Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter apart copies of the book, I do not make any money out of this fiction.
Happy Halloween every one!
Thanks to all the reviewers: Sarah1281; Imperial Dragon; xXStrawberryxCyanideXx; EP; m0dToaD; uzumaki misaki; DarkRavie; mione the kneazle; Flightless Bird; outofcharacter.
Up to the story now.
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Wearing Masks
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Chapter 2: The Hag and the Gargoyle
...
Walburga moved her wand slightly calling for that infernal purple bus. She only had taken it once, and had swore to herself not to do it again. But circumstances would not allow her the leisure of hiring a carriage: She did not want to leave any trace behind her and the annoyingly bright bus was her only wizard option.
Gods forbade she would take one of those Automobiles which muggles seemed to prefer.
The estrange bus stopped right in front of her in a screech of its rubber covered wheels. Walburga sighed longing for the Pegasus drawn carriage which the muggle inspired monstrosity had replaced. The door of the bus opened in a loud blunt noise and a old man extended a helpful hand to Walburga. Walburga inclined her head, as she delicately, in her most lady like manner, accepted the offered hand and stepped inside the muggle contraception followed by her glamor-covered elf -who looked like a miniature version of old muggle household butler.
She ignored the man asking her to pay her fee and if she would like some tea during the trip, leaving those mundane chores to her elf: it would see to it or find its head next to its ancestors.
The decor inside was garnished, Walburga found out: ten strong crystal Elizabethan hanging precariously on dark red painted ceiling, clinging and tangling; gilded red Velvet covered love-seats standing on old run down bright red carpet. In all a very Gryffindor theme.
She sneered down at the seat, sure there were some fleas there awaiting to take accommodation on her.
"Pillow!" She snarled in Kreacher's direction.
And the elf ran down next to her pulling out a Slytherin green pillow and sitting it on the velvet love-seat.
After making sure that none of her clothes came into contact with the seat, she proceeded to get out the file she had had made by some of her informants. She had always made sure she knew of her sons' every conquests as to make sure that if a bastard should be born, she could take the appropriate actions. It would not do if a Bastard came one day at her doorstep to claim the title of Lord Black.
The list was long, as the traitor was quite the playboy -while her Regulus was a Gentleman who would have, of course, waited until his marriage. It seemed to her an endless list of Half-blood and Mud-blood whose name she, for the most, could not recognize.
She cursed looking for an acceptable name in the list at the appropriate time frame. Maybe she would be lucky and find someone of use in there. She could not afford any loophole in there.
'Persephone Norington'. She underlined the name with her glove cover index finger.
At last, a name worth of interest! She was Eileen Prince's twice removed cousin. A pure-blood cow made to breed, and cow she was: letting everything with a bit of pedigree mount her.
It had been a huge scandal when the first born of the Noringhton had been found dead in her bath, throat slitted. No-one in their circle had been duped: her sister, Hebe, had made no secret of her aversion to her sister and had no doubt offed her in order to marry the heiress fiancé.
She checked the time frame just in case: Persephone had had relation with the traitor for two months in the beginning of 1980, obviously the traitor's habit to sleep around would serve some good at last!
"'Her Majesty Custody & Child Protection Services, Guildford Surrey." The old man announced as the bus violently came to a stop.
Walburga glared angrily at her papers which had been throw all around her, her hand clinching fiercely the gilded arm of the Loveseat. She would have to burn the glove as soon as she was out of that wretched thing!
"Quickly!" She berated Kreacher as she gracefully stepped out of the bus.
As soon as she was out of the bus she took of her gloves and burned them with a muttered hex.
"Gloves." She snarled waiting for Kreacher to hand her a new pair of gloves.
"Right away Mistress." The creature said in a sickeningly sweet voice.
Now to secure her family future.
She took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. She was quite flustered when the door opened itself on its own.
Muggles!
They were so lazy that they could not even open a door now like civilized people! They had to have their ridiculous barbaric method to open doors in their stay.
And what were those people doing waiting in front of those double metallic doors like sheep?
The doors opened with a loud clang and the flock of muggles entered a cramped space, a few seconds later the door closed.
She shook her head in dismay. Their pathetic attempt at trying to over-come their social condition as inferior to the wizard, just made her sick.
Fortunately, Child services were on the first floor, she would not have to go any further inside the infernal structure. The sooner she signed the paper, the sooner she got the boy.
"Mrs Black." She announced at what she guessed was a secretary.
How unbecoming! Women should take care of bettering their family place in the society while their husband took care of the more monetary aspect, not idly sitting behind a desk scantily clad like some working-girl on Knockturn Alley.
"Mrs Black, I've an appointment at 9.00" Walburga informed coldly.
"Please, wait here." The blond working-girl answered chewing on some sort of pink quid.
Walburga wrinkled her nose in disgust as she watched the blond idly taking into some useless bizarre device, one more invention of those lazy muggle.
Could they not be a little civilized and used normal means to communicate? Owls or the floo?
"It's the first door on your right, Mrs Black." The blond informed her with a smile.
Walburga walked calmly down the hall watching as Kreacher hurriedly opened the afford mentioned door for her.
"Mrs Black? Please to meet you. I'm Sara Carington. I'm in charge of mister Potter case." A strict looking woman greeted Walburga.
Walburga looked at the woman appraising: She looked like one of those modern woman who put their career above their personal life.
She sneered only muggle and mud-blood could have this set of mind! Not any self respecting pure-blood woman would think of putting their career first.
This reminded her that she would have to begin negotiation for the young one's marriage. She would not do the same mistake she had done with her boys. She had tried to be 'modern' and lenient as her husband had asked -true to be told there had been very few worthy brides available at that time- and what good had it done to the family?
At twenty, none of them had been married! One died heir-less, and the other was in prison most unlikely to have any children of his own.
This one would continue the line of Black! She would made sure of it. She would find him a fine bride to marry as soon as he was of age.
How old was he already?
Five?
A bit late to begin the negotiation, but with the leverage of the Black Lord-ship, she would be sure to find an appropriate bride.
"You will have to sign those documents and we will go see young mister Potter." The woman interrupted Walburga's planning. "He is still in Hospital as we speak..."
Walburga tuned off the woman as she carefully read the contract she had to sign. Nothing much of interest here, something about the right of children, promising to provide him with clothes, food and education. Nothing too demanding, Walburga guessed that there was no harm to sign the contract. After all that was no more than a vulgar piece of paper.
'Muggles.' She snarled to herself.
...WM...
Harry looked up from his book The life and Death of Bellatricus Black The second as the light switched off by themselves. It had been disconcerting at first, that no matter how hard he tried, Harry could not find the switch for the light. It seemed that the light would just switch themselves on and off when needed. Seeing they switched off, it surely meant that it was time for sleep.
Harry put his book aside and dragged the cover up to his shoulders. He really hope that he would see Grand Mother tomorrow. It had been quite a long time in there and he longed for some human contact.
It had been a month -or maybe more, Harry could not be sure really- since he had come to live with Grand Mother.
The strange woman had come to take him from the hospital and had explained him that he would never again see those 'disgusting muddles'. He was going to stay with her now. He had to call her Grand Mother Walburga or Grand Mother but was not authorized any variation on the theme like granny, or grand mom 'only worth for filthy muddles'.
The trip to his new house had been very quick, so quick that Harry barely remembered it: one moment he was in the elevator in the hospital, Grand Mother gripping his hand tightly and the next, he was in a dark lobby in front of what looked like the staircase of a Victorian style house.
The hall decoration was based on theme of dark green and black and had that creepy feel like he just entered the den of some evil witch.
The woman led him through the maze of the house, endless staircase, halls and doors, portrait whose eyes seemed to follow him. He wanted to asked about it... but he knew better.
Harry had barely registered when she stopped in front of a bookcase tapping with a wooden stick some of the volumes resting there. Suddenly like for Batman's Grand-father clock, the bookcase moved aside -Harry would have swore it jumped in its hurry- to reveal a small narrow staircase. Grand Mother gripped his wrist tightly, quickly going down the stairs. Harry tried to count the steps but he only knew how to count up to twenty and there were a lot more than twenty steps there.
Harry had nearly stumbled on his feet as he finally stepped down the last steps of the narrow cricking staircase. He was now in a high ceiling hall leading to two doors. One small barely noticeable oak door and one grand silver lined double-door with heavy looking silver snake-designed rings as handles.
Harry had not had the time to wonder about what kind of grand room would be hidden behind the double door as he was dragged across the Hall to the small door.
It was a plain door with a small button handle, nothing grand or extraordinary, it looked ridiculously plain next to the carefully carved double doors, out of place even.
She had opened the door and pushed him inside:
"This will be your room." She had croaked. "Until I get ride of your bad blood."
Harry had wondered what she meant by 'bad blood'.
Was his blood dirty, or something?
Was it why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had not like him?
He could not understand how his blood could be bad? It was red like his cousin, was it not normal?
On the other hand, what he had understood was that he was once again grounded. But he was not adverse to the idea, he had been naughty and naughty boy needed to be punished, did they not?
Furthermore, the room had a bed and a desk and was full of books from the floor to the ceiling. Harry surely would not get bored.
"Kreacher will get you your meal three times a day. I expect you to eat everything in your plate, boy." Grand Mother had explained.
As she did, a pitiful looking dwarf-like creature appeared, it was no taller than the dwarf butler they had come in with, had big flap ears, a long pointy noise like Pinocchio when he lied, and big globular eyes.
"Mistress..." It said in the same voice he had heard the butler used.
He had blinked at the creature, maybe, Grand Mother was a hag and changed him into a moving gargoyle like in the Beauty and the Beast.
It surely had done something to displeased Grand Mother.
Harry had made a mental note to try to never garner a punishment from Grand Mother.
Harry had soon understood what Grand Mother wanted from him. She sent the gargoyle with loads and loads of food at each meal and Harry was pretty sure that the bizarre woman was like the hag in that Hassle and Gretel story. He had decided that if he was to end up in the oven, he would at least end up there with a full tummy! He did not have any Gretel to save him anyway.
He had read some book from the library, those he could actually reach. His favorite so far was The Guide of excellent wizard manners, he had made sure to memorize it from cover to cover.
He thought it was silly at first, because wizard did not exist! But it gave some sound advices like: not putting elbows on the table: that was the same kind of advice Aunt Petunia had given Dudley, so he guessed that there was no harm into reading it.
'A proper wizard do not show emotion in public, therefor a proper wizard shall not curse.' it read.
Harry had wondered what would be a curse word for wizard?
Maybe something involving Dragons? Or Merlin?
Harry had giggled picturing the man illustrating the cover cursing: 'Dragon dung! Where did I put that Merlin forsaken book?'
Harry let out a sigh at the remembrance of his penitence. Now he better got to sleep soon, before the gargoyle came or he would be up to ingest one of those fool tasting things the gargoyle said were called sleeping potion.
...WM...
It had taken an entire month of investigation. But she managed it.
Helen had begged and pleaded and promised and worked herself to exhaustion. She had to push her colleagues to help her and was now nicknamed 'the pug'.
But she did not care because she had made it.
The prosecutor had wanting to use the 'attempt of murder' charges as leverage to obtain a deal on lesser charges of 'gross negligence'. In all, he wanted an easy win to add to his record
He had argued that even with the Fire-inspector report classifying the fire as Arson, the lack of clear modus operandi would be too difficult for him to defend in court.
She had cried in outrage.
What kind of Justice would Harry have if his life was among so few in the eye of the court?
The Prosecutor -a young wolf in his thirties- had told her that if she was unsatisfied, she could always put a complain in the Family Proceeding Court.
And that she did!
The Family Proceeding Court had been quick to make its inquiries, seeing there was still a young party involved.
Not three weeks after she put in an official complain, the Dursley had been judged unfit of being any underage guardians and been stripped of their parental rights over their son Dudley who was sent to live with his Paternal grand parents in Bedford-shire. The Dursley had a visitation right of an hour a week under monitoring of the Social Services in a neutral setting. The visitation right would be revised in six months under the Social worker's recommendation.
Of course she had not been allowed inside the court during the trial, but the request she had made for Harry's file from the social services, gave her access to the judgment and the list of witnesses. And it had proven to be a well of information.
She had worked after hours for a week to compile all the information.
She had first dressed the portrait of a nice Jovial three persons strong family. The nice house filled with photos of the loving three members family. The four perfectly decorated bedrooms, one of which was filled with broken toys and savaged plushy.
Then she had added the disturbing bits about Harry.
The pictures of the cupboard under the stairs and the double bold on the broken door, the small dark places where were hidden small broken plastic toys, the drawing stick on the wooden wall hidden behind detergents, the well-used coot with an obvious dent in it proving that someone had slept on it for quite sometime.
Vernon's Colleagues astonishment at being told Vernon Dursley had a nephew who had lived at his house until recently:
"I knew he had a son. Who would not know! He is so proud of the little man! But he never talked about any nephew. Are you sure it's the same Vernon Dursley, we are talking about?"
The teacher Mrs Patton not so surprised reaction:
"Every now and again, he would show up with bruises or without his lunch box. Petunia always told us about how clumsy and forgetful the boy was. It always seemed quite strange to me, but she is such a good mother, you can't doubt that when you see her with her little Dudley."
She had then dig in their past, interrogating their friends:
"Vernon Dursley? He is one prompt to anger. Say a wrong word to him and you'll meet with his fists." The man's former boxing teacher had explained.
"Vernon? Petunia's parents never approve of him! Neither did her sister Lily. I think she married him out of spite to her parents. She had always been jealous of Lily for one reason or an other. And the fact that Lily married before her was a huge blow to her pride." Petunia's ex-roommate had reported.
Helen had been quite proud of herself, testing the files with her more seasoned colleagues: they had all been impressed and told her to go ahead. There was no way the prosecutor would not go into court for attempt of murder with a file like that.
'With that kind of things in the file, that stupid prosecutor will have his easy win!' Helen thought as she marched up the stairs of the Surrey Crown Court.
She would see the Dursley behind bars and justice render to little Harry. Even if she had to crawl in front of that idiotic prosecutor and do his job in his stead.
...WM...
Walburga gritted her teeth together.
Administration was, regardless of which world you were in, a nightmare.
What would you need to sign all those papers for?
And providing so many information about her holdings, her marital statue, it was like they were doubting her good name! Being interviewed like a vulgar criminal! They even had to interview the child.
Of course, Walburga would not have let them see the child. After all, had she not told the child that he would not be forced into contact with those horrible low life anymore?
She had to use potion and glamor on her house elf again to her great disgust and order it to use proper English.
She had to cane the dreadful thing a thousand times before it finally used the verb 'be' correctly as she made it review the answer she had prepared for that wretched interview.
After the interview with an overly sweet and condescending muggle who called himself Judge Bradley -what kind of Judge wore ridiculous fake hair and sweat like some kind of unrefined pig?
Walburga wondered if Muggles ever heard of the use of perspiring mitigation potion.
But what matter was that Walburga had been granted the sole guardianship over under-age Harry James Potter and the adoption was finalized.
Walburga had been informed that the file would be sealed until the child's eighteenth birthday, when, at the child's demand only, it could be consulted.
Nevertheless, she made sure that the adoption could not be trace back to her, signing the papers with a translation of her name in an old nearly-extinct German dialect. She had had half a mind to cast a few memory charms, but she had a feeling that the old coot of headmaster would get his ugly nose into the matter and the best course of action would be to not leave any magical traces.
Let The Great Chief Warlock look for his wonder boy in the muggle world! If he bothered to look at all.
Those formalities had taken three weeks. Three precious weeks, during which she had had barely the time to look for what she needed for the ritual.
It had been surprisingly easy to find a ritual with the help of a few of her ancestors: it was a Middle-Age old Black ritual -which had fallen out of used in the late seventeenth century-, it was just what she needed to make a proper wizard out of the child.
It had been a secret ritual kept in the family since its foundation. The Black had used it to get ride of unworthy squibs or integrate powerful but unfortunately dirty blooded wizards and witches in their family.
Some of the Black witches had been subjected to the ritual as to introduce new blood into the family without having to negotiate with other family.
The ritual was named after the family motto: 'Toujours Pur.' (1) and required only a few things really: a pint of the recipient family blood usually from the current head of the family -in a muggle case it would be the patriarch of the family-, one or preferably two pints of the unwanted blood preferably from different LIVING sources, a silver goblin made knife and a full moon.
Walburga had taken note that the next Full Moon would be on Monday the 28th, in two days. And she still missed a second sample. She had been able to track down the infuriating muggle aunt of the child and take her blood. But the god forsaken muggle of a cousin was nowhere to be found. She needed that cross reference to be sure to get ride of most of that tainting blood.
"Kreacher!" She yelled for her house-elf.
The monstrosity appeared in a soft pop.
"Yes mistress." It uttered in its usual sickeningly sweet adoring voice.
"Did you find that pig yet?" Walburga asked sizing her cane ready to strike at the inevitable failure of her elf.
"Kreacher did mistress, that he did! Kreacher find the filth. Kreacher go to take the filth blood tonight." Kreacher answered beaming.
"What are you standing here for then?" Walburga berated striking the pitiful beast with her cane. "Go already!"
"Yes Mistress." Kreacher answered before disappearing in a soft pop.
Walburga looked back down on the name book opened in front of her. That would definitely do:
Antarès Aymeric Black
The name sounded of majesty.
She could not wait to embroider the name on the tapestry.
Yes, her Antarès would bring glory back to the House of Black.
...WM...
Petunia could not honestly said she had never dreamed of fame and seeing her names on the headlines. But she had hoped it would have been over her exceptionally beautiful garden or her over-achieving son being the youngest ever PhD in Nuclear Physic.
But here it was not the case! Here she was not dubbed as the most wonderful loving normal mother in the world like she had dreamed.
No, those headlines had nothing flattering about them. Especially not the one of her favorite newspaper: The Daily Mail, who slandered her good name the worst.
She could barely watch the news barricaded in the small apartment her husband and she were renting outside of little Whinging to avoid the unwanted attention of those vultures.
When they had come back from Essex, a week after the fire, they had found the house perfectly restored thanks to those freaks.
At least, she had though, the little annoyance had been good for something. Not that it would have saved him from his rightful punishment.
Setting the house on fire, really.
The little bugger was a criminal in the making and severe punishment was in order in hope to curve that abnormality out of him.
It had been decided that they would get the Freak out of the hospital -whichever hospital he might be in- after the week-end.
"Let's enjoy a Freak-less house a bit more." Vernon had declared, and Petunia could not have agreed more with her husband.
They had not been back for an hour that a young woman had rung the door bell. The low tune echoing in the house had had Petunia jumped on her feet in fright.
The young woman at the door had been Helen Pritchard, Inspector at the Surrey Police Department -Petunia had wondered how such a charming looking woman could do such a manly work as policeman. Helen had been accompanied by a small nice-looking woman dressed in a professional looking black tailor like the one she had dreamed to wear when she was studying to become a secretary. That was before marrying Vernon, Vernon had been clear on that subject: 'No wife of mine will work.'
"Social Services." The woman had informed pushing her way inside. "I'm here to take Dudley Dursley with me."
Petunia had cried in outrage and tried to stop the woman from getting upstairs only to be manhandled by two uniforms.
Petunia had screamed and cried. They could not take her son away from her. They simply could not.
But no matter how much she had cried, with Vernon gone to the pub for his usual Sunday Dart game, there would be no-one to comfort her.
Her Duddinkin had been woken up and taken away and all she had been able to do was watched as Dudley was stuffed in a car, the social worker sitting herself next to him. And she had desperately cried for her son as she had watched the car speeding away from Private drive.
The inspector had remained, sneering at Petunia's perfect interior. Petunia had been sure it was all Jealousy on her part.
"There will be an hearing over the guardianship of your son on the 8th. Don't think you'll get away with what you've done." The woman had snarled at Petunia, looking down at her like she was some kind of worm.
And Petunia had been left crying in anguish for anyone to see from her opened front door.
The next few weeks had been a blur, between the callous interview of their friends and of Vernon's colleagues and subalterns, even of poor distressed Marge, and finding a barrister.
For their barrister, they choose a specialist from the well known B&G corporation who had certified that they would have no difficulty getting their son back.
"It's a formality." He had promised. "From what you're telling me, there is no way any judge would take your son away."
It was just before the audience, that the first Article came out: A little editorial on the last page of the local newspaper.
Petunia had been abashed at reading how the editor thought that she and her husband should have not been authorized to reproduce.
She had immediately taken her most beautiful paper to write an answer to that vile creature.
And she really should not have. The next day her answer was printing in part only on the front page with a title in bold letter: Arson Mom on trial for guardianship over her son (read more page 2)
The barrister had scolded her and had her promised to not speak to, write to, think of any journalist at all and had strongly advice her and Vernon to avoid reading papers.
When on the second day of the hearing, the subject of their nephew was brought up, their Barrister had informed them that he could not represent them anymore:
"I've an other case that demands my whole attention." He had said coldly as he put his papers back into his suitcase. "I will not be able to be at the hearing tomorrow. I'll, of course, send one of my highly commendable colleague."
Vernon had spat in outrage but nothing had changed. The enormous sum of money they had pay for the best of the barrister in the best firm earned them a freshly out-of-school barrister not even out of his nappies and who barely knew the case.
It took three excruciating days to come through all the witnesses, the barrister assigned to them as replacement, had been totally useless -as she had guessed. He did not fight much for them, always searching for the names in his notes and butchering their cherub Dudley name every time he tried to pronounce it.
The judges had made their decision on the 15th and Petunia had watched not really understanding what was happening as her custody over her baby was revoked and she was informed she could only see him one hour a week on week-ends while he would live at Vernon's parents -those horrible persons who had all but disapproved of their union.
Their barrister had looked at them:
"Bah, it's not like I could win with a case like that."
And had proceeded to gather his belonging.
At those words, Petunia had howled in distressed before breaking down, crying for her son.
The next day, Petunia and Vernon had been informed that the visit would be delayed for a week maybe two, the time for Dudley to get use to his new environment and for the social services to organize a place for them to see him.
A week had passed since then and Petunia had barely been able to close her eyes worried as she was about her Dudley-kins.
Maybe she should contact that freak Headmaster for help.
She had argued with Vernon over it as he was dead set against the idea. She knew she would not be able to convince him to contact the man, but she truly believed that it was their only chance. The man had to do something, after all she did take abnormal sister's spawn in.
Petunia took a piece of paper and began to write, leaving out the most useless details.
...WM...
Dumbledore was really annoyed. He was waiting for Petunia's monthly report on Harry for days now. He had not been able to replace dear Mrs Figg for snippet of news and photos of the boy he considered as his own grand-son.
Andromeda Tonks had informed him that she would not be able to took over Mrs Figg role as her neighbor daughter had caught a bad cold -something called pneumonia if Dumbledore remembered right- and had asked Andromeda to keep an eye on their dog.
Dumbledore had thus settled for the monthly letter from Petunia. Every 15th of each month, Petunia would send him a exhaustive letter -two or three pages long- about Harry's little life.
In last month letter, Petunia had informed Dumbledore that young Harry had had his first days of class for his last year in kindergarten, he had already been taught how to count up to twenty! He also had taken a liking to gardening and would often been found in the garden watching flowers and playing with the dirt. Apparently, they were growing Beans in little plastic pots in their classroom.
Dumbledore had been most pleased by the news, he had been a little bit alarmed when Mrs Figg had worried of the numbers of hours young Harry had passed outside in the garden. But Petunia's letter had alleviate his fears.
He had stacked the letter with his favorites, the one he would read and re-read every-time he missed young Harry. It had became his second favorite just after the one from August in which Petunia had informed that, for his birthday, Harry had learned how to swim with the help of his loving cousin Dudley.
Of course, the news of Harry taking swimming lesson had been old news to the old man, thanks to Mrs Figg.
Dumbledore had come to look forward to those letters, like he look forward to suck on his favorite sour Lemon treat. And the fact that this month letter was late, did not sit well with him.
He would have loved to be able to go down to Private Drive himself and check on Harry's good health but Dumbledore was a busy man -contrarily to the imagine he tried so hard to show to his peers.
Between his duty as a headmaster of the most renowned magical school in the United Kingdom -just for this month, he had received a dozen of complains about the new DADA teacher mostly from Slytherin backed up by his potion master and adding to that Minerva pressing the matter about the organization and the decoration for Halloween Ball-, dealing with the ever incompetent Minister of Magic who apparently could not fulfill his duty without asking for Dumbledore's council at every step -sometimes Dumbledore wished that the voting Wizards and Witches would elect someone with, at least, half a brain of their own-, and his duties as Chief Warlock of the Winzengamot -a petition of seventy strong lesser pure-blood family demanded that the wealth, properties and titles of known Death-Eaters were redistributed to more deserving families aka them-, Dumbledore had barely the time to even have a small cup of tea with biscuits.
But if a letter did not come by tomorrow morning, he swore to himself, to hell his duties, he would marched down Private Drive and see for himself!
He opened the special drawer that he had charmed to get the letters from Petunia. He had taken what muggle called a 'rest post' in London, charmed the little box the muggle man had told him would be his to send the letters directly into an equally charmed drawer in his desk and given the address to Petunia as she had adamantly refused to use owls.
He had found it quite interesting how people would send letter to arrive in little boxes or passed through slim rectangular hole in doors. What a bizarre way to exchange missive!
And how did they do with packages? They passed them through the hole too? But muggle did not have reduction charms.
Dumbledore watched longingly at the stubbornly empty drawer.
Still no letter.
He heaved a sigh and went down to choosing the Halloween Ball group. He had had the prefect and head boys and girls to make a list of three groups each they would want to hear at the Halloween ball and like each year he would contact the most popular among the choices to play at the ball.
This year it seems that it would be the Blaring Hillocks. He wondered what kind of music that group played.
He once again opened his Harry drawer, not really thinking there would be a letter but trying just in case.
And there it was! A plain white envelop, with the small neat handwriting of Petunia Dursley looping his name A. Dumbledore.
He let out a little cry of joy and immediately tore the letter opened -a bit disappointed to find only one sheet of paper there-:
'Petunia Evans Dursley,
Little Whinging,
Surrey,
Sunday the 27th of October 1985
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,'
So far it was the same as every letter Petunia had ever send him, then, he knew, it would go on asking him if he had had a pleasant month and going on and how so far everything was going marvelously well for Harry in his loving Muggle family.
Truth to be told, Dumbledore had had his own doubt about the Dursley Family even before Minerva brought the subject up that night. But now he knew, he was right to trust the family. There was no way the Dursley would have not got attached to cute little Harry. And Dumbledore theory had been proven right so far:
'Blood is thicker than Water.'
Dumbledore was sorely tempted to skip the niceties that always opened Petunia's letter and directly go to the Harry part. But, something felt wrong about the 'Dear headmaster Dumbledore': it was Petunia's hand writing for sure, but there was something of a rush in it not like the well planned letters he had received before.
He quickly read through the rest of the letter, a short letter nothing like what he had expected. It did not contain a word about Harry's well-being, but something of urgency. Something about needing his help.
'After that unfortunate event in the end of September, my Husband and I had found ourselves the victims of something akin to a Vendetta conducted by some power-hungry corrupted police officer. They swore to destroy our family and decided to slain our proper name in the mud.
It's a plea for help that I'm now sending to you. I would not have asked anything from you, Headmaster, if the situation we found ourselves in was not desperate.
As a matter of fact, that culprit of a police-officer already cost us the custody of our dear son Dudley. And my broken heart cannot suffer to be separated from my child any longer.
I had in good word that you have the ears of the powerful both in your world and in mine. I know I may sound arrogant to your ears, but this is the desperate plea of a mother who loves her son.
I humbly request for your help.
We are currently staying at a small hotel in the outskirt of Little Whinging called the three pheasants, in the room number 4.
In hope to hear from you soon,
Yours sincerely,
P.E.D.'
Dumbledore paled as he read and re-read the letter.
What worried him the most about this letter, was that there were no news of Harry.
If Dudley had been taken away, did it mean that Harry was gone too?
But there were no reason for such a thing to happened to a loving family like the Dursley. Especially over an accidental fire in an empty house. But then again this was the Muggle world where one could be fined for something as ridiculous as blowing their nose too loudly, he had heard.
Dumbledore shook his head there was no time to waste in conjecture, he had to find Harry and he had to find him now.
He quickly through some powder in the chimney, immediately the flames stilled and turned an eery shade of green:
"Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration classroom 3, Hogward." He shouted before putting his head inside the fire.
"Minerva," He called, catching the attention of the entire first year Ravenclaw class.
He waited until the strict looking lady came, kneeling in front of the hearth hiding him from the pupils' view.
"I have received very distressing news from Surrey." He whispered softly.
He could see in his ex-pupil's eyes that she wanted to know about young Harry. But he also knew she would not utter any of her questions until a such a time Dumbledore could actually answer them.
"I'll be away for the next few days, I'm entrusted the school to you." Dumbledore explained.
And with that he shut the connection down.
Dumbledore hurriedly walked into his room adjacent to his office. He quickly threw on his most muggle-ish clothes: a Pansy purple shirt, a electric blue sleeveless jacket, a Bourbon red trousers complement with Pansy purple high socks and Bourbon red shoes. He quickly spelled the colors two shades darker and put an illusion over his hair and beard to make them appeared shorter and hide them under a Dark purple trilby.
No need to draw attention, what if all this was a plot from rogue Death-eaters?
It was highly unlikely, Dumbledore reasoned to himself. No Death Eater would go look into the muggle world for Harry!
Even less since they did not know about Lilly sacrifice -Dumbledore had made sure of that– and thus about the possibility to raise blood wards to protect Harry. There were no apparent reason for Harry to be raised in the muggle world and Dumbledore had made sure that the most incredible rumors about the boy's where-about were regularly on the front page of the tabloids gossiping witches love to read just to further the confusion.
But for the fire, he had asked for the Goblins to rebuilt the inside of the house to its exact previous state, maybe that had been his mistake, maybe that was what led the Death-Eaters to Harry.
But there was Severus! Severus had not reported any suspect activities from his old crowd. And if Severus was anything it was meticulous! That could not be death-eater foul play.
No matter what Dumbledore told himself, he could not stop the feeling of dread squeezing his heart to spread in a shudder of fear.
He quickly took a handful of powder from the little bottomless pot on his desk and threw it in the fire watching the flame stilled and then grew a flamboyant green color.
"Mrs Figg, Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging." Dumbledore cried before his frame was engulfed by twirling flames.
End of the Chapter
1 Toujours Pur: Always Pure.
Author Note: Of course, I've taken some liberties about the entire process of Walburga adopting Harry. I won't bother trying to describe each steps of it.
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