Walking the One-Way Street
Chapter 1: to lose track of the savior
In his stupor all Harry could do was to stare at the bit of yellow light before him. Memories kept rushing back to him; memories of lying in never-ending darkness, staring at a low ceiling he yet could not see, feeling a distinct tickling on numerous parts of his body that he imagined could very well be one of the spiders he shared this place with. The familiar claustrophobic chill made him faintly sick to his stomach. There had been worse, he reminded himself weakly, trying to gather his wits. Much worse.
He couldn't help but wonder how far exactly Nagini had taken them back in time. His uncle and aunt had only used to lock him up before he had come to Hogwarts. And him being here now could only mean... with a sinking feeling he touched his aching arm. It could only mean...
"What... I..." The sound caught in his throat and he gasped involuntarily at his own voice. Not only had he not been able to speak at all since Voldemort had trapped him inside his animagus body, but also... even though it had been a mere whisper, it had sounded too young. A child's voice. It only confirmed the suspicion creeping up in his mind. This spell had not worked like a time-turner. He was Harry, not the bystander he had thought and feared to end up as.
He was Harry...
… and he could very well be 5 years old. He touched his hair and face, trying to subdue the panic throbbing in his chest. In the darkness of the cupboard there was no way to tell how old he was. He felt his cheekbones under his searching fingers, his jaw, his skull, the all-too-familiar scar on his forehead. He couldn't tell.
He drew his legs up against his body, curling into a tight ball, and continued staring at the light before him, hands still combing through the hair at his neck. His brain still told him on some basic level that he was a mouse, giving him compulsive impulses his human body couldn't comprehend and translate. He wanted to move his ears and his breathing seemed much too shallow, his heartbeat too faint, his senses too dull. As if someone had decided to stuff a pillow over his ears and put frosted glass before his inner eye. So blind and deaf. A mouse never felt blind in a dark room. Yet here he was, feeling claustrophobic and dwelling in memories of a fear long past.
He snorted at the thought. It wasn't as if he was forced to stay here and endure everything again. He was an adult now, 25 years old despite being in a child's body. All he had to do now was to get up, open that door and walk away from here. The sooner, the better.
And then? If he was out there, where could he go?
He just realized that he had no idea. He needed a plan.
Abandoning his staring, he got up as far as the low ceiling allowed him and slid close to the door, leaning against it. His right hand searched for the doorknob, clutching it tentatively. It felt cool beneath his fingers. Being able to do so much as using his hands again – human hands – almost made him tear up right there and then. Loosing the heightened senses of his animagus side, but winning back something equally strong. He doubted many people realized how powerful such elaborate appendixes were. To be able to hold and touch, such detailed messages being transmitted from oh so many receptors. The complexion was overwhelming. It was the first time since waking up that something about this body felt truly right.
He sighed and leaned his head against the wooden door, listening inside of him for that trace of magic that had grown faint and fainter the longer he had stayed in that cage beside Voldemort's throne. It was there, and stronger than he had expected, somehow wild and uncontrolled – the subdued magic of a child who had never learned to make use of it or even realized it was there in the first place.
He pulled a bit of it out of the depths of his magical core, brow furrowing with concentration as it pooled inside his right hand where a wand had used to channel it. Trying to shape it to his will without the helpful work of the magical tool; it took a lot of effort.
But finally, after what felt like hours, he was awarded with a soft click as he had managed to push the magic into the lock. The door gave way beneath his weight and he slowly crept into the corridor, swaying lightly from exhaustion. Everything was deafeningly silent. Harry took a brief moment to clear his head, then looked left and right, only just now remembering his old home. It was weird being here after so many years, yet this Harry had not even been away.
He silently moved to the front door, small feet padding the floor. He frowned at his bare toes for a moment, then shrugged and grabbed a pair of Dudley's trainers. He slipped them on and retied the laces so that they could not fall off. He knew that he wouldn't have dared to do something like that back then. And maybe he just would not have wanted to steal something, not even from Dudley. His frown deepened into a scowl.
He couldn't even shake that shame off now, could he? Pathetic, he thought, but he needed shoes and Dudley had what? Ten other pairs? He was quite sure if he cared to search the cupboard he would somewhere find a tattered pair of shoes, but the risk of being pushed back into Prison Under the Stairs by his so-called family was too imminent. He wasn't sure if he could manage to unlock it again.
He opened the front door timidly, deliberately avoiding to look at his mirror image in the glass for the fear of not recognizing himself, then slipped through and closed it in his back. It was broad daylight outside, a bright summer sun happily shining away overhead. He flashed a glance at his tattered clothes. His arm still hurt. Maybe he had gotten into another row with his cousin, he mused. Or, to be more precise, his cousin might rather have gotten into a row with him, of course without asking for his consent. He distinctly felt like looking more ragged than usual. It would not be easy to travel to London like this.
He trotted down the front garden quickly and onto the sidewalk, intending on at least leaving this place behind before deciding what the best course of action would now be.
While walking down the street, Harry never noticed the robed figure glancing at him inquiringly from the other side of the road, then looking away as if dismissing him, continuing in a stride to the front door of the Dursley residence.
-.-.-.-.-.-
The Wizarding World had always had a way of getting messages across great distances in no time without the use of muggle technology. So it was only a matter of moments for an office clerk working somewhere in the depths of the ministry to notice that something was off with Harry Potter.
A few hurried floo calls later had Albus Dumbledore pacing in his office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry nervously.
"How could this have happened?", he asked the room in general, voice numb.
"I'm sure Severus will soon be back with an explanation, Albus." Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, hid her own nervousness well. "Maybe it's only temporary."
"The wards don't just collapse temporarily, Minerva.", the headmaster murmured. "The only thing that could possibly make them collapse is the boy himself. As long as he feels at home..."
"I know.", McGonagall interrupted, looking slightly peeved. Silence once again overtook the room, only disrupted by the footsteps of Dumbledore. There was nothing they could do now but wait. He refused himself to speculate. Only Snape could clear up the situation.
Seconds stretched to minutes, minutes to an hour. When finally Hogwart's Potion Master stepped into the office, two pairs of eyes fixed on him instantly.
"Severus." Dumbledore greeted gravely.
"Albus. Minerva." Severus Snape nodded at both, then a look of faint disgust made his upper lip quirk up. "Remind me to never volunteer to go to that muggle place ever again."
"What happened?", McGonagall asked, sounding strained. Snape looked as if he wanted to say something rude, but then he stopped himself, confusion settling on his features, taking an equal place beside the disdain.
"Did something happen to Harry?" Dumbledore had stopped pacing, eyes fixed on the Potion Master unwaveringly.
"Actually," Snape finally sighed and after a slight pause continued, stretching each word in contemplation. "I detected no sign of Harry Potter living at Number 4, Privet Drive."
-.-.-.-.-.-
Now he was officially screwed, Harry thought, looking at the trees and flowerbeds of the small park of Little Whinging from his spot on the bench. How was he ever supposed to get anywhere near London? Maybe his spontaneous plan of somehow getting in touch with the Wizarding World by traveling to Diagon Alley had been a bit far-fetched.
There was still Mrs. Figg. He considered going there for a moment, then shook his head. She would not believe him if he told her anything. He looked down on his small hands.
All this knowledge he had – how was he supposed to act? There were so many things he needed to do now, yet he was that little boy no one would listen to. He could go and try telling Dumbledore the truth, but the old man had always had a bit of a weird way to handle situations, always rather pulling strings in the background. Harry felt that, with all the experiences he had made in life, he himself had become a person to stand up and set things right. And maybe that had been Dumbledore's doing as well. So, even if the old wizard believed him – there were ways to find out if he lied after all – he was afraid what outcome his manipulations entailed.
Albus Dumbledore – despite his good heart and pure intentions – somehow was misguided in how to reduce his good will to practice. That he was magically and politically so strong didn't simplify the matter. He found he couldn't subject himself to victimize himself to the Greater Good like that again. And nobody would raise their voice against the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin – First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. Dumbledore was a Grand Sorcerer who had been offered the position of Minister of Magic more than once during his life. He was the wielder of the Greater Good.
He sighed. He suspected that even the Dursleys had been chosen for that exact reason. On the one hand to keep him well separated from the Wizarding World – away from influences of fame and malevolence; on the other hand to keep him humbled. Maybe Dumbledore really had not been aware how maltreated he had been at his relatives' hands. But Mrs. Figg had been there to notice, hadn't she?
Little Harry had not known. He clutched at the outsized shirt he wore. Little Harry had even been able to be cheerful, seeking out the little joys of life easily. Not knowing had somehow made everything easier.
No, he could not tell Dumbledore. And for that matter no other person at school or anywhere else, because the information would spread, as it always had. But that left him in an impossible situation. He needed a place to go, food and shelter. He wasn't about to go back to the Dursleys. The wards never had been of any use in his early life. Voldemort did not have any power, at least not right now. And he just knew how to prevent him from ever winning that power back. The Horcruxes were not to be destroyed easily, but he knew where to find them.
His fingers unclenched, releasing his shirt. It seemed like he still needed to go to London after all. He really needed his wand desperately.
He frowned at his fingers again, realizing another problem. How old was he now, anyway? He was like... nine or ten years old?
Following the spur of the moment, he stood up and sauntered to the exit of the park, down to the shopping street. It took him a few minutes that only heightened his initial sense of anxiousness, but finally he stopped at a newspaper kiosk, staring at the front page of the latest release.
18 of July 1991.
-.-.-.-.-.-
Little Whinging had become subject of close scrutiny by a particular part of the Wizarding World, especially Wisteria Walk. In a small house that smelled of cabbage and cats, the Squib Mrs. Arabella Doreen Figg lived.
Usually she tended to sit in a rocking chair by herself, indulging in in-depth talks with her supposed cats, which were indeed Kneazles, intelligent enough to perhaps even understand her. No one knew much about the abilities of these catlike magical creatures, apart from the fact that they were more aggressive than normal cats and could detect distrustful people. As it was, Mrs. Figg was very much adored by her Kneazles.
This afternoon was very different from normal afternoons, though. The appearance of the people currently sitting in the stuffed living room uneasily, cups of tea standing untouched on the small coffee table before them, would be enough to make the main part of the residents of Little Whinging pack their bags and leave.
Albus Dumbledore, seemingly the only person beside Mrs. Figg, looked like he felt content in the Muggle surroundings. Only a line of worry on his forehead betrayed that there was a grave problem causing this visit.
"Now that we all are seated, please tell me why the staff of Hogwarts decided to come and see an old lady." Mrs. Figg smiled, making a motioning gesture towards Snape, McGonagall and Hagrid, deliberately leaving out their shared past as members of the Order of the Phoenix.
"Arabella." Dumbledore shifted forward slightly, looking at the woman intently. "When did you last see Harry Potter?"
Mrs Figg tilted her head to the side in surprise. "Harry? I guess I had him around... sometime last week when the Dursleys decided on mollycoddling their horrible spawn by taking him to the new amusement park." She blinked once, looking shocked and for some reason angry. "Is something wrong with him? Did those people do something to him?"
Dumbledore looked faintly astounded, but nevertheless shook his head. "We don't know."
Mrs. Figg's anger subsided, leaving confusion. "How can you not know?"
"He is not there." McGonagall spoke up when the headmaster only looked on with a severe aura. "The wards have just disappeared and there is no trace left of them – or of Harry, for that matter. Severus went to the Dursleys immediately to inquire, but..." She cut herself off, looking at Snape helplessly, for once having lost her wit in face of the recent events.
"The Dursleys claimed that they don't know a boy named Harry Potter.", the potions professor conceded as it got clear that his colleague was unable to continue. While speaking he looked like having bitten into an exceedingly sour lemon. "Upon further investigation I indeed did not find a trace of that boy. The only bedrooms in that house belong to his relatives."
Snape glared at the wall, his angry eyes burning into the portrait of a famous Muggle musician unseeingly. Hagrid beside him sniffed audibly.
"That's quite impossible." Mrs. Figg all but whispered. "Where would he have been otherwise all the time?"
Confused silence settled on the room, observed by the Kneazles who sat on shelves and cushions all around the room, keeping a watchful eye on the guests that had invaded their territory.
Dumbledore looked grieved, McGonagall sad, Mrs. Figg perplexed and Snape furious for a reason only he himself could comprehend. It was the day the Wizarding World lost track of its precious Boy Who Lived.
End of Chapter 1.
Author's Note:
To answer the questions:
1) Yes, Nagini will definitely play a role in the future chapters. What role exactly... I won't tell. *whistle*
2) Harry as a mouse: in my opinion it fits his character perfectly. I only thought a VERY brief moment about making him some strong, rare, special and overly magical creature. But Harry is not like that, he is quite withdrawn and does not want to stand in the light of fame. So he will be rather like a little mousey. Can you, for example, imagine him being a cat? He so has no cat characteristics.
Beta edits by BeccaBaby will be added as soon as I have them.
Tell me what you think about the chapter! (and if there were any mayor errors :3)