Chapter 3

Harry didn't know for how long he stood staring at his mother's trunk. Time froze, breathless with the same blank anticipation as the peak before a fall, everything that made him Harry smoothed into nonbeing before he remembered himself and inhaled. His lungs ached. Stretched as air crawled with indelicate urgency down strained pipes. Skinny thighs protested as he lowered into a crouch, perched on the ball of each foot as though atop a crumbling precipice. Something trembled within him as he reached out to trace the space above each letter. Lily M. Evans. He wondered what the 'M' stood for.

It was a beautifully crafted trunk. Thick strips of wood brushed with autumn and faded with time embraced a body engraved with full blooms. Interlocking stems curled around and behind each petal, sweeping along his mother's name with a careless effort that bespoke the artistry of its maker. Golden locks spotted with neglect winked at him. Where had this come from? What had he done to deserve such a treat? Before he submitted to a greater fear Harry placed his hand upon the looping 'Lily,' the hollows of each letter pressing against his palm. His fingertips tingled. The greater fear coalesced as sweat in the tender lines splitting his palm. This was his mother's. Something she owned. Used. Touched. He'd never had something of his mother's before. Longing burrowed bluntly within him, striking dully as his fear shredded completely through the courage lingering just at the surface, uncovering the long forgotten hole of childhood daydreams best left in his cupboard.

Harry exhaled shakily. He knew very little about his mother; everyone seemed only to eulogize James. His greatness. His talent. Surely, his mother had been great and talented, as well. It was only last year he found out that before she was a Potter, she had been an Evans. And from what Harry had witnessed (Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean), his mum hated his dad.

An unfamiliar sorrow pricked at the corner of his eyes, but indescribable curiosity cleared his vision. He reached to flip the tarnished clasp, but he hesitated, and pulled back. Where had this come from? Before today, Harry hadn't even been aware of its existence. He doubted even Uncle Vernon knew—surely the man would have used its potential destruction to control Harry, to torment him, to 'keep him in line.' And it would have worked. Harry couldn't imagine his aunt, the thin, waspish thing she was, dragging the trunk up or down any amount of stairs. As for Dudley, precious Dinky Diddydums who had anything he could possibly want, he couldn't be bothered with any physical activity that didn't involve the express usage of his Smeltings refined boxing skills, couldn't be bothered with anything that didn't result in his direct gratification.

Harry's hand faltered on the letters, and he drew it back. This didn't seem right.

You're a walking target to multiple parties, Lupin had said, ringing clear as it had nearly a month ago. It spoke exhaustion and disquiet into Harry's ear: You must remain within the boundaries of your mother's protection.

It was then Harry didn't realize the extent of the blood wards. He'd never asked. He always assumed they encompassed the entirety of Little Whinging, but now, he wasn't so sure.

He licked his lips, despising the taste of dread. His aunt's comments about the yard earlier today were now making a terrible sort of sense.

The Potter men have quite the distinctive look.

"Someone's impersonating me." His whisper was a creak in the floorboards. The Dursleys wouldn't have noticed the difference. Hadn't noticed the difference. The imposter had, more or less, walked up to the front door, acted as Harry, and left something for him to find.

Aunt Petunia's shrill, nervous laughter poked holes in his concentration, and he stood, spooked. Had the imposter been biding his time, watching, waiting until Harry left the house to take his place? The Dursleys wouldn't have even known such a thing was possible. Would have let him do as he very well pleased, as they let Harry do as he very well pleased. The imposter would have had every opportunity to leave something damning behind without anyone knowing the wiser, without Harry knowing the wiser. But Harry knew his relatives better than they knew him. They would have never given Harry this trunk.

Was this even his mother's trunk?

Harry kept his footsteps light as he edged carefully around the trunk, feeling very keenly his ignorance of the magical world, having been raised in isolation from it. In his curiosity he had forgotten the nature of hexes and curses. He'd fallen back on the instincts of a Muggle. Magic didn't exist here. Moody would have been so disappointed.

Now aware, paranoia drummed suspicious fingers on his collarbone, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Was this another Riddle's diary, tasked with trapping Harry inside? Did the imposter lurk about number four still, waiting until Harry was indisposed before collecting the trunk while the Dursleys slept safe in their beds?

Harry sat at the desk now, straddling the back of the chair, left arm pillowing his wand-wielding right, now pointed at the trunk. The trap. This was a novel situation, surrounded by Muggles as he cowered with an empty owl cage and a wand he couldn't use. The Order no longer dogged his every step, and for the first time he wished they stood outside his window once more. He didn't want to risk underage magic, but he knew he'd defend himself if he had to. Statue of Secrecy be damned. Despite Hermione's rather backward priorities, when death stalked one's every waking hour, expulsion would always be the best choice. Perhaps then, if Harry got himself expelled, the Order would tell him what the fuck was going on.

Harry's eyes itched, leaden with the sandman's inconveniently timed gift. He pressed the fingers of his free hand to his eyelid, rubbing fatigue away underneath his glasses. Only until Hedwig returned. He needed to stay awake until Hedwig returned. His wand arm drooped, elbow straining with a fresh ache of hyperextension, slender holly now targeting a quite forgotten pile of laundry in the corner of his room. He blinked, adjusted his posture. Just until Hedwig came. He needed to let Lupin know.

Bleary and muddled, his eyelids merely a buoy in the rushing tide of sleep, Harry realized rather belatedly he'd left the bedroom light on. The harsh beam highlighted the abundance of dust and neglect scouring every nook and cranny. Really, Harry thought as he crossed the room, he should do something about that. He'd pinched the switch between his finger and thumb when hinges groaned behind him, hollow in the lonely silence of Dudley's second bedroom. Harry turned, wand hand thrown to the still the potential threat with one of his own, and nearly relieved himself in terror when he found it empty. He was helpless to watch, heart prodding insistently at his throat, as the trunk opened to a chasm of shadows, darkness spilling into the light of the room. His vision shifted, flickering as though his eyelids blinked from the side. Bony fingers latched onto the trunk's lip. From the pitch a man ascended, sandy hair ruffled, shadows slinking off broad shoulders and dissipating in silent puffs before touching upon the ground.

Harry staggered back, tripping over his feet. "No," he mumbled, words blank with incredulity as horror tore them from his tongue. They dashed to pieces on the floor. "No, not you—I saw—I—you can't be here, you're dead—"

A grin fractured the gaunt face of Bartimus Crouch Junior. "Not dead," he said, and a tongue stole from his mouth, wetting lips torn bloody by impatient fingers. "Just Kissed."

Harry's back hit the door. Shock pilfered coherency from his mind. "You literally can't be here! It's not possible! There's no way—"

Laughter crashed around Harry, and for a moment it was all he could hear. He screwed his eyes against the hysteria, lids bolted shut as though to escape such violation by pretending it didn't exist. Everything about this situation screamed impossible, but Barty Crouch screamed louder.

Abruptly, it stopped. Harry opened his eyes. Crouch had stepped from the trunk, no longer swirling in darkness but clad in tatty robes. "You did this," he said, face pointed with raw edges, tilting upwards in a mad parody of mirth. He held the Goblet of Fire with both hands. "You're the reason I'm like this."

"You deserved all you got," Harry spat. His knees trembled.

"All sons are loyal to their fathers," Crouch said. He spoke like Harry wasn't there. Tar still as glass filled the goblet, creeping up the sides with its taint before resting as Crouch unsettled its parallel plane. "And I am most loyal."

Harry didn't understand. "You killed your father!"

"I am most loyal," Crouch repeated. "Even in death. Now drink."

"What?"

"Drink the elixir. It's full of stones."

"What the—no!" Harry's fingers groped for the doorknob, but his grasp was too slick.

Pestilence streaked Crouch's unblinking eyes, pupils impossibly wide. "You must do your part, as I do mine. It is your turn to drink."

Harry's hand encircled the knob and twisted, but it broke off in his hand. He echoed the sharp despair within him.

"Drink so the dead can rise."

"No! Get away from me!"

Harry pushed against the man, and nearly vomited when flesh gave way to bone underneath piecemeal robes. The contents of the goblet, smooth as stone, was icy against his lips. He sewed his mouth against invasion, and the potion bubbled down his chin, teasing along his jawline before dribbling onto his shirt. Wandless, weakened, and physically smaller, Harry felt fourteen again, dazed and frightened before the Death Eater who had been his mentor, his ally, his friend, not understanding the betrayal even as it happened. Harry opened his eyes, and he was back at his desk, straddling the chair as he faced his mother's trunk, which sat innocuous and unopened in the middle of Dudley's second bedroom. Crouch was nowhere to be seen. His wand hand was empty. Worry embraced him briefly before he kicked out, and the wand rolled from under his toes, slowly rotating, stopped by a lone and rather mottled sock a few feet away. Moisture collected in the dip of his chin, and he swiped clumsily at it, bewildered as he stared at the translucent liquid wetting his palm. There was a damp spot on his shirt. Drool. Harry straightened the glasses on his nose and ran a hand through his hair. It was just a dream. The twittering of birds, muffled by a sheet of glass, sounded the morning's rise behind him. Sunlight warmed his clothed back, skin chilled from a night without his thin but serviceable duvet. His head pounded lightly, and faded into the minutes.

Just a dream, Harry repeated to himself, rubbing a crick in his neck. Soreness spread from the base of his spine to his nape. The terror of his dream leached from him in wakefulness, leaving him rather light and rueful as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders gave with a delightful crack. He hadn't dreamt of Barty Crouch in a long time.

His shirt was drenched in nightmares, and he peeled it from his shoulders before pulling a clean one over his head. Last night's news had left him jumpy and inconsolable. He desperately wanted his mother's trunk to be real. And maybe it was, Harry allowed, tapping his wand to his lips. Perhaps his aunt had been feeling generous—a rare occurrence, but not an unwelcome one. There had been similar moments in his past: a cherry lollipop at five, reluctantly given for a reason still unknown today; her scarf, warm with use, around his neck when he was eight and blue at the lips in winter; the slot of his cupboard door shifted open to allow some light when he was young enough to still fear the dark. Fondness, tainted with bitter memories, trickled down the length of his chest, and he almost didn't recognize it for what it was.

Stockholm syndrome, a sarcastic voice whispered, but the thought made him feel oddly ungrateful.

There was an aggravated series of raps on the door. Impatient. Sharp. Enough so that Harry's chin jolted in the direction of the door before he was aware, pushing himself to a stand from his leisurely position on the dresser, atop which he left his wand to roll. Aunt Petunia's voice preceded her body:

"Are you up, Boy?" She pushed wider the door, stopped by Harry's aspiring mountain of dirty clothes. Her blonde hair was pinned back severely today, which exacerbated the sharp contours of her long, horse-like face. A shockingly yellow dress wrapped around her thin figure, tapering off at knobby knees. Tea with friends later, he presumed.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said dutifully, momentarily stunned from any clever retort by the dress' color.

Aunt Petunia narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing?" she asked suspiciously. Her glance skittered from the closed trunk to her feet before meeting Harry's eyes once more. If she was surprised it was there, she didn't let show.

"Contemplating the meaning of life," Harry said dully.

Painted lips pursed. "Shut up, Boy. I came up here to offer you a deal to atone for yesterday's cheek—"

Outrage grasped onto Harry's neck, forcing hot flush upwards. "Cheek?" He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. When he now being punished as a preventative measure? That was harsh, even for Aunt Petunia. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't act like you don't know what you've done," she snapped. "And be grateful. I fixed up that horrid mess you made of the front yard—"

A chilled sweat slipped from his hairline to the hem of his jeans. "Seriously, Aunt Petunia, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'll believe that when your parents come back to life," Aunt Petunia scoffed. Harry's fists clenched of their own accord. "You're a filthy little liar, and always have been. I could have told Vernon, you know. He'd have that attitude of yours corrected real quick, so for now on, you're going to do your chores like you ought to."

Mistaking Harry's silence for compliance, Aunt Petunia nodded, bony shoulders straightening as she inclined her head. "And don't take advantage of the situation," she said. "I told you to keep or throw away whatever you liked, as long as I didn't see it again. So what is this?" She gestured in the general area of her sister's old school trunk without looking at it.

Unease spasmed along the ridges in his spine. "When did I do this?" he asked.

"Are you stupid, Boy?" Aunt Petunia's question wasn't one for Harry to answer. "Yesterday morning, of course. Tracked dust all through the house—you'll be redoing the attic, by the way."

"That wasn't me, Aunt Petunia," he said, mouth incredibly dry. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

"What? Of course it was!"

"No, it wasn't." Leaden fact breached the tense air between them. In the course of his mounting horror, Harry's sense of self-preservation faltered. Aunt Petunia needed to understand. "I was at the park all day, and then had tea at Mrs. Figg's until seven last night. I didn't do any of my chores. I didn't move that trunk."

Why did he torture himself with lies of acceptance? He'd known it hadn't been a fucking gift.

Monday, 21 July 1996

M

Wizarding Examinations Authority

Ministry of Magic, Educational Division

Griselda Marchbanks, Head Examiner

Ordinary Wizarding Level

Harry James Potter has achieved the following O.W.L.'s:

Astronomy: A

Care of Magical Creatures: E

Charms: E

Defense Against the Dark Arts: O*

Divination: P

Herbology: E

History of Magic: D

Potions: O

Transfiguration: E

*Scores within the top fifth percentile are eligible for Merlin's Apprentice Accolade, honors of the highest academic achievement to be acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic.

It was Harry's birthday in ten days, and Ron Weasley didn't have a fucking clue what to get him.

Ron sat irritably in the kitchen, a plate of breakfast protected within the cave of his elbows. In his haste to respond to Mum's call, Ron didn't bother to change out of his Chudley Cannon themed pajama pants, nor did he tease the pillow fight from his hair, and in result was subject to Mum's fingers through the rising flame atop his head in complaint. Normally he wouldn't have minded all that much, if not for the glaring fact that one of his best mates, Hermione Granger, sat directly across the table, giggling at him.

At least Fred and George no longer lived at home. That would have been a fucking nightmare.

Of course, Hermione was already 'bright-eyed and bushy tailed.' Literally. The witch was already reading—bleeding barmy, in Ron's opinion, studying on holiday—and she'd somehow tamed her hair into a twisty thingy that baffled Ron to how it was done (not that he cared enough to ask—girls were always doing something stupid with their hair, but he had to admit that it looked nice, sometimes). She'd already recovered from her near hysteria over her perfect O.W.L. scores (Not perfect, Ronald. I was hardly adequate), and as annoying as it had been to calm her down, it was also annoying she wouldn't stop reading for a bloody second. At least Harry would play chess or Quidditch or something.

Hermione, no doubt, got the poor sod a book. Upon countless occasions Ron tried talking his mad friend out of the crusade to over-educate the both of them, but she seemed determined that Harry, at least, would have his own bloody library by the time they left Hogwarts. Ron hated that mothering shit Hermione did sometimes—he got enough of that from his own mum, thanks very much—but, he supposed, Harry probably didn't mind. He was too nice sometimes. Still, Ron would be more considerate of Harry's interests. Something Quidditch related, he decided. Prescription goggles and practice snitches were expensive as shit, and it would likely force his parents to sell the Burrow to cover the costs of a new broom (not that Harry needed a new broom; he had a fucking Firebolt, something Ron doubted a swot like Malfoy would ever trick his jailbird dad into buying). Magazines were flashy, but not very useful (kinda like Lavendar Brown, now that he thought about it). Besides, mags were almost books. And Ron was not getting Harry a book.

Ginny sat next to Hermione, chin in left hand while the right gloomily picked apart a perfectly good slice of toast. Ron bit into his own, golden brown and faintly salty, chewing thoughtfully as butter seeped from the bread into his gums. As he devoured the rest in a few well-placed bites, he may have made sounds reminiscent of the family ghoul. Merlin, he loved food.

Both girls stared at Ron, noses wrinkled and grimaces uneven.

"What?" he asked them, then swallowed the greasy ball that had once been his toast. Had Pig shit all over his collar again?

"You gonna start licking the plate, soon?" Ginny asked, brown eyes glinting. "Because if you are, I might have to ask you both to get a room. It's a little too early for that, I think."

Ron scowled as Hermione laughed. "I'm hungry, alright?" he said, glaring at his plate. Yellow eggs, scrambled into a fluff of edible cloud, steamed beneath his nose, brooding above a semi-circle of pink ham, browned edges curling to itself in delight. He was allowed to enjoy his food. It wasn't like he was Goyle, thick enough to eat a random cupcake he found in the castle. It could have been poisoned or something.

"Alright," Ginny said innocently, returning to her own plate. "Just as long as you keep it PG."

Why did she only do this in front of his mates? At least Fred and George had the good sense to keep it within the family.

Ron licked his lips, and scooped hot eggs into his mouth, choosing to ignore his sister. She was putting him off track. Harry's birthday gift. Ron still didn't have a clue. Mum was currently working on a care package, an activity that stuffed the Burrow with mouth-watering smells of chocolate cake, bacon sandwiches, mince pies, treacle tart . . . it tortured Ron to insanity with the knowledge that his lips would never grace that little slice of heaven his mum had been slaving over like a house elf, great big smile and all. It probably tasted better, too. She always tried harder when it wasn't her own family.

But, Ron reckoned, it was for a good cause. Muggles were mad if they thought salad and fruit and breadless chicken were what a growing boy needs. Ron supposed he would hate going back to the Dursley's, too, if he were fed that tasteless shit three times a day.

Three knocks on the door, a short pause, followed by two more. Ron paused, forkful of egg half-way to his mouth. Hermione and Ginny stiffened across from him. Mum hesitated at the sink, cheeks usually rosy with love and warmth (and, occasionally, lack of breath from excessive shouting) now the color and consistency of curdled milk, sagging in worry. Even the family clock froze in place, every hand pointed to 'Mortal Peril.' But they were always in Mortal Peril. It had been so since he'd returned home after the end of fourth year.

Knock, knock, knock. Pause. Knock, knock.

Mum lifted her wooden spoon.

"C'mon, Molly, let me in!" Tonks groaned, and her familiar voice returned breath to them all. Ron's egg sloped from his fork to his lap; Hermione's shoulders slackened, and she carefully closed her book. Ginny grinned cheekily, gloomy attitude gone.

"It's been a long night, and I could do with a pick-me-up," Tonks continued brashly.

Mum pocketed her spoon and wrung her hands in a ragged blue cloth. She tossed it atop a counter, where it began to swipe away at a recent stain, and scuffed forward in caution to gather her wand on the way to the door.

"Coffee, I mean," Tonks clarified, cheerfully voice husky with fatigue. "But I wouldn't say no to something stronger."

"Could I have something stronger, too?" Ron sniggered, plopping the fallen egg into his mouth.

Mum scowled over her shoulder, and Ron shrank back, immediately regretting his words. "Not at my breakfast table," she said.

"What's that I smell? Eggs? Bacon? What, is that chocolate?" There was a snuffling at the door, as though Tonks had assumed a dog's snout and began inspecting the cracks with her nostrils. "Molly, you're killing me."

"How did we first meet?" Mum asked sternly, wand raised. Ron rolled his eyes and resumed his steady gorge of third helpings. As if Tonks could be impersonated.

Tonk's laugh soaked the wood with muffled charm. "It must have been after third year. I fell out your floo, crashed into your dinner table, made myself a plate, and excused myself to Charlie's room without introducing myself. And then spewed stew all over your walls when you nearly tore my ear off dragging me back downstairs. Can I come in, now? They don't feed us at the Ministry."

Ron snorted into his eggs, and nearly inhaled them. Ginny was no better. Hermione frowned a bit, but he couldn't imagine why; Tonks was a fucking riot.

Mum opened the door, revealing Tonk's wide grin and pink nose. She sported a chin-length bob today, electric blue fringe dipping into grey eyes, which crinkled into half-moons of mirth. "'Lo, Molly," she said cheerfully, slopping past Mum as she sniffed appreciatively at the air. "Smells lovely. I wish my Mum could cook half as well as you. I grew up on experimental dishes involving asparagus and jam. But you can't expect much from purebloods raised by house elves. Ooh, ham and eggs! Can I, Molly?"

Tonks' eyes became very round and shiny, impossibly so. It was actually kind of creepy and fucked up. And cute. But Ron would never admit that out loud.

Mum wasn't even deterred. "You're supposed to ask me a question, Tonks."

Rounds eyes shrunk to normal size as she laughed. "Don't need to—the other side would think we're on first name basis, and anyone who calls me Nymphadora's gonna get a blistering curse right up the—"

"Tonks, I dare you to finish that sentence," Mum said, expression hard.

"Don't do it," Ginny said wisely. Ron nodded in agreement. Only Fred and George were brave enough to take Mum's dares.

"Nasal cavity," Tonks finished, as though it were what she meant to say all along, and hid the plate she'd been piling high with eggs behind her back as if to shield it from Mum's Unforgivable glare. "Fine," she said. "What was Tonks' nickname for Molly Weasley to her friend Charlie?"

Mum's face regained color, and her lips thinned; a look Ron hadn't seen since she first found out Fred and George's aspirations after school.

"The Dictator," she said after a moment's hesitation.

Ginny looked positively gleeful.

"And not another word!" Mum warned, wielding her spoon threateningly.

"I didn't say anything," Ginny said, face blank and full of false innocence. If Ginny was the perfect angel his mum believed, Ron was Viktor Krum. He still had nightmares about the frog spawn she had placed in his bedsheets when he was eight or something; he woke up screaming, believing wholeheartedly he'd been eaten by a spider, then vomited back out. Mum had thought it was Fred and George, who had happily taken credit. But Ron knew better.

Tonks dropped down on the bench next to Ron, jolting him into dropping another forkful of egg. Impervious to his glare, she tucked herself in, cheeks bulging comically from her pixie face.

"Another night shift?" Hermione asked sympathetically.

Tonks nodded. "It's 'orrible an' uselesh," she said, mouth full, then swallowed, sighing pleasurably. Ron pointedly thought of ice cold rivers and empty pumpkin pasty wrappings. "Scrimgeour has us screening everyone at the Ministry—and I mean everyone. If I have to follow another middle-aged man to the post office, I'm going to hurl." Tonks grimaced. "Can't tell you much more, I'm afraid. But, I do have something for ya!" She reached into her Auror robes and waved a folded parchment in front of his nose.

"Letter from Harry," she explained, smiling.

Ron shifted in his seat and exchanged a look with Hermione, who had straightened as though in preparation to take notes.

"What does it say?" Hermione asked, reaching for the letter. Tonks gave it up easily, and Hermione perused its contents briefly. "Did you see him? Is he alright?"

"We haven't gotten a reply in weeks," Ron added.

"Really?" Tonks' smile fell slightly. "Well, we get letters every three days, but that's our condition for not stalking him this summer. Sounds a bit bored, the poor kid. I don't think he's too happy he can't leave Privet Drive this summer."

This was news to Ron. "What?"

Mum bustled around the table, plates clanging like fighting swords as she collected them in her arms. Her face became pointed as her disapproval collected at the end of her nose.

Tonks shrugged. "Order business. Sorry," she said, and though her expression was blank, there was something apologetic to the set of her black eyebrows. Mum's disapproval faded, and she returned to the kitchen counter, dumping the plates into the sink.

Ron gaped, outrage floundering helplessly about his lips as his ears warmed. "That's—that's so unfair! Harry's our friend—we have a right to know what's going on with him!"

Tonks' cheerfulness dissolved into something a bit more frightening. It didn't help the woman wore battle robes. "What Harry chooses not to tell you is no business of yours, and anything related to the Order of the Phoenix he knows better than to put in writing. Besides, I'm pretty sure he'll tell you everything on the train."

Tonks' silverware zoomed from the table to join the rest of the dirty dishes.

"They've heard enough, Tonks," Mum said.

Unfazed, Tonks picked at her breakfast with her fingers. "You know it's true, Molly; there's no use denying it. Those three and their schemes." Tonks winked at them. "But I was actually hoping you'd shop for Harry's supplies when you went to Diagon Alley. I would do it, but, knowing me, I'd forget even with the list."

Hermione's eyebrows met in a peak of crestfallen concern. "He can't even come to Diagon Alley with us?"

Sympathy stole Tonks' features, which had drooped like a bloodhound's. "Dumbledore thinks it's for the best."

Ron pushed at his plate, his stomach bubbling with an uncomfortable warmth that shot up his throat. He didn't feel even remotely hungry anymore.

"I know it's not fair to him," Tonks said kindly, as though reading Ron's mind. "But it's better this way. The most important thing is that he's safe. And soon enough, all four of you will be at Hogwarts, this rotten summer behind you."

Everyone fell into the waiting silence, broken only by Tonks' chewing and the wash of water on plates licked clean.

Monday, 22 July 1996

Lupin, he was here.

Sunday, 28 July 1996

Remus,

I don't know if you got my last letter, but it's really important that you come quickly. He left me an early birthday present, and it's so great that I wanted to show you. I understand that you're busy, but if you could make some time for me I'll be over the moon.

Wishing all the best,

Harry

9 August 1996

Remus,

Have you gotten the last letters? They didn't come back so I assume that you did. I still haven't opened that gift—I really want you to be there when I do.

Harry

15 August

Remus,

I really hope you're all right. Our other friends seem too busy, and they won't tell me where you are. But I have something you really need to see.

Best wishes,

Harry

30 August

What the hell, Lupin?

.

.

.

Updated: October 2016

Kundalini: (1) Snake; coiled one. (2) Unconscious, primal energy located at the base of the spine, which lies dormant until activated for the purpose of reaching spiritual enlightenment. (3) Awakening.