Chapter 2
Steam rolled up Remus' cheeks, embracing his nose with a damp, floral warmth as he held a cup of tea, pointer finger curled around its delicate stem while the other hand palmed the saucer. He blinked into its depths, sugar flakes sinking as the swirl of a liquid recently stirred slowed, and tried to remember when he'd been given such a thing.
"You looked like you needed it, my boy." Dumbledore smiled kindly at him, and traced his wand along an inverse parabola. A porcelain teapot—a silver plated antique engraved with chrysanthemum petals—rose delicately to approximately the height of the headmaster's shoulder, tipping with mathematical precision. Golden tea wept over a single sugar cube, relaxing its compacted shape into a dissolving mound within an otherwise empty cup identical to Remus' own. Gently and without direction, the teapot settled upon a doily with the most muted of thuds. Hands with fingers like wizened oak branches coiled around the cup and drew it just underneath a long, crooked nose.
After having spoken with Harry nearly thirty minutes ago, Remus had come directly to Hogwarts in an attempt to piece together this unsettling matter. He sipped at his tea. A faint sweetness burned his tongue, lacking the strength of a darker brew. He tried to remember the last time he slept, and couldn't. Perhaps there was merit in Dumbledore's statement.
Remus had always appreciated the chaotic serenity that was the headmaster's office. Settled within a tower, the room overlooked much of Hogwarts' grounds through narrow windows. Slumbering portraits of headmasters past occupied the stretch of wall directly behind Dumbledore and his desk of polished mahogany, breathing gently into the hush of the very early morning. Ancient texts dusted shelves erected upon any remaining wall space, occasionally shoved impossibly close to make room for many of Dumbledore's whizzing trinkets. Unlike much of the castle, the headmaster's office generated an inner warmth that both welcomed and comforted any visitor. Even as a boy, with Sirius on one side of him and James on the other, about to be punished and congratulated for their latest stunt (something that had never failed to confuse), Remus had always felt this.
"Thank you, Albus," Remus said. Despite his distaste for Darjeeling, he was grateful for the warmth that permeated outwards from his stomach to his limbs, beating the chill of malnutrition into a temporary submission.
"Harry, I assume, has not left Privet Drive as we feared," Dumbledore said after a long while.
"I don't think he's even considered it," Remus said, hardly surprised Dumbledore had figured as such.
"Did you inform Harry of our potential problem?"
Remus paused, cup halfway to his parted lips. Dumbledore was unreadable, very still, but his blue eyes pierced Remus' own.
"I think Harry has the right to our knowledge and trust," Remus said diplomatically, slowly lowering his tea. "Or, at least some of it," he amended after a quick consideration of the facts. One of the portraits snorted in his sleep.
"Yes . . . I think so as well." Dumbledore's words were slow-coming and almost absent, as though he meditated on each one before allowing their escape. He looked to Fawkes, who was tucked within the fluff of young feathers, resting in ash underneath his perch. "Although I wish things were different. That I had seen our paths more clearly. But such is the lament of old men, Remus. And I'm no clairvoyant."
Crystal eyes shifted away from behind half-moon spectacles, lingering on a horribly crippled instrument of silver on his desk. Tarnished with age, its stirrings rattled within imperfect sockets, and its overall lopsided shape gave a likeness to a bent old man hobbling across the street. Its struggle was paralyzing to watch. Torn between pity and horror, Remus wondered why a magical master as Dumbledore hadn't bothered to repair it. Perhaps he'd been unable—a humbling thought.
"Albus?" Remus prompted, leaning forward so his elbows pinned his tired knees into stability.
Dumbledore seemed to shake himself, and returned his gaze forwards. "You were right to tell him, Remus," the headmaster said, and relief washed through Remus with more warmth than the tea. "It will encourage vigilance. He will know what to look for—or, at least, know that he should be looking for something."
Remus nodded, and sipped at his tea.
"To be honest, Remus, I hoped Harry had been the one at Godric's Hollow," Dumbledore continued, hooking his thumbs underneath his chin so the tips of his fingers touched just under his crooked nose. "Then this would be a simple matter of adolescent agitation. Knowing what we do now, I foresee several possible explanations, such as a secretly sanctioned experiment in human transfiguration. A bored witch or wizard with far too much luxury time." Dumbledore's tone then lightened, touching at innocent curiosity: "Perhaps this imposter is merely an avid fan, though whether harmless of not, only time will tell."
Disgust clawed faintly at Remus' self-control. "This isn't something to joke about, Albus."
The headmaster sobered, and his hands fell from his bearded lips to rest upon his desk. "You're right," he agreed. "And we have too little evidence to make any firm conclusions. It would be very troublesome if the imposter had somehow gotten a hold of Harry's DNA. His hair, his blood, his anything, would be a very valuable commodity on the black market." His voice then lowered into soft, vague concern, "Perhaps Mundungus should be alerted, but he hasn't reported anything strange as of yet. . ."
Remus straightened in his seat, disturbed. "You want me to go after him. The imposter."
"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said. "But exude the utmost caution. I'd like to settle this matter as quickly as possible, and hopefully without alerting the rest of the Order."
Remus carefully set down his cup and saucer, which clinked softly upon Dumbledore's polished desk. "You don't trust them?"
"On the contrary," Dumbledore said, "I trust you all entirely too much. But the mistakes of last time left undesirable scars, and I've learned to tred more carefully."
Remus nodded in acquiescence. The First War had been an inescapable maze of horror, a trial in which friend and foe alike led the trusting to dead ends obscured by shadows. And while the wary survived by breaking the links of former companionships, by fighting in the encompassing darkness by tooth and nail, in the penultimate moment they would end up stranded and alone, gripping tightly to the lifeline that was a wand as the walls slowly closed in.
The wrinkles crinkling the corners of Dumbledore's eyes deepened in gravity. "What I find most troubling," Dumbledore continued, "is Severus' silence on the matter."
Shock whittled at Remus' spine, and he fought not to stand. "You told him?"
"No." The aged voice had chilled in its finality, and Remus curbed his enthusiasm, properly scolded. "Although he is privy to much of the Order's secrets, I decided that, in the case that this imposter is of Lord Voldemort's doing, it would be in our best interests for Severus to come to us. But Severus has yet to speak."
Something of Remus' pent-up anxiety must have broken past its guarded cell, for Dumbledore folded one hand over the other, and said with great magnitude, "Severus Snape has my complete trust. I find it surprising I must reiterate this to you, Remus."
Remus shook his head. "I'm only concerned about what this means, Albus. Nothing more."
"Severus' silence tells me many things, and also nothing at all." Dumbledore paused, chin upon closed fists, blue eyes piercing the ceiling with its javelin stare. "It's possible Lord Voldemort remains unaware of this matter as we—maybe more so—but in my many years, I've found coincidences to be a luxury within which the world rarely indulges."
Despite Remus' truthful words to Dumbledore just moments before, negative thoughts poisoned Remus' mind against Severus Snape, slithering around his precarious trust and constricting it with whispered lies—many voiced by memories of Sirius Black. Shaking his head, such thoughts turned to dust and blew away.
"If Severus doesn't know . . ." Remus began, operating within his faith for Dumbledore's sound judgment.
"Then he's either outside of Lord Voldemort's confidence, or I've made a terrible, terrible mistake."
Two Weeks Later
It was well into the third week of July. Heat wavered in illusory surfs above the asphalt, fading across lawns growing brown and brittle from the surplus of summer, leading up to identical houses that sagged under the pressure of the rare hot sun. It glared at Harry from white spots upon metal equipment, which sprouted from faded woodchips into curved beams, twisting to accommodate strange ladders, rattling bridges, and the occasional slide on the frightfully ugly and unoccupied play structure. Harry sat on a swing, arm entwined with its chain as he swiveled noncommittedly under a cloudless sky, toe burrowed in woodchips and sand anchoring him to the empty playground. He was very bored. Hedwig couldn't both keep his company as well as his correspondence, so he was, for the most part, alone this summer. He needn't do his homework assignments until he'd received his O.W.L. scores, which would indicate his eligibility for next term's schedule, but boredom had forced his hand; seven rolls of parchment now stacked like billiards in his trunk, though his hopeful career choice requested only five. In between letters from his friends and Lupin—the former more frequently than the latter, and none holding anything of importance—Harry would pace, balling up old letters, tossing them aside, only to straighten them again to be re-read and crumpled for the reassurance that his life at Hogwarts had been more than just a very lucid dream. It didn't help he'd been arbitrarily locked up again, but there wasn't much he could do about that.
After a quick breakfast of dry Cheerios and half an orange, Aunt Petunia had ushered him out with an extensive chore list: he was to weed the planters of undesirables and tidy the perennials into neat little lots, painting a ring of color around the otherwise bland house; wash the windows of grime and night, chasing whatever lingered away with the circular motions of his damp cloth; clip the grass to a respectable length of one and one-quarter inches, and rake the leftovers into a bag to be later disposed. Unsurprisingly similar to his tasks for the last couple of days. Usually this particular set of chores was accompanied by sweeping out the garage, but Aunt Petunia had snapped that he was to clean out the attic instead when he'd asked, supplemented by the almost instinctive instruction to not ask questions.
It was the hallmark of Harry's apathy that he was doing none of these things.
Of course, there would be repercussions for his inaction later, but Harry ached for the outdoors, for the summer breeze on his face. What he really wanted to do was fly, to escape the chains of his current worries and this dismal Muggle slump, dashing them to the freedom of the vast, uncluttered blue. He didn't want to waste this day with busy work. Yet, given his current surroundings, there wasn't much else to do, either, so Harry had to settle with swings and his own thoughts for company.
The sun beat brutally at his back, drawing sweat from his scalp with painful rays like fingernails. Stagnation had become a very unwelcome presence in Harry's life—at its best, flicking at Harry's brow with listless persistence, and he would battle its torturous progression with homework, chores, and thoughts that turned pointedly away from the clawing ache in his belly; at its worst, it drove Harry to pace in agitation with the strange desire for destruction, for excitement and adventure, for something reckless enough it would force him to flee Surrey before he completely lost his mind. The very place was driving him mad. Harry hated not knowing. Being stuck in the dark. He hated being away from the magical world, forced to stay put at Privet Drive like a naughty, foolish child caught with his finger up his nose.
But, whispered a nasty voice in the corner of his mind, maybe it's what you deserve. Putting your dear friends at risk for nothing, for a man they didn't know and who was going to die anyway, for your precious ego. Your 'saving people thing.' But who are you saving, really?
Harry muttered at the voice to shut up, but it never did any good.
"Hello, Harry," called a withered voice, craggy with gravel and age.
Harry glanced up and wiped his filthy palms on his jeans. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Figg," he said to his batty neighbor without looking at his watch, hoping it truly was the afternoon. Today she wore a floral dress that had seen its prime at least three decades ago, swinging a carpet bag from her arm as she ambled across the empty playground in clacking sandals. From within the bag, Harry could hear a faint mewing. He stood carefully as she neared, blackness crowding his vision before filtering out in a dotting of color. "Having a good summer?"
Mrs. Figg squinted at him with beady eyes. "Boy, you need to spend more time in the sun. You're as pale as a vampire."
Harry, who had been in the sun for the better part of the day, felt quite the opposite.
"Dumbledore has a letter for you," she said, much more quietly. The wrinkles around her mouth deepened, crevasses like dry ravines gathering as she frowned. "It's waiting for you in my foyer."
"Dumbledore?" Harry croaked. "He was here? Did he say when I could leave? Am I going back to Grimmauld Place?" The questions tumbled clumsily from his lips so quickly he nearly stuttered over them, each punctuated by a flutter in his ribcage. As much as he loathed the idea of returning to his Godfather's hated childhood home, anywhere was better than here.
The set of Mrs. Figg's wild eyebrows suggested confusion. "They didn't tell you?" she started, momentarily incredulous, but the expression cleared quickly, replaced with that of self-reprimanding. "No, of course not. Silly me. Can't put a thing like that in the post. No, come over to my place for tea later, dear. Four o'clock should do it." And with that she waddled in the direction of Wisteria Walk, sandals slipping occasionally over hot woodchips, dragging along with her a strong odor of cabbage and feline pheromone. She ignored, or couldn't hear, his calls for her to return, and irritation washed over him in ripples from his fingers to his toes. Of all the bloody days . . . Harry checked his watch, and noted with a clambering anxiety that he would be unable to finish his chores before meeting with his neighbor for tea. He couldn't miss it—Mrs. Figg might think there was something wrong. And there wasn't.
"Babe!" called a voice, adolescent and mocking and loud. "Babe, come back! Babe! Babe!"
It wasn't the most ideal situation—tonight, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were to entertain an important investor for Grunning's Drills, and Harry hadn't the slightest clue how long Mrs. Figg would keep him.
"Hot date tonight, Potter?" Snickers stifled the summer air, seeping into the street tar and pinging off the glaring support beams of the swing set. "I guess I can see it; I bet he likes the sag and grab, don't 'e? Them tits prob'ly slap 'im in the face every time he—"
Hopefully not for too long—when the Dursleys had guests, Harry had two choices: either be out of the house, or shut up in his room (making no noise and pretending I don't exist). That being said, if Harry returned after the guest's arrival, he had no choice but to spend the night in the shed, something he hadn't done since before Hogwarts.
"Oi, Potter, I'm fucking talking to you!"
Nevertheless, common sense suggested it would be unwise for Harry to leave the property for an extended period of time, and especially not at night. You must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection.
"Has he gone off his rocker?"
"Nah, he's jusy stupid."
"Mates, he's not worth it. Let's just go—"
"Big D, greatest respect, man, but you're being a bloody pussy. Go get fucked if you're gonna make such a big stink about it."
"You a queef, man?"
"Shut up, Diggs. I'm no queef. And Piers, you can go fuck yourself."
"That's the spirit. Oi, Potter! Wake the fuck up. It's Hunting time."
Harry stumbled backwards into the pole of the swing set, momentum forced elsewhere by a two-handed shove to the chest. Hot metal seared a long line from his shoulders to the crease between bare arm and the woven fibers of his shirt, and his tolerance for pain and previous anxiety charred away into a sudden awareness of his current reality.
With a hiss he jerked away from the pinching brand punishing his inattention. Calloused hands, toughened to resist the ardor of yard work and harsh cleaning chemicals, tensed and coiled into tight fists by his sides. Harry lifted his head. Piers Polkiss, Alex Diggs, and Dudley Dursley stood in an inverse 'V' before him, boredom slicked to their skin and shining under the midday sun, bringing with them the usual sharp cologne of sweat, made bitter by the hint of cigarette smoke seeping into the summer from their brand name clothes. Diggs idled with one hand in the pocket of his grubby jeans, eyes hound-like and drooping as he watched his tar-stained fingers twitch an unlit cigarette, expression otherwise indifferent—a far cry from the lively, hate-filled boy of their youth. Dudley, a surprisingly reluctant spectator taking the rear, shuffled his trainers along the woodchips, gaze averted. The only one who seemed to want to be there at all was Polkiss, still rat-faced and skinny and small, but there was something mean about the tilt of his lips, now.
The back of Harry's neck burned, slapped by long hours in the sun. Sweat rotted his shirt sleeves, tampered by the earthly odor of the soil that dusted his skin and clothes. Presented with his childhood tormentors, Harry was suddenly very conscious he'd been wearing the same clothes for three days straight.
Knowing this, it surprised even Harry his first reaction was exasperation. "Don't you three have anything better to do?" he asked.
"You hear that, boys?" Polkiss split his pointed face with an expression that once ended with Harry on the rooftop of a school. "Potter here doesn't think 'e's worth our time."
Diggs didn't respond, pulling a red Zippo from his pocket and rolling his thumb over the wheel. It clicked three impatient breaths of butane before he was able to drown his cigarette, now pinched between his lips, into the controlled flame. Dudley continued his furious contemplation of the ground, and by the concentration slicking his brow, Harry had to say the ground was winning whatever contest Dudley provided.
Harry didn't have time for the Surrey Talking Circus today. "I'm really not," he said impartially, sparing a quick glance for his worn watch, and muttered "Excuse me," almost under his breath, and made to pass his childhood tormentors. No talking back. No fights. He didn't need the trouble. He didn't need the temptation. Harry considered it progress he'd managed not to become angry this time, but since Sirius died, Harry hadn't been feeling much of anything at all. House and yardwork served as excellent distractions.
A hand resisted Harry's progress, squeezing his shoulder firmly.
"Where's that famous spirit of St. Brutus?" Polkiss sneered to Harry's side, sallow skin tight over the slanted angles of his cheek and nose. "Odd that a crook like yourself doesn't want to fight. What's'a matter? Caned too hard? Prefer to sing wif the nuts an' the squirrels?"
Harry blinked, momentarily forgetting himself. Diggs tilted his head over his shoulder, and expelled bitter smoke with a long, forced exhale. For the first time he appeared cognizant of his surroundings. "St. Brutus'?" he asked, his voice but a lazy rasp.
Dudley peered up from under the flat brim of his hat, eying his friends nervously from behind.
"Oh, yeah. You'd already moved," Polkiss said, then let loose a snicker. "Potter landed himself in the slammer, and 'e'd been in juvie since what, eleven?"
Eyes struck with blood and haze eyed Harry skeptically, and disappeared behind another quick-fading cloud of smoke. Harry didn't blame him; if anything, Harry had the appearance of chronic victimization, but he'd never congratulate his relatives for accuracy. To explain his absence during the year, his aunt and uncle had endorsed the correctional program at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, which gave Harry a vague idea of what they thought about him, and wizards in general. When this had first been proposed to him (and executed without his consent), Harry had been outraged, disbelieving of his caretakers' cruelty. He really shouldn't have been surprised—the Dursleys had quite the history of strange lies to account for Harry's presence in their exclusive unit as a 'normal family'—but such was life at the age of twelve, still unable (and unwilling) to realize that no matter what he had done—even save Dudley's life—he would never be good enough for them.
Now, nearly sixteen, Harry had grown, if not content, then used to the state of things. He wasn't expected to partake in social niceties—none spoke to him, none asked for lawn care help (although he'd gotten exponentially proficient), none even waved to acknowledge his existence. Sure, it depressed him sometimes, but it was because of this lie Harry's neighbors allowed him to do as he very well pleased.
After a long moment, Diggs looked away to take another drag of his cigarette. "Rough go," was all he said. Dudley visibly deflated, and returned his gaze to the woodchips.
"Personally," Polkiss continued, though no one asked him to, "I think Mr. and Mrs. D pulled out the big bucks and stuck him there because they were tired of seeing his ugly mug."
Well, he wasn't far off the mark.
"Look," Harry said impatiently, "are you going to punch me or not? Because, as nostalgic as this has been, I really have to go."
"Where're you headed?" Polkiss asked, sneer scorching his features into malice.
Harry let his face fall into a mockery of disappointment. "I was hoping to catch the next showing of ChuckleVision, but I suppose you three will do."
Smoke strangled a cough from Diggs from behind a sudden grey cloud.
Polkiss frowned. "You insulting us?"
"Brilliant, you are," Harry grinned. "You know, they really could use you at Scotland Yard; I hear they're hiring floor detectives. Just don't be alarmed when they hand you a mop."
As Polkiss struggled, brow furrowed almost into his eyelids and his mouth a severe slash of concentration, Harry saluted to the remnants of Dudley's gang and stepped out of the park, hands in his pockets and pace quickened as he whistled with a joviality he did not feel. So much for not talking back. He'd forgotten how exhilarating it was to get in a few verbal jabs before his teeth were knocked in. Although, Harry thought, glancing over his shoulder at the trio, he almost missed the swelling fluster that became Dudley's face in the final stages of Harry Hunting. And yet, Dudley had been a mere passerby this time, a passive spectator in his favorite game. A game that, thankfully, hadn't progressed to the final stages of cat and mouse.
A strange change in behavior, but not an unwelcome one.
Convinced the three would leave him alone, Harry turned sharply on his heel and headed for number four. Really, he only had enough time for a shower, but he supposed he should get at least one chore done to keep Aunt Petunia from breathing down his neck.
When he arrived a mere five minutes later, he was surprised to see his outside chores had already been completed. Neat rows of trimmed grass sweated under the summer sun, the clippings brushed from each strand and piled near the shed. The front windows beamed at him, oddly clean, and the hedges had been clipped into respectable order. Bewilderment struck Harry dumb, and he stood at the edge of the Dursley property, slightly agape; Aunt Petunia hadn't done yardwork in years.
Harry blinked, shook his head. His watch foretold a little over twenty minutes before he was expected at Wisteria Walk. He rushed to the front door and yanked it open, only to hesitate before the hallway, head over toes as he battled to regain his balance. The floor preened under its latest scrub, courtesy of Aunt Petunia and her bony elbows, proudly flowering the house with lemon.
As though she'd sniffed his arrival Harry's aunt swooped in like a thestral, the delicate bones of her skinny feet creaking within beige house slippers, pale eyes wild and bulging as she took in Harry's current state of hygiene.
"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed under her breath, pale eyes shifting over his shoulder to the bright day behind him.
"I have tea with Mrs. Figg," Harry said. In the cleansed air of number four, Harry was suddenly very conscious of how days' sweat crusted his shirt, mixing with dirt and the faint taint of gasoline.
Aunt Petunia peered down at him over the beak of her nose, neck craned upwards. "I don't think so, Boy. Not after what you did to the yard—"
"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, heel slipping on the welcome mat as he scuffed it uncertainly. "The yard looks perfect—"
"That's because I fixed that slash job of yours," she snarled, then flapped her arms as though she could create a gust of air strong enough to push Harry through the door without touching him. "And I thought the attic would keep you occupied for hours, but clearly I was wrong. Look at the state of you! So filthy!"
Irritation itched under Harry's skin, scraping along the path of his veins. "Mrs. Figg's expecting me, Aunt Petunia. I can't just blow her off."
"You're not coming into this house like that."
"I need to clean up," Harry said impatiently. "Give me five minutes, and I'll be gone. Please."
After a long moment, Aunt Petunia pursed her thin lips. "Alright," she said at last. "Five minutes. Leave your shoes down here. And close that door before the neighbors see you."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The door snapped shut. He toed his trainers off, and trudged up the stairs. His shower was a quick one, ruffling his dark hair under the warm stream and hastily scooping water under his arms, scrubbing at the salt left by the receding shoreline of his pores. He tightened the tap, the gear squeaking under his hand, and toweled himself dry. Dressed himself in clothes he cared little for. Refastened his watch. Didn't bother brushing his hair—it did what it wanted, despite previous efforts to tame it in years past—and with a passing glance at his reflection he exited the bathroom he shared with Dudley, dumping his dirty clothes carelessly into his room before closing the door. Aunt Petunia took to glowering at him from the kitchen, scrubbing violently at the tabletop, as he descended the stairs. Harry shoved his toes into his trainers with an "All right, all right, I'm going," and fled the house before she could say another word. Before he could properly tie his shoes. The frayed aglets flicked at the sidewalk as he hurried to Mrs. Figg's house, but Dudley and his friends had already left the playground by the time Harry passed. It wasn't long until he stood at the door, hands buried in his jean pockets after having knocked for her attention, and was ushered inside.
Mrs. Figg and the Dursleys lived in identically constructed houses, but Harry may as well have stepped into a different world. Whereas every piece of furniture in the Dursley home without tear and wrinkle, Mrs. Figg's was quite lived in, limp with exhaustion and garish in design. Cat paraphernalia, often cartoonish and tasteless, cluttered olive green walls. Mismatched shag rugs sprawled across the carpet and over one another, absorbing dust particles floating within the stuffy heat of cooked cabbage and cat piss. Aunt Petunia would faint, Harry thought gleefully.
"There you are, Harry," Mrs. Figg said, a little more comfortably now that the door was closed and the blinds drawn. Harry sat on a browning floral couch, and was only slightly alarmed when he sunk into the cushion. Mrs. Figg had been gone for merely a moment and returned, tea rattling on a tray as she balanced its contents with the failing strength of her wrists. An envelope labeled 'Mr. H Potter' in a familiar looping hand lay underneath a steaming silver kettle. When Harry stood to help, she slapped at his hands.
"I may not be the Chosen One, but I'm not an invalid," she scowled.
"Sorry," Harry muttered.
"That's quite alright, dear," she warbled, and busied herself with making more than two cups, which confused Harry until he noticed the battalion of cats settled expectantly around the tartan ottoman, their long tails flicking occasionally, eyes unblinking upon Mrs. Figg and her task. She served them before him, and he waited with patient hands.
Once half a cuppa had scorched his esophagus and lay broiling in his stomach like lava in a dormant volcano, Harry remembered the words he'd exchanged with his neighbor earlier that day. "Mrs. Figg, you said something about Headquarters?"
The wrinkles on her neck pulled tight as she swallowed. "Grimmauld Place has sealed itself."
Harry nearly dropped his teacup. "What?"
"No one, not even Dumbledore, can get inside."
The castle halls stretched before Remus in a nostalgic tunnel of stone and chatter, centuries' worth of fade crawling downwards from clerestory windows kept bright with a wash of magic. His footsteps, unusually leisurely as he reminisced sounded hollowly against the smooth floor, tapping occasionally muted upon thick carpet as he gazed wistfully at the portraits patching otherwise bare walls: an unassuming man whittling his future on a birch slab, two wizards conspiring in the dark, and young girl gazing with quiet intent out a night-glossed window. Twelve staircases revolved above him, their hinges oiled with a sheen of old charms. Tarnished suits of armor stood erect on each corner, their helmets glinting under the guise of the afternoon sun as they slowly swiveled to keep Remus in sight as he passed by. Memories persisted at the corner of his eye, and he fought against the laughter in his ears, the spilling of footsteps as unruly boys fled the trouble that awaited them, against the happiness of days long since passed into an aching sadness.
Remus looked at his watch, and quickened his pace. After Grimmauld Place refused the admittance of its Secret Keeper, Dumbledore believed that, until a safe house could be constructed, they were to use Hogwarts' Room of Requirement for meetings. Still, such a thing would be far too risky to continue during the school year: a source of anxiety for all members of the Order of the Phoenix.
He had just stepped onto the third floor landing when the whisper of familiar voices tugged at his senses. Alert before he was consciously aware, Remus paused. Tilted his head. He was almost at once rewarded for his instincts when Albus Dumbledore rounded the corner, Professor Filius Flitwick all but trotting at his side. The coupling was almost jarring: whilst Dumbledore's height was made all the more intimidating by the point of his hat, Flitwick was often dwarfed by the children he taught.
". . . have to take a look yourself, Albus; it was as if Mr. Longbottom, bless his kind soul, had accidentally conjured another small tornado," Flitwick was saying, the white whiskers sprouting from his cheeks and chin vibrating with nervous excitement. He wrung his small, clever hands as he peered anxiously up at a rather solemn Dumbledore. "My office, completely trashed! It just doesn't make any sense. I've nothing to do with this war, not yet, at least, so why my office?"
His face fell slightly, and he waved chapped palms in quiet distress. "Don't get me wrong, Albus. I find that group of yours terribly noble, and you know I'll assist you when I'm needed, but I've quite enough on my plate as it is." He nodded in a self-assured way that brought a young James Potter to Remus' mind. "But my office! I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to offer."
"I wouldn't say nothing," Dumbledore demurred. "You are a formidable wizard in your own right."
Flitwick made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Hosh posh, Dumbledore. You know what I meant," he said, exasperated. "I asked Argus if he knew anything about it, but he too has been away—in Kent until today, I might add. Hagrid, of course, doesn't come into the castle with the professors on sabbatical, and I highly doubt he would do such a thing to me. At first, I had believed the work to be the fault of Peeves, but, well . . ."
"No, no, it wouldn't be," Dumbledore murmured softly. "Was anything taken?"
Flitwick frowned. "That's the strangest thing: nothing was. Drawers overturned, yes. Correspondence, papers, spare parchment—everything on the floor. Nothing permanently damaged—nothing that couldn't be set right with a wand, strictly speaking—and the valuables I have here remained untouched. The strangest robbery, if it was one—oh, hello, Remus! Such a pleasure to see you again!"
Inner warmth at those words touched at Remus' smile before he thought to constrain it. "Good afternoon, Filius, Albus. Have you a pleasant summer so far?"
Flitwick bounced on his toes, good cheer unhindered by his troubles. "Ah, just a small spot of bother, but otherwise in great spirits. I've a good feeling about this year, especially now the school has been exorcised of all unpleasantness."
Remus tucked his laugh into a quiet hollow place. "I'm to understand you have the Weasley twins to thank for that."
"And Mr. Potter and Miss Granger. I may have to give Gryffindor a starting advantage in the running for the House Cup this year." If possible, Flitwick's jovial smile widened, smoothing age away like water on wrinkled clay. He turned to Dumbledore, who had been patiently waiting with amusement twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "Well, I'm off for the day. If you hear anything about who was in my office and why, I'd like to speak to him. I can't decide if I'm impressed or put out that he bypassed all my wards. Good afternoon!" And with that he left, taking the stairs from which Remus came, whistling a familiar haunting tune as he went.
"Such a good man, Filius," Dumbledore said conversationally. Flitwick's whistled song skittered faintly across the stone. "Knowledgeable in more than just his specialty, a strong sense of moral standing, and quite the Gobstones expert." He then peered at Remus from over his long, crooked nose, blue eyes an ice pick to Remus' guarded soul. Remus held his breath, grief quite distant from the small island of remembrance he'd allowed himself, and relaxed when Dumbledore looked away, gesturing to the rising staircase behind them. It stilled with a hollowed thud. "Shall we?"
Silence sifted between them, uninterrupted by the near matched rhythm of footsteps and the hushed sweeping of Dumbledore's deep purple robe. Dumbledore always had a colorful wardrobe, but this was stitched masterpiece: gold thread wove intricately at the hem, up the velvet arms, and around the twinkling stars pinned to the fabric with astronomical accuracy. The constellation of Canis Major beamed at him from the headmaster's shoulder. Remus shook his head, bewildered and feeling woefully underdressed: in aged slacks and a white button-up, Remus hadn't time to change into his robes after another unsuccessful day in the Muggle world.
As though reading his mind, Dumbledore queried, "Any luck today, Remus?"
"It's like he disappeared," Remus croaked, mouth sour at the countless theories he'd been entertaining. "Bathilda was the only reliable source in Godric's Hollow, but after she sent the imposter to the graveyard, she hadn't seen him. There were reported sightings of the Boy Who Lived appearing briefly in Diagon Alley . . ."
Interest glimmered in Dumbledore's eyes. "Such a public place."
"And from what I've learned, I suspect the imposter didn't want to be seen at all. Hooded, but wearing Muggle clothes, so he was noticeable anyway. One eyewitness account of him breaking into the abandoned wand shop, but said eyewitness also seemed to believe she was in an Egyptian Bazaar . . ."
"Cairo or Luxor?" Dumbledore inquired interestedly.
"Farafra, actually," Remus said, quite used to random digressions. "Either way, it doesn't help us in the least. I was unable to access the wandshop . . . where is Ollivander, by the way? It's not like him to be gone this close to the school year."
"That, I'm afraid, is to be a topic for today's meeting."
Shock was quick in his system, filtering in a rush down the length of his spine. Taken, then.
Dumbledore nodded along with Remus' thoughts, and led him down a more frequented passageway, behind a garish tapestry depicting Apollo and Daphne. The castle closed around them, height sinking so dramatically that Dumbledore had to remove his hat. This particular passageway, Remus knew, would deposit them directly out at the seventh floor, near the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.
"You know, I'd always thought of Hogwarts as an impenetrable fortress," Remus said, pulling a spider from his sleeve.
"Many make that same mistake," Dumbledore said lightly. "Remember, it was only a few years ago that Voldemort himself occupied the unfortunate Quirnius Quirrell in hopes of acquiring the Philosopher's Stone."
Remus could think of another, more recent example, but if Dumbledore wasn't going to bring it up, then neither was he. "But how was it done?"
"The question is not how, but why," Dumbledore mused quietly. Firelight glinted off his spectacles in a sheet of orange. "Theoretically, anyone can walk through the front door. The gates, however . . . an entirely different matter altogether."
"How so?"
"Those gates are only open when the headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts commands them to be so. Otherwise, they open to no one else except those in the greatest of need."
"That explains why we had to find other ways out of the castle," Remus commented wryly, plagued with visions of James, wide smile and mischievous hazel eyes, pulling up the hood of his invisibility cloak and disappearing completely, as though he'd never existed. Of giggling young boys tripping over themselves learning to move together unseen. Of Sirius' grand excitement upon discovering that, if there was a tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack, then, logically (the word Sirius had used at thirteen, grey eyes glittering and animated face flushed), there should be others. It was a castle, after all. And what good would Hogwarts be if it didn't have a secret means of escape?
Dumbledore chuckled. "The trouble with teaching clever boys," he said, and it sounded like the start of a proverb. He ducked to emerge from faded blue curtains, parting the velvet with long knobby fingers as though passing through the downpour of a waterfall. Remus followed close behind.
When they arrived at the left corridor, the afternoon sun had relinquished its strength and now weakly poured through arched windows, light dripping dimly upon suits of armor and dulled red carpet. A familiar group of people stood in a thick crowd awry the Room's entrance, presently now a blank stretch of stone running parallel an interpretation of Barnabas the Barmy (who really shouldn't have been by the trolls' feet as he taught them ballet). As a boy, Peter had thought the tapestry a chronic source of amusement.
The group greeted Dumbledore warmly, all jumping over themselves for his attention—almost like children greeting a favored parent—and Remus faded back, skirting the edges of the group to wait quietly. At least, that had been the plan until a small, ivory hand latched onto his elbow and paired with a chipper, "Wotcher, Remus!"
Nymphadora Tonks. Pink-haired and attractive only in the way a Black could be, she smiled brightly up at him, a cheerful kindness that always sent a shock to his stomach, and Remus struggled to return it. Upon their first meeting last year, he'd been forever convinced she was under a constant Cheering Charm. And how brave she was, to smile at something like him.
Slightly uncomfortable, distracted by the contradiction of his mind and heart, Remus shuffled minutely back, subtle enough as to not hurt her feelings (and dare he think so highly of himself, that he had the potential to affect anyone in that way?). His monstrosity was a fact, and he worked to keep himself tame. From yearning to be a normal man who deserved friends and family and affection. He knew better.
Dumbledore ceased his pacing, and an ornate door etched itself upon the wall. Many gasped at the appearance of the new door, and within the group of agape Order members, an attractive blonde Remus had never met blinked and muttered something vulgar in French. What Remus found interesting was the lack of reaction from Fred and George Weasley, despite this being their first Order meeting.
"Did you just create a new room, Albus?" Hestia Jones asked interestedly, inspecting the maroon door that now broke the monotony of the blank wall. Within its middle perched a golden knocker, fixed as a crowing phoenix in flight.
"In a way," Dumbledore said vaguely.
"What a remarkable piece of magic!" exclaimed Diggle, bouncing excitedly on his toes.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, stepping aside to allow members' entrance. "Hogwarts has a plethora of undiscovered secrets. Why, in my sixties I came upon a room of extreme magnificence in the dungeons, and have been unable to find it since . . ."
Remus entered the room behind Tonks, and the rest of the conversation was lost as other Order members warmed the room with a mumbling reminiscent of a late night fire. Dumbledore's request for the Room of Requirement was predictably stylish, comfortable, and spacious. Overstuffed armchairs, preening underneath otherworldly patterns, peppered the room at random, a few crowding the unlit fireplace at the back. Others seemed to have been pushed against papered walls, floral and deep blue, to make room for a large round table prepared to seat all underneath an iron cast chandelier, which dipped inward from the ceiling, weighed with lumos light.
Remus sat himself at the far end of the table, content to watch as the rest of the Order congregated into predictable groups. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, face ripped apart and put together again with hasty wand work (anyone can pose as a Healer, Lupin, remember that), grumbled to Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose bass was determinable underneath the flow of voices. Bill Weasley, serious despite his long hair and earring, conversed lowly with his parents, arm around the foul-mouthed blonde beauty. The aged Elphias Doge hunched into himself, shy and nervous compared to an exuberant Diggle, who had apparently recovered from his crippling awe of the Room's magic enough to regale a tale from his youth. Grinning identically, Fred and George Weasley simultaneously steered a jumpy Mundungus Fletcher to the fireplace, eyes glinting with foul promise. Tonks engaged Hagrid in something of friendly banter, pointy elbows ribbing a thick, moleskin coat. And lastly, Severus Snape, who stood quite tritely in the corner of the room, arms crossed over chest, dark eyes fathomless and glaring over his hooked nose. The black of his clothes and hair clung to the shadows of his chosen solitude.
Considering his compatriots, Remus suddenly realized that this was the first full Order meeting since the events at the Department of Mysteries. And yet, he couldn't help but feel they were one short.
His throat closed around his grief, thick and sniffling behind his careful mask of impassivity. Something of his melancholy must have slipped, however, as Snape smirked at him from across the room, sallow face lifting upwards. Remus merely smiled and looked away. Some things never changed; some people never grew up.
A heavy weight—brief, coarse, strong—drew him roughly from his self-imposed misery. "Alright there, Laddie?"
Remus blinked up at Moody, whose patchwork face was a study of grim understanding; a slight uplift of the right corner of his lip, the other side lost in the lattice of angry scar tissue.
"Good afternoon, Alastor," Remus said pleasantly, ignoring the question as the esteemed ex-Auror dropped in the seat to Remus' left, rubbing at his calf where mood meshed with stump. Although Remus could only see the back of Moody's grizzled hair, Remus knew a certain electric blue eye whizzed in his direction.
Better to see you with, my dear, Remus thought with dark amusement.
"How was Cardiff?" he asked.
"Horrid," Moody growled, now upright. "Wet. I fucking hate Cardiff. The lead was shit—just some strung out kids snorting ground adder's fork. Idiots. Going on about Inferi crawling out of the ground like bloody lawn gnomes. I tracked them through the fucking sewers when I realized there was nothing to track. Warped my wooden leg, which was supposed to be weather-proof. But Dung's been short on his deals before . . . maybe it's time to reacquaint him with my wand . . ." he trailed off portentously, gnarled hand reaching into his pocket.
"Constant vigilance, Alastor," Remus said mildly. "You're getting soft, I fear. But don't you think you're moving too fast? Trusting your fellow man is a fairly large step into becoming a compassionate human being."
Moody's grin widened, splitting his curse-pocked cheek in a slit not unlike a slashed throat. It was terrifying. "Calling me soft, lover boy?"
Ah. Now the conversation was moving along the road less traveled. Time for a strategic retreat.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Alastor," Remus said calmly. Very smooth, Lupin, old chap. He'll never catch on with that remark. You might as well have thrown yourself at the poor girl.
Moody looked positively devious. "You know, you had me convinced for the longest time that you couldn't do that touchy stuff. That while Black basically followed wherever his dick led him, you were an empty well."
Remus nearly choked on his own saliva. So used to the eggshells others had placed around him, he hadn't expected Moody to trample on through with a comment like that. Not that he minded—he'd rather things go on normally. He wasn't about to collapse at the mention of his recently deceased best friend. But, of all people to have this talk with, he ended up with Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, a man whose paranoia had him setting curses and traps against himself.
Vastly uncomfortable, Remus cast shifting eyes about for Dumbledore, trying to will the meeting to start before Moody ran away with his twisted imagination. And what great luck it was that Professor McGonagall finally arrived, instantly capturing the headmaster's attention. Remus fought the rabbit urge to run.
"I couldn't decide if you were dry," Moody continued, "or one to rub wands."
Remus really did choke this time. "And you mix your metaphors," he said, unable to help himself.
"But you repress everything, don't you, lover boy?"
"Alright!" Remus said hoarsely. Jesus Christ. "Alright, I get it. Don't call you soft."
"You're goddamned right I'm not," Moody growled. "Soft." He snorted in derision, and his magic eye rolled sickeningly. "You're lucky I like you, Laddie, or you'd be spewing something foul."
Remus cleared his throat, but the discomfort remained. "I think I'd rather the hex next time, Alastor. Food for thought."
Moody chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, but his mirth tapered off into a gravelly cough as Dumbledore (finally) called for order. A hush fell upon them all, drowning conversation in silence. Within a minute each member had seated him- or herself at the round table, the screech of chairs pulled back muffled by rich rugs underfoot. Even Snape, who had been brooding in his corner like a pissed off shadow, broke away from the wall to join them.
"There is much to discuss," Dumbledore said quietly, still standing. Silence rang between his words, an echo of understanding that faded to nothing. "With Lord's Voldemort's return now legitimized by the Ministry of Magic, our enemy has the freedom to act in ways previously unavailable. For those not old enough to remember, I would like you to review our case files on the First War; humans are creatures of habit, and I've no doubt similar patterns will arise. Already news of disappearances have captured my interest—few, I'll admit, but the sooner we catch on to their game, the better prepared we will be when they make their move. And from what I've heard," Dumbledore added, gesturing lightly to Kingsley and Tonks, "the Ministry will be of limited help."
"And why is zat?" asked the attractive blonde in passionate outrage. A caret formed between her pale eyebrows.
"Fixing Fudge's mistakes and scanning government personnel, for one, is a long process, Fleur." Old, serene hands folded atop one another, movements slow and patient. "But it is rather unfortunate that the new minister refuses to prioritize missing witches and wizards; at the moment, I fear Scrimgeour's rather busy fielding the press, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Rome was not built in a day, as they say, and it's only been a few weeks since his inauguration."
The caret deepened, thoughtful, but Fleur held her silence. Remus was wondering what stakes a French woman had in a British war when Dumbledore continued, "Which is why I decided that we would recover the missing ourselves."
"Sticking it to the man," said one Weasley twin, nodding almost to himself. "I like it."
"It's like our last year at Hogwarts, George." The other sighed with the nostalgia of an old man.
"It better not be," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly very stern.
Before the twins had a chance to continue, the eldest Weasley child raised his voice: "Who's missing, Dumbledore?"
The headmaster didn't waste time, perhaps also fearing the two-man act that was the Weasley twins. "Quiel Vance, brother of our late Emmeline, gone from his London apartment earlier this month. Reginald Cattermole and his wife have also disappeared, although thankfully their three small children remain, and have been relocated accordingly. Florean Fortescue has yet to be recovered from his destroyed shop. And Garrick Ollivander."
The last had been a shock to many of the Order—it was a bold move on Voldemort's part to abduct such a well-known name—and noises of dismay made their run about the table, a broken record skipping and running the same lines of thought continuously. Other than the unpredicted and simultaneous "I guess this means no more free ice cream" from the Weasley twins, words of disbelief continued strong.
Hestia Jones, ever the voice of reason, asked, "Why would You-Know-Who go after a wandmaker? Or an ice cream vendor, for that matter?" Her voice, husky and authoritative, carried above the others and settled their interest, snuffing their comments as a cap upon a candle flame.
"I cannot say for certain," Dumbledore said cautiously. "But I have a general idea."
Moody growled, bashing his staff against the edge of the table. "Spit it out, Dumbledore. We haven't got all day."
Despite a noise of discontent from Elphias Dodge, Dumbledore's beard twitched once before speaking: "The Ollivander family deals its heirlooms in secrets of the trade. I imagine that Voldemort, who has desired all his life to be different, does not care to possess the brother wand to our young Mr. Potter. They share the same wand core—a feather from the same phoenix—which produces a rather unique effect of Priori Incantatem whenever they duel. It was what saved Harry's life during the Triwizard Tournament, and will continue to do so."
"Why not just get a new wand, then?" Arthur ventured, homely face belying the intelligence behind round glasses. "Why go through the trouble of kidnapping?"
Hesitation paused the headmaster's expression, only briefly. "I feel he desires not a common conduit, but knowledge. He desires something more . . . volatile," Dumbledore said at last, oddly reluctant. "As for Florean, he's well versed in History of Magic—very well versed. His O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores were beyond Outstanding. However, Florean Fortescue specializes in myth and legend, and I find it very likely that Voldemort searches for old relics, for powerful magical objects that have been lost for centuries—some of you know this already," Dumbledore murmured, "but it bears repeating: Voldemort will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants, and there is a great chance that each person kidnapped factors into his ultimate scheme to reign over all."
They were on the ocean floor again, silence rolling over them in heavy waves as Dumbledore's words sank in. When the meeting continued, determination lined each and every one of their faces—even that of the Weasley twins—and Remus suddenly knew, with both a great disquiet and great pride, that Voldemort would have to kill every single person in that Room if he wanted to achieve such a goal.
Dusk was drawing its dreary duvet when Mrs. Figg finally allowed Harry to leave. In the quickly darkening gradient of the late afternoon sky, Little Whinging grew fuzzy and grey, vibrant summer dulled with the pending rise of the moon. Shadows crept from the recesses of each house, stretching eager fingers into the night as if to grasp Harry by the collar and pull him in. Harry took a deep breath, hands in the pockets of his oversized jeans. Although the night was far from cool, numbness spread throughout Harry, filtering through emotion and thought that threatened to crush him completely. Though Privet Drive was only a five minute walk, it seemed lengthened as Harry recited Dumbledore's words:
Dear Harry,
Due to the inaccessible nature of your godfather's will and estate, it is prudent that you remain at Number Four Privet Drive until mid-morning on the First of September, at which time an Order member will escort you to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Unfortunately, the recent climate of the wizarding world will not permit a trip to Diagon Alley to collect supplies for the start of term. Kindly send your class list, as well as any other items you may require, in your next update to the Order, and your supplies will be purchased accordingly. If I'm not mistaken, your testing results should be sent within the week.
I do wish you the best of summer days,
Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore
Harry hadn't understood the first time he read the letter. Or the second. Or the fifth. Disbelief had overwhelmed him in that moment, and he needed Mrs. Figg to take pity on him and explain: Grimmauld Place had closed itself off to everyone, even Dumbledore, its Secret Keeper. Kreacher, who knew Order members and secrets, could not be called. Sirius' will could not be read, having sealed itself even to the goblins who held it.
There was no longer a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.
Apparently Dumbledore had feared something of this nature, and believed the solution to have been in Sirius' will, but none could gain access to its contents. Not even Sirius' favorite cousin Andromeda Tonks, the lesser of three evils. Bellatrix Lestrange, as the eldest Black sister, would have been the first with rights to claim the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, had her seniority conquered her gender in the old Black family tradition of primogeniture. Small mercies, Mrs. Figg had said, that the Blacks were old-fashioned, misogynist bigots.
Still, as Sirius had no sons of his own, Grimmauld Place was more likely to fall into the hands of the next male heir in the Black line: Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa Malfoy and the youngest of Sirius' cousins. That alone made Harry nauseas with rage and disgust. However, according to Mrs. Figg, the Order believed Death Eaters had not gained access to the house, either. It was as though it had died with the last of the Blacks.
This meant that Harry had to stay with the Dursleys; the Dursleys who starved him, the Dursleys who hated him, the Dursleys who'd leave him on another doorstep if they had the choice. Harry's teeth gritted against the wrath that threatened to coil through the grate of his mouth. He was forced to the very prison his mother's love kept him safe.
Harry had left Mrs. Figg's house soon after, his tea cup cold with neglect and scones untouched. Despite his earlier hunger, he couldn't bring himself to eat. He hadn't spent a whole summer with the Dursleys since before his first year.
His left hand clenched around a well-read letter, forming a cage with his fingers.
. . . it is prudent you remain at Number Four Privet Drive until mid-morning on the First of September . . .
. . . inaccessible nature of your godfather . . .
. . . will not permit a trip to Diagon Alley . . .
. . . I do wish you the best of summer days . . .
I'll tell you what you can do with your summer days, Harry thought savagely, kicking at a loose rock on the sidewalk. It skid recklessly into grass inky with the last dregs of sunlight. September was so fucking far away.
A brittle crack like breaking bones ricocheted in the dying day. Harry turned immediately to the source, wand in hand, spell pressing against his lips. Night trembled before his vision, shifting with every pulse of his heart. Yellow circles from streetlamps became fuzzy as they reached for the dark, barely touching upon empty sidewalks and parked cars. He was alone. And yet, something moved in the shadows. Anticipation cinched his muscles into stillness, his knuckles creaking around slender holly—
—And almost immediately Harry lowered his wand, the tip now aimed for the curb. It was a stag. Just a stag. Harry blinked at the animal, fear and awe stilling his feet. Apart from the occasional owl, wildlife was a rare treat in Little Whinging.
Panic slowly released its icy hold on Harry's lungs, and he took in a breath of summer. It warmed him, and he lowered his wand completely, chuckling as he returned it to his back pocket. Just a stag. Harry recognized the wariness in its stature as the same within Harry himself, but he didn't want to give up this moment quite yet. It was a magnificent creature: white chested amongst sleek dark fur; powerful, willowy legs, poised in preparation for flight; antlers like tree branches curving upwards and out, circling in as though to crown its glorious head; dark eyes wide enough Harry could see slivers of white, even from across the street.
The moment broke. The animal blinked and dashed in the opposite direction, prancing over a low hedge and continuing to flee in a diagonal zig-zag. The white underside of its tail flicked once, and was lost to the evening.
Harry shook his head and continued his trek to number four. He hoped Mr. Genus the Important Private Investor would have gone by now, but, as it was only seven at night, Harry highly doubted it. Dumbledore wanted him to stay at Privet Drive for the rest of the summer. Lupin was wary of Harry leaving the house. Harry suspected neither would be particularly pleased he was outside, alone in the dropping dark, but he knew for a fact his aunt and uncle would not appreciate him coming in while they were still engaging a guest. Harry's reentry, then, depended on whether they were boasting about in the kitchen, the living room, or the backyard. As he walked, Harry entertained false feats of escalating ridiculousness worthy of a James Bond film.
By the time Harry neared the walkway of number four, dusk was merely a sliver of roses bleeding into a darkening hue, the darkest point a spillage of black above Harry's head. The roofs of identical houses blocked the rosy sliver once Harry crept to a corner of the house near the flowering agapanthus, crouching low enough so he wouldn't be seen by people either inside or outside the house. Porch light bled onto the front lawn of number four, staining darkness with an imitation of its vivid daytime contrast. Light permeated through lace curtains, and Harry was treated to a blend of moving colors. They were in the living room, then.
Keeping low, legs burning from his continued crouch, Harry crept towards the back door, allowing the porch light to slip off as he embraced the shadows of the house. Aspiring night, warm and clean with the scent of freshly clipped grass, filtered to his lungs. Harry paused at the slant of white through the glass window of the back door, heart in his throat, and exhaled a breath when he realized the kitchen was empty.
Quietly, oh so slowly Harry pulled the sliding door open, careful to keep the heavy rollers hushed, slipped through to the kitchen, and pulled the back door closed behind him. His reflection, tousle-haired and tired, bleached out the nighttime garden in the glass.
"You mentioned you had a son," a deep, unfamiliar voice rumbled from outside the kitchen, muffled by wood and distance as it pressed through thin walls. This must be the investor.
"Yes. Dudley," Uncle Vernon boasted. The couch groaned, leather creaking as Harry's uncle moved. Harry winced in sympathy and stole to the hallway. Under the electrical light the cupboard's locks gleamed ominously. "He's the strapping lad in the photo behind you."
"Boxing champion at Smeltings," Aunt Petunia interjected, shrill in her nerves.
Harry's fingers tensed against wallpaper, palming blank spaces between happy photos, and he toed his way to the staircase.
"Lovely," the investor said smoothly, neither sarcastic nor interested. "Do you have any other children?"
"No." Harry's aunt and uncle's answer was sudden, loud, and together. Harry grimaced and swung himself onto the staircase, using the nevel cap as an anchor. It was a hideous thing—a polished ball the size of a quaffle—but it served its purpose: Harry landed agilely and without sound. Each sequential stride was quick with practice, avoiding every creak and groove in seventeen steps.
"Pity," the investor said. There was a little tick of metal, a creak of leather, and a firm hush. "I have two boys, myself . . ."
Harry allowed himself to breath once he reached the second landing. Light struggled through the cracks outlining Dudley's closed door, but there was hardly a sound from his cousin's room at all. Harry entered his own, feeling a little disjointed, and nearly tripped over a beaten trunk as he closed the door quietly behind him.
Breath crystallized in his lungs. Upon the top in curling letters was the name 'Lily M. Evans.'
.
.
.
Updated: October 2016
Thanks to BrilliantLady, who suggested clarifications, and Guest, who wanted a more canon Harry. He won't be perfect, since there are developments that require him to be a bit OOC, but hopefully this one's more acceptable :)