancer?
Harry groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. It all had fallen apart so quickly. He felt lightheaded with confusion and the overwhelming doubt.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out, opening his eyes again. He had to straighten this out, before he went mad with unanswered questions.
First, Harry had to assume that if his guard had followed him into the hospital, then they knew that he had leukaemia. But if the guard found out, he or she would have told Dumbledore. And even though Dumbledore had been silent about everything since last term, Harry had to assume that if his headmaster knew, then he would have heard from him. Therefore, his secret had to still be a secret.
Furthermore, that meant that the guards had not been tailing his every move, which could bode well for the future.
Because, logically, Harry also had to admit that he would probably be leaving Privet Drive soon. Dementors on the Little Whinging was too dangerous, especially so close to his relatives' home. If Dumbledore had people guarding him, then he obviously recognized that potential danger. And with Mundungus' blunder, his chances of staying at the Dursleys were greatly reduced.
Therefore, he had to be prepared for the near-certain probability that he would leave Privet Drive before he completed his four-week treatment, and go to the Burrow. Harry would then be with his friends, but he would also have the added difficulty of disappearing for hours while he went to Surrey and back.
That and hiding the side affects had only one logical conclusion, and that did not bode well for him.
Harry groaned and turned over in bed. Exhaustion was creeping over him again and he had not gotten very far in his reasoning. And even though he was eager to resolve all his problems, his heavy eyelids were shutting of their own accord. Eventually he drifted off into dreamland once more.
A/N: Finally! It is finished! I tell you, this chapter was very hard to write. While the chapter only spans a week, I had to cover a lot of material to pave the way for the rest of the story.
So, we finally arrived at the beginning of the Order of the Phoenix. Now, as you can see, I am sticking with canon for the barebones of this project, so from time to time (sometimes more than others) you will see excerpts that I have pulled from the book. (Like I have in this chapter). Please do not flame or say that I do not give credit to the author, as all of these passages do belong to J.K. Rowling. I will try, whenever possible, to condense/skip or write my own version of the necessary sections in the original chapters, so note that those parts are also paraphrased. When I deviate from canon, I hope everyone will recognize the differences and not accuse me of plagarizing my own work. :D
Please enjoy this chapter! Again, I'm sorry for the wait! I didn't mean to take so long, but Harry just wasn't cooperating for a while there. But he finally stood up and spoke to me, so here is the result.
Also, if you find errors in spelling, grammar, continuity, British language, etc. please leave constructive criticism! I appreciate all that I can get, and since I haven't proof-read the last six or so pages of this chapter, there are probably a great many errors. I just wanted to get this up to you all as soon as I could.
Anyway, I will sign off now, with just one very tiny request. :D Please read and review! Thanks everyone~~~.