"Time Bomb"
Summer before 6th Year / AU.
There was a certain trick to living with an unruly haired, bespectacled, sixteen-year-old magic time bomb. The Dursleys had pretty much nailed it over the summer. It involved avoiding eye contact, pretending they didn't know the boy existed, and letting him read that blasted owl-fetched newspaper wherever he damn well pleased. He had it spread over the dining table that morning, so the family acted like it was perfectly normal to eat breakfast in the living room.
There was also a certain trick to eating with a plate on one's thighs, and the mother and son of the family were far from masters. In Petunia's case, her narrow legs together were much thinner than her plate of fried eggs and grapefruit, an odd combination she had grown fond of during the last summer. The china tottered from side to side and threatened to fall either way, spilling grapefruit onto the sofa, if she moved.
The young master Dudley had a different problem than his mother. Though the life insurance company had rejoiced when the boy's weight dropped below fatal levels during the last year, he was having troubles adjusting to his new body image. For example, it used to be impossible for him to touch his knees together because of the result of thousands of jelly doughnuts being packed between his thighs. Oh, he might have managed it if he was truly motivated, but he would have left that experience singing a high soprano. Permanently. In any case, there was newfound space between his legs and he didn't know what to do with it. Most of the time, he forgot it was there. Out of habit, his legs spread wide to accommodate the phantom fat mass, and the plate kept falling through the gap onto the seat cushion below.
Vernon, the father and the only one who didn't seem much worried about his plate, went through his morning routine. He opened his pocket calendar, counted the days to September 1st, then triumphantly crossed out the day before with a pen blacker than night. The calendar was returned to his inner jacket pocket, and he found himself patting it affectionately as he continued with breakfast. 'Just a few more days,' he thought. His eyes darted towards the dining room, where a wiry young man stood, poised over the table in a way that seemed almost deadly. A hawk about to swoop down on its prey.
Shaking his head and not stopping, Vernon turned back to his bacon. His intent was to finish breakfast quickly and get to work. With all the time he was putting in, he was lined up properly for a promotion. He told himself he was doing long hours and weekends for the promotion. Of course he wasn't avoiding his own home. That was preposterous.
Meanwhile, Harry Potter had closed his eyes and now sagged into the unusual silence that had descended over the Dursley household that summer. He was grateful for it. The quiet had allowed him to think as the months rolled by. But now…now he didn't know what to think.
It was front page news—and back page news—crammed into every crimped corner. Every piece had it's own angle. Together, they told a pretty complete story of it.
A personal ad read:
17th century Baron seeking Ominous Atmosphere with Gothic Charm
'Four hundred year phantasm with spooky good looks comes complete with the trappings of a filthy rich nobleman and an impressive silver bloodstain across the front (death wound: vertical slit from the neck down—the butler did it). Expertise is terror with specialties in frightening the dead and small children. For information and references, contact Albus Dumbledore...'
Harry switched to the editorial section. There, an ancient scholar had pulled his nose out of his dusty books long enough to write about the history of the situation. Harry scanned a certain paragraph.
'…Not only did Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor build the walls of Hogwarts; they also imbued the school and surrounding forest region with a powerful enchantment. (Here there was an odd rectangular smudge that, when placed under a microscope, turned out to be several thousand words speculating about the origins of the enchantment. Thank Jove for editors.) This great magic's main purpose was to enshroud the school and wood, rendering it invisible to the outside world. (Another smudge about Avalon, Atlantis, and other favorite tourist attractions of wizards.) Now that…'
He didn't read any further, crossing over to an article about the impact it had on the Wizarding society.
'…It has long been a school of the people. Since it's inception, there has never been a student turned away because of birth or life circumstances. (The words 'Or rather, there haven't been any officially,' were nestled inside an atom of the paper. To find it, the reader would have to first know what an atom was and then need to split it open—and survive the resulting nuclear chain reaction. It seemed the editor was taking no chances.) Where Durmstrang examines pedigree, where Xanadu ignores the lower castes, Hogwarts accepted with open arms. Where else is there a place for the poor, for the Muggleborn, for the children who are more than human? Where else will they go…'
Quickly, he looked away, turning to a tasty morsel offered up by one of the Prophet's preeminent gossips.
HGVK Strikes Again—This Time: Durmstrang
Harry heaved a much put upon sigh. To his regret, he had yet to give in to the all-but-consuming urge to Avada Kedavra the creator of the romantic pairing acronyms that so often seemed to involve him, his friends, him, a few of their acquaintances, him, and—he shuddered—Severus Snape. HPSS: the stuff of nightmares. He didn't know how it had happened, but somehow a rumor had gotten out that he'd spent many evenings alone with the Potions Professor during his fifth year.
He shook his head vigorously and returned to the written piece of hearsay. At least the idea of a HGVK was fairly tame. The only person likely to go into an apoplectic fit upon reading about it was Ron Weasley. After all, Hermione and Viktor Krum were known to have dated previously. They were also not arch nemeses, fulfilled that nice opposite genders category—and they didn't break the oh-so-very-important 'no snogging your teacher' rule…
'…Viktor Krum accepted a part-time teaching position at Durmstrang after the Headmaster agreed to the Seeker's condition that his Muggleborn girlfriend, former Hogwarts student Hermione Granger, be allowed to attend...'
(Faraway, in a Burrow somewhere, a redheaded boy required the magical equivalent of the Heimlich maneuver when he inexplicably choked on his breakfast sausage.)
Harry sighed as he refolded the newspaper. There was no escaping it, though he had tried. He had scoured the entire edition, looking for anything that said "no" against the general consensus. All he was asking for was a grain of hope, but there was none to be found. He threw the paper back on the table and glowered down at the front page.
The cover picture said it all. It showed Hogwarts. The grand old castle he called home was perfectly still—and that wasn't just because it was made of stone. That had never stopped it before. It was frozen because the photograph was non-magical. Worse than that, a Muggle had taken it. A hitchhiker had stumbled onto the castle grounds, saw the school for what it was, whipped out his camera, and taken it. From there, he had strolled into Hogsmeade Village and fortunately been obliviated, but the damage was already done. A Muggle had found his way to Hogwarts, the most protected magical place in the world, which could only mean one thing.
The magic was gone.
Harry's hands clenched.
Nails in the coffin, the bold letters above the photograph read: "HOGWARTS CLOSED."
A fist suddenly slammed onto the dining table. The time bomb had gone off.
The Dursleys jumped. Petunia's plate careened off to the side and Dudley's plopped down between his legs onto the sofa. Vernon reached for his heart—or his calendar, hard to tell—as the dangerous young man in the next room collapsed down into a chair and glared up at the chandelier. It began to flicker. Not the electric lights. The crystal. Flashes of green and black blazed through the smooth planes and facets. A year ago, Vernon would have boxed the boy's ears for that, black magic and murderer godfather and all. But a year ago, he had been dealing with his wife's nephew Harry Potter, not the time bomb.
His unfinished breakfast abandoned on the easy chair, Vernon grabbed up his briefcase and was out the door almost before he got it opened. 'Just a few more days,' was his feverish thought as he clutched at the pocket calendar through the folds of his jacket. Just a few more days, then the time bomb would be that crazy school's problem, and life would go back to blessed normalcy.