..:::Chapter Five:::..
Over?
Warm hands sooth my back as my empty stomach turns my vomiting into painful dry heaves. I'm trying to blink back tears as the acidic smells of my stomach contents burn my eyes and nose. I take a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling that foul stench which prompts my body to begin painful coughs which certainly does nothing to help my torn up throat. It takes several minutes of heaving, breathing, and coughing on a painful loop for the process to die down.
By time I have gathered some semblance of calm the tears have dried on my face, sticky and uncomfortable, and my body has finally given up on it's attempts to eject my entire insides onto the floor. Slowly I lean back plopping my butt on the dingy ground and shifting away from the mess I had just made.
"Dud…? Are you okay?"
No. I'm not okay. My brain automatically tones, but I realize that the person soothing my back and now speaking to me is actually Harry. I lethargically lift my head up to meet his troubled eyes. The hand on my back pauses in it's comforting ministrations.
"I-" I wince as my voice comes out crackled and distorted. A shot of pain shoots my my damaged vocal muscles from the attempt. I shake my head to ward off the pain and motion to Harry that I can't speak. He bites his lower lip in response.
Something bright catches my eye that reflects what little light the staircase offers. I see that it's the chain wrapped around Harry's ankle. Harry follows my gaze and sees what I'm seeing, "I don't know where he keeps it." His voice is small and tired.
"In his robes," comes a voice to our right.
Harry looks up in alarm and spins around. I remember that he probably doesn't know my little helper. Bryce automatically flinches back from the sudden movement, his ghostly form blinking from existance for a fraction of a second before reappearing two feet away. He's just a little boy after all, spirit or not, and after what he's gone through of course he would be scared. I quickly grab Harry's hand in mine bringing his attention back on me. I shake my head trying to convey that Bryce is a friend. My cousin seems to get it because he relaxes his tense and defensive posture.
I meet Bryce's fearful gaze and I motion for him to come closer. He seems hesitant but ultimately follows my silent suggestion and floats closer to us. Harry isn't completely at ease with the ghost boy and he shifts away from Bryce when he approaches.
Meanwhile, I'm working up the courage to look back at the mess behind me. I remind myself that I have to free Harry and this is something that needs to be done. Slowly I shift and turn my body to face the corpse. I avoid looking at those glossy dead eyes staring aimlessly upwards. I thank any and every deity I can think of that this monster didn't return as a spirit. I'm not sure what kind of chaos ghosts can cause but I'm positive that it would be a malevolent being.
Harry makes a noise of concern as I pull myself closer to the body, flinching away from the glaring blade next to it.. I grimace and carefully reach up to pull it's robes apart. I gag when a wave of iron hits my nose and I have to pause in my actions to collect myself before continuing. It's disgusting as I reach my hand in, searching, for the key. It's a feeling akin to knowing you have a duty to pull out a clump of hair from the shower drain. The ickiness that crawls up my skin is more than unpleasant. The comparison does little to make me feel better but does serve to distract me from my current undertaking (which is far worse than the scenario I imagined).
Eventually my fingers does hit something small, hard, and cool. I wrap my hands around the key and quickly remove myself from the corpse's vicinity. It's presence near me still sends shivers up my spine, but anything is better than closer to it than necessary. I move over to Harry who holds his leg out to me. I carefully insert the key and turn. With a soft click he's free.
I decide that it's about time that we leave this horrendous place. The smell of blood is stronger than ever, and coupled with the stench of vomit and death it's already enough to make my head woozy (which may also be due to my recent oxygen deprivation). I let Harry gather himself while I move over to where the wardrobe is, crawling to my knees and pressing my face to the floor.
It doesn't take long to spot it. There at the very back, against the wall, is the monster's wand. Without hesitation I swipe the weapon and gingerly stow it away in my bag. I had suspected touching the wand of the monster would make me uncomfortable but I did not expect the wave of nausea and disgust the moment my fingers brushed up against it. I'll probably have to properly disinfect the thing several times before I even think about using it.
When I get up, both Harry and Bryce are sharing soft words that I can't hear. They both must sense my movement because they stop and turn to look at me as I stand. I weakly motion towards the exit as I stagger over to them. Harry eyes my neck injury with tensely but I ignore his imploring looks in favor of working my way up the stairs.
I just want to leave this night behind me.
The walk up the stairs is harder than before. The weight of my worry has been lifted from the first time I traversed these steps, but only to be replaced by a new weight. Never in all my lives would I thought that my hands would ever be so sullied. That I could so easily take a man's life-
I freeze that train of thought before it can proceed further. What's happened has happened, and I have more important things to dwell on than the damning events of the past twenty-four hours. Let these memories plague me in my nightmares, right now I have a duty to get Harry to safety.
So I continue to stagger up the staircase, one hand on the wall to keep me balanced. Slowly but surely, the light around us grows brighter as the stench of blood and death recedes. I can't wait to drink in fresh air again. We take the final steps up to the ground floor and I nearly want to collapse in relief now that the darkness of the cellar, that I hadn't noticed was so suffocating, is gone. I don't, of course, but I take a moment, a pause, to collect myself before continuing.
A quick check over my shoulders shows me that Harry is also very much enjoying the alleviation from his dark prison. He stands there, just at the top of the steps for a long time, too long, and I deliberate telling him to hurry up. Then I remind myself that he's been here much longer than I have and that he's should be afforded any comfort, no matter how meagre, that we can spare. There's no rush after all and the immediate threat has passed.
Harry finally opens his eyes after many minutes of silence, looks at me, and seems to realize that I've been waiting for him. A sheepish blush blooms on his face and he rushes to catch up to me. And despite my somberness, I offer him a small smile which he returns in kind. I may not feel up to it but Harry is still just a little boy and right now what he needs is emotional comfort. As the grown up here, I have to be the one to give that to him, my own mental health be damned. I'm old enough to regulate my thoughts and compartmentalize. Harry isn't.
With that in mind, I reach out and gently grab his hand. I keep an eye out for any sudden movement. Any sign that he'll be uncomfortable with touch after his traumatic experience. There is none, luckily, and I hold his hand in a firm grip as I lead my baby cousin towards the door. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Bryce following morosely behind us.
I open the front door (unlocked, I note, typical arrogant wizard) and we all step out into the cool night air. I shiver when a breeze hits my face, and for a moment it feels like it's washing away all the dirt and grime from my soul. The moment is over too soon though and I repress the urge to sigh wistfully. I begin walking away from the house, making sure the boys are following close behind me.
When we reach the yard limit Bryce flies ahead of me and pauses. He stares at the ground with trepidation and doubt. Without looking at either of us he says, "This is the limit. I don't know if I can pass…"
I don't answer him, that that I can even if I wanted to anyways. But Bryce seems to get the message from my look because he hesitantly reaches a faded arm past the property limit. There's a brief second of tension as uncertainty spikes in the atmosphere, but that too passess when nothing happens and Bryce's arm is held innocently over the line. I can't read the expression on the ghost's face but it wells up a deep sadness in me.
Alright, I think with a confident nod and I take a step off the property and unto the sidewalk. The boys follow.
Another problem presents itself now. How do we get home? And what will we tell Petunia and Vernon?
I ignore the second question for the moment as I focus on the first. Neither Harry nor I are in any position to be producing magic. I myself am drained, whatever powerful magic that had possessed and energized me earlier in the day had passed some time ago, leaving me weak and tired. Both of us are exhausted and beat up. Not enough magic to lead us home and not enough magic to heal our wounds. Chances are we'll have to seek out medical attention the moment we get back anyways, least either of us suffer permanent damages. Small bruises are viable, sure, on our good days. But both of us have depleted our cores (well… mostly in my case) and our injuries are much more serious than our usual superficial ones.
The memory of the lighter I had stored in my pack sparks an interesting idea. Yes, that could work. I quickly pull the object in question from my bag and motion for the boys to stay put when they shoot me looks of inquiry. I make my way back to the house, noting that the notice-me-not-charm is wearing off.
This will also kill two birds with one stone. Best destroy any evidence after all. Since the aurors didn't get involved in the end, there's no need to get them involved now. No doubt the police who search this house will find some sort of damning wizarding evidence. And with everything that's going on I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to be able to fit everything together and connect the now missing wizard to Harry's disappearance (which Mrs. Frigg will no doubt tell him about, if she hasn't already. Which also begs the question, where has Dumbledore been in all this?)
I eye the houses down the street hoping that at least one of them will call the cops once everything is done. Once again I mourn the lack of cell phones in this world, I vow that once they come out I'll buy a pair for Harry and I. With that I step back into the damned home.
A quick search through the cupboard in the kitchen reveals what I'm looking for. I grab the bottle of oil and proceed to the obviously unused stove. All four burners of the gas stove are turned on, the heat from the flames lick at my face pleasantly in the cold night. Then the cap comes off of the oil bottle in my hands and it's contents are spilled in a trail from the furniture of the living room to the stove in the kitchen. I cover as much of the house as possible with amount of fuel available to me, and once the bottle has been drained to its last drop I discard it back into the cupboard I found it in and fish out my lighter.
I'm at the entrance of the house when I light the device in my pudgy fingers. Cautiously, I let it drop from my grip towards the trail of cooking oil on the ground and immediately move away from the building and towards the two boys waiting for me with puzzled looks at the property's edge. Behind me I can hear and feel the flames begin to build up as it swallows everything in it's path. I pick up my pace as the heat becomes unbearable, the hair on the back of my calves start to singe off from the proximity, and my legs are struggling to keep up with the strenuous pace.
"You set it on fire…" Bryce says with wonderment when I collapse next to Harry. Something is reflected in his dead eyes that I can't place. Perhaps it's closure, though I have no definite way of knowing. He licks his lips, a useless action as he's nothing more than an apparition now but old habits die hard, "It's pretty."
I want to laugh at the comment but exhaustion weighs down at my body now that all there is to do is wait. Harry shifts closer and pulls my body against him. It's comforting and I lean in closer, a arm wrapping loosely around his waist comforted by the thought of his safety. Behind us wood crackles and groans as the fire eats away at it's death stained walls. All three of us are silent as the night wears on.
Harry is the first to notice them. He nudges my ribs and tilts his head towards the gradually growing gathering of people looking on in horror at the burning building. Someone must've spotted us because a worried but kind looking couple cautiously approaches. They look like they're about to question us when they then notice the terrible looking injuries decorating our skin. The woman hides gasps and quickly sends her husband (if those wedding rings are any indication) to the house to fetch towels while she herds us away from the burning building.
Bryce looks hurt that she can't seem to see him but follows after us anyways at a more sedated pace as the women brings us towards her house. On the way there she eyes the angry red finger prints around my throat wearily, a look which I pointedly ignore. Any questions that may be in her eyes go unanswered as both Harry and I follow her silently across the street.
As we approach the large crowd I feel Harry's hand reach over and grab mine. A quick glance reveals a frightened look on his face as the horde threatens to swallow us. The kind woman doesn't seem to notice his fear, so I give the bottom hem of her dress a meaningful tug, dragging her attention to me while I give her a hinting head jerk towards my baby cousin. Understanding dawns on her face and she quickly reroutes our path away from the masses while gently warding off any nosey people with smiles and pacifying words. I mentally sigh in relief, gracious to this nameless woman for her thoughtfulness. She sets us down on the steps to her home, aware enough not to force us into the confined space of her house. The tension in Harry's body bleeds out.
In the distance the raging fire continues to crackle.
It isn't until much later that the first responders arrive. The sight of a red fire engine catches me off guard at first, so used to the yellow of American fire trucks. By which time though the house is mostly in cinders, with only the bare foundations keeping the structure up. The walls are pretty much burned away. I watch in disinterest as the firemen begin to douse out what's left of the flames, more interested in wrapping the blanket the woman's husband had brought out for us tighter around my shivering form. At the very least the cold is an adequate distraction from the burning of my throat.
Sirens begin wailing in the distance, gradually growing louder and a couple of police vehicles pull up to the scene, an ambulance not far behind it. The couple hosting Harry and I are quick to hail down the paramedics and a officer. And with a sad smile they hand us off to the medical technicians. I subtle wave to Bryce to follow us which he does with a relieved face. He gently floats around the EMT checking Harry over, causing the man to break out in an abrupt bout of shivers though he continues his duty diligently. My own EMT is gently tilting my chin up and cataloging the injuries on my neck, his face is calm and pacifying but I can see anger in his eyes.
No one asks us questions and soon Harry and I are being lifted off to the hospital. Through the tiny window of the ambulance I can see dark plums of smoke rising up to the night sky. It's black and gray and lacks the red glow from the fire signifying its rest.
It also signifies the end of this harrowing day.
I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I know there's a soft but repetitive beeping in my ear and opening my eyes reveals seafoam curtains and a faded white ceiling. The hospital, my mind provides.
I lay there for several minutes, just staring at the air mindlessly while listening to the beat of my heart through the mechanical pitched tones of my vitals monitor. When I finally decide to move I discover that it's a pretty bad idea and my body screams out it's protest in the form of sore and stiff muscles. Whether it's due to the strenuous activities of the night (before?), the recent malnutrition, or my overuse of magic, it's clear that moving will not be on my list for a few days at the very least. So I sigh and resign myself to what will no doubt be a long period of confinement to this bed.
It's not like I'm unused to it. Hospital visits were a commonality in my past life. I must've spent most of it in the walls of places just like this one. Not exactly a comforting thought but true nonetheless. Perhaps I'm fated to stay in these dreary buildings forever. Perhaps my family curse never left me.
The thought leaves a vile taste on my tongue and I push that train away in favor of more pressing matters.
Like where is Harry?
No one comes to my silent aid however. My throat (now wrapped in a layer of bandaging) is still sore and torn and speaking is doubtlessly unadvisable. It makes me feel kind of useless. Just laying here, silent and unmoving. I might as well be a puppet for all I'm capable of.
A glorified puppet with strings of tubes.
Once again my mind wanders to a negative place and feelings of loathing build up. The remainder of my uselessness is not a kind one but I'm strangely thankful for it's presence. It reminds me of how fully unprepared I was for this whole scenario.
All this time, I had been so focused on the canon-timeline. So focused on being ready for Voldemort and his league of Death Eaters that I'd forgotten the terrifying dangers of the real world. Somewhere along the line I got it into my head that Harry and I were immune until the real story began because of some dumb reason like plot. Well plot was thrown out the window a long time ago. Starting with the moment I woke up in this body.
These past few days have been that wakeup call. Harry and I surviving was not out of some cosmic will or some destined fate. Both of us could've easily have died. I probably should've died. Luck had played a better part of our continued survival and I'm not blind to those fact. The throbbing pain in my throat is a testament to that.
And it really stings. The idea that it was my fault, my existence, that could've gotten Harry killed. Sweet, innocent, and thoughtful Harry who is probably significantly changed and scarred by this event. The thought eats at me.
However, with the revelation comes the resolve.
Through the pain and soreness of my body I can feel a new determination flow through me. We were unprepared this time, yes. But next time?
I'll make sure Harry and I are equipped with every advantage.
But where to begin?
A good place to start will probably be with things that can be done in the now. Immediate actions that will have immediate and long term results. There's a lot of things that can't happen yet simply because of the complications that may result from taking those actions. As much as it guilts me to think of it, saving Sirius Black from azkaban is one of those things that cannot happen yet. His release will call for close relations and exposure to not just the wizarding world, but prominent members in it. My expertise in the Harry Potter Universe is limited to what I've gathered from the movies, the books, and a vast amount of conjecture from the fandom itself. Sadly, none of those offers much insight into the hidden agendas of major players and a misstep could likely result in speeding up those agendas. Not a complication I really want to deal with at the moment.
No. Preparation will have to be done with things Harry and I can do alone and in the moment. That only really leaves two things to work with, and those are simply diligent practice and gathering of information.
It's something Harry and I have already been working on, things like wandless magic and studying books we've gathered. But it's become apparent that these efforts just aren't cutting it. Whatever disastrous consequences resulted of my presence in this universe seems to have upped the stakes. Whether the trend will continue or not is up for debate but this whole experience has shaken me and I'd rather Harry be equipped with as many advantages and not need them than to need them and be without. Had I been more prepared for this whole situation perhaps I would've gotten Harry out of there sooner, perhaps I wouldn't be in this hospital now.
My inner musings continue as I begin to catalogue all the books on magic we own and planning out a new training regiment. That's when a commotion outside of the room distracts my thoughts.
"Please sir, can this wait? The patient is not in any condition to answer questions."
Footsteps fall into the room and silhouetted forms brush up against the seafoam curtains. A gruff voice dismisses the smaller figure, most likely a nurse, and I tense up when a large hand grips at the screen fabric and pulls it open. A large man in worn gray suit dips into my bed space without announcement. He spares me a quick glance before settling an angry looking nurse with challenging look. The much smaller woman rears up and steps between me and the man.
"Sir. I'll not ask you again. Please remove yourself this instance or I will be forced to call-"
"Call what?" The man provokes in a surprisingly mellow voice. It's not a combination I'd thought possible, both calm yet agitating. "The authorities? Missy, I am the authority here. And I'll be glad if you let me do my job. I promise not to rile up the lad too much. Just a few questions and I'll be out of here."
The only person that you need to not rile up is that nurse, my mind snarks.
I look down at my hands, both fisting the sheets. There isn't much in terms of answers that I can offer this man -damaged throat aside- without giving away sensitive information. Knowledge I'm not willing to part with, especially to someone who could cause damage to my plans.
"Not on my watch you won't," the nurse bravely states. "This is my patient and I'll be the one to give the O.K. for questioning. Now I'll repeat myself, remove yourself from this room this instance you brute or I will be calling for the doctor."
The man lets out a deeply annoyed sigh as if tired of everything. Gently, but firmly, he places a hand behind the nurse and pushes past her and closer into my space. Bile threatens to raise up in my throat when his overwhelming presence presses in too close to me. A flash of memory of large hands reaching and squeezing and lungs igniting burns away at all my thoughts. An uncontrollable compulsion has me suddenly leaning away from the man and over the edge of my bed as my chest constricts with effort to take in air that my mouth can't seem to find.
"Jesus." A sharp feminine breath in. "Move away from him! You're causing him to panic!"
Then soft gentle hands are rubbing large circles into my back and the overbearing presence causing my distress dissipates. A voice, equally as soft, urges me to breath. In. Out. In. Out.
My body rebels against the instruction and there is panic gathering just underneath the surface, but it's slowly retreating and I'm regaining some semblance of control again. Sweet air pushes past my throbbing throat, forcing my breathing to regulate itself even as my heart threatens to freak out again. The circulation of air starts to clear the fog from my mind and I'm aware of my surroundings again.
The soft hands slow their rubbing when I start to sit up, the panic gone. The movement, now that the adrenaline has dissipated, reminds me of just how sore my body is. With the nurse -the owner of the hands- supporting my weight we maneuver my body back onto the bed. I let out a shaky breath as my head sinks down into the pillows.
"Feeling better love?" The nurse smiles disarmingly at me. She brushes a hand across my forehead, checking temperature, then pats my head lightly. I nod in response to her question.
Now across the room, the man who had triggered the sudden and unexpected panic attack is watching the entire thing playout with a pinched expression. I pinpoint the emotion as guilt and feel a vindictive pleasure. Apparently I'm more angry than I thought at him barging into the room without announcement. Demanding answers and generally just causing trouble. Well too bad for him because I'm not planning on answering a single one of him damned questions.
"How about some water dear? You must be parched."
The idea of water does sound appealing. Though how it'll stack up against the damaged tissue of my throat is another story entirely. Still, I appreciate the offer and I express my agreement silently.
"Alright then." She stands from my bed and turns her back to me. The nurse pauses to give the man a stern look and directs him out of the area around my bed, then she offers me a smile before enclosing me back within my privacy curtains alone. I watch as their two silhouettes leave the room without another word.
My body reminds me of how sore and tired it is as my eyes begin to droop. I would like to keep brainstorming but the idea of sleep sounds even more appealing than the sound of water. I don't put up much of a fight as I let the sleep take me.
Harry is sitting on my bed when I wake up again.
This time, sunlight is streaming through the room and past my curtains.
I notice a paper cup of water, sitting untouched, on the table next to my bed.
Immediately I open my mouth to call to my cousin then wince when the pain bites at me mercilessly. My mouth snaps close with an audible clip which alerts Harry to my wake. He turns his body to face me and I have to fight the surge of anger and shock at the sight of his face.
Blue and dark purple bruises litter his cheeks, swelling painfully. There's white gauze and bandages covering what I'm assuming to be the worst parts of his wounds but just the stark amount of discoloration showing from behind the white lets me know the true extent of his injuries. But other than that, Harry looks to be just fine, which is a god blessed relief.
It's after I've finished taking in his injuries that I notice his expression. It's taut with worry and apprehension. And that could be attributed to seeing my condition or the pain from his own but my intuition tells me that something else is causing his turmoil. That's when I hear the unsubtle whispers from outside the room.
"... any idea what this means! That little freak must've done something. Turner said it himself, those things they found! This has those freaks written all over it and I bet he's got something to do with it!"
"I have no idea what they actually found Vernon, but we shouldn't just jump to conclusions! The boys have been through something terrible, it's best if we just give them some space for now!"
"What will people think. We should've never taken in that little menace. Look at how he's tearing apart our family!"
"Now see here Vernon-"
"Excuse me?" A new voice joins in and Petunia's sharply inhales, probably in surprise. The voice sounds familiar and it's prickling at some dark part of my mind, but sleep is still dragging me down and I can't identify it. It's low and gruff. "I understand that you wanted me to speak to your son's-"
"Son." Vernon's voice interrupts. "I only have one boy. The other is my… nephew." The way he says the word comes out distastefully.
"...Right." The stranger intones. "Well, I know you both have some concerns and I promise you both that we'll get to the bottom of this but right at this moment I'm not so sure if speaking to the lads will be the best idea. You see, I was here last night and-"
"You only need to speak to the little menace," Vernon interrupts again. "I can assure you that he's the source of all this chaos! Without a doubt! He's always been a delinquent that one. Not a good bone in his body! And look at how he's dragged my poor boy down!"
"Now Vernon-" Petunia begins in a pacifying voice.
Her husband cuts her off immediately, "Not now Petunia. Now I'm telling you Turner, that boy is trouble. It'll do you good to just go take him off now. Good riddance to it all!"
"Vernon!"
"Not now Petunia!"
The stranger -Turner- clears his voice, "If I'm not being too abrupt Mr. Dursley, but young Harry has just been through quite the ordeal. I was not on the other investigation personally but if I do recall he had been missing for well over two days before the fire department was called."
"Yes. W-well… Um..." Vernon grunts as he mumbles and searches for a response.
"And," Turner adds voice tight and annoyed. "Might I continue to say that your… eagerness to write off your nephew was it? Well, it does all seem very suspicious. Remember that we are still in the preliminaries of our investigation and that any and all evidence we find will be used. Especially since the house, in which we suspect the boys were being held at, was tragically burnt down and left very little for our teams to work with."
There is a moment of silence as the group takes in those words.
"Now see here you!" Vernon's booming voice echoes through the building furious as he realizes implications of what Turner said. "I'm not sure what you are trying to insinuate but I will not stand here and take the-these… Accusations!"
"Then, Mr. Dursley, I suggest you sit down."
What follows is nothing but the sound of Vernon's indignant sputtering as he calls after Turner with increasingly angry bellows. All which go ignored as there is no response from the other man. A moment later there is a knock on the door to the room.
"I'm coming in," comes Turner's gruff voice. The sound of the door opening and clicking shut follows. Then the curtains are pulls aside and I'm facing the same man from the night before, in fact he's still wearing the same drab gray suit. My body tenses up instinctively at the sight of him.
In the light of the day it's easier to see what he looks like. With a head full of messy graying hair and a large trimmed stash above his bow, I could've sworn I was looking at the twin of James Gordon of the Dark Knight cinematic universe. I keep my face blank as I take in the fifty-something year-old man, face wrinkled and creased from years of stress and worry. He rubs a hand through his hair and lets out a deeply troubled sigh.
Harry shifts closer to me at the man's appearance and I loosely hold him hand in mine.
"Hello, I'm detective Turner," the man introduces. "Um… I'm here to apologize for last night, my behavior was… Unprofessional and appalling." He pauses and seems to come to a realization if the way his eyebrows lift and the corners of his mouth crank down just a degree are of any indication. "What I mean is that I was wrong and I'm very sorry for what I did yesterday. I had not meant to scare you…"
Silence permeates through the room as the two of us just awkwardly watch each other. Honestly I'm rather surprised that this remorseful man before me is the same as the arrogant and demanding one from the night before. I chalk it up to the stressful case taking it's toll, not that's any excuse for the way he acted towards both that nurse and me, and I doubt that he's really that bad of a person as his current actions state. Still the tension from the night before is apparent and my body has not forgiven the intense reaction from yesterday. Harry grips my hand harder as it begins to shake.
When it looks like he's about to speak again I start before he can. "I-it'sss f-ne." The words come out slurred and scratchy, but it definitely feels a lot better than my previous attempts. I swallow and continue, "Cn't to-olk… Hard speeeaak…" Something tickles my throat and I begin to cough. God this hurts like a bitch.
Turner starts forwards but jolts to a stop, he takes a hurried step back and shoots me a concerned look. "You don't need to talk lad. Save your voice, let it heal. I um…" He contemplates his next words, "Your father asked me to ask you both a few questions about… that night. But I can see now that that's not a very good idea. I only came to apologize and to let you know that I'll be coming around when you're feeling better." His gray eyes are hard with some obscure emotion, "The police are going to do everything they can to help you two alright? Just remember that we're here to help."
It sounds like he wants to say more but stops himself. I can understand why, I'm sure he doesn't want to scare two traumatised kids more than necessary. I don't tell him that I have no intention of letting him know anything, but his consideration for our wellbeing does touch my heart. I'm sure this whole event over the past half a year has been strenuous on the entire task force.
So I just nod and it seems to placate Turner. The detective makes a move to leave, offering the two of us one last wave before exiting the room. I'm left a little disorientated, wondering what just happened. To be honest though, these last few days have been very surreal.
"I haven't said anything."
I look over at Harry who spoke and tilt my head questioning. He offers me a small shrug and moves to lay down closer to me. I slowly scoot over, feeling sore muscles protest the movement, and allow my little cousin a spot next to me. He lays his head on the pillow and gazes into my eyes.
"I haven't said anything to anyone…" He repeats. "Uncle Vernon was… really angry when he saw me. He was yelling at me and blaming me." I feel a spike of anger. "I know he and Auntie know that something is wrong… And I know you told me not to tell anyone about magic, but Dudley what if this is dangerous?" His lower lip begins to wobble, "You got so hurt and so many bad things happened, and that man-!"
I blink in surprise as tears begin dribbling down his scrunched up face.
"Dudley…" His green eyes open and stare into mine imploring, "We're just little kids Dud… What if they're right? What if we need to tell someone?" There's a brief moment of panic and I fear that he may actually tell someone without consulting me but I quickly banish the thought as another emotion starts to well up in me.
Guilt. Guilt because, as much as I fear the consequences of telling someone, Harry is right. This whole situation… The dead children, the kidnappings, Bryce's death could've all have been avoided if I had just swallowed my fears and consulted someone qualified to actually do something. I could say that the thought never occurred to me but I would be lying. Somewhere in me I had considered running to and telling the aurors but I had stopped myself, told myself that I could handle it, and now the consequences are irreversible.
And the worse thing is… I'm not sure that I'd do anything different if something like this happened again. I have no idea how meddling in the wizarding world could affect the future events of Harry's life, and right now knowing the future is the only advantage I have.
Harry is mine to protect, mine to nurture, he's my child. I'm the one that raised him and took care of him and offered him comforts in a household that wanted nothing to do with him. There's a sense of responsibility and independence there and deep inside me my biggest fear is that I can't trust anyone else but myself to have Harry's best interests in mind. Things backfired this time because I wasn't diligent enough, I wasn't prepared enough but I will be next time.
How can I trust someone else to have the same interests for Harry's well being as me? Dumbledore had an ulterior motive for everything he did with Harry in the original story, and the entire wizarding world either loves and places Harry on a pedestal or hates and makes him into their scapegoat. What happened with Hencurse was a mistake, a dire mistake that I won't allow to happen again, because next time I'll be prepared, I'll be well equipped.
But do I have it in my heart to sacrifice Harry as a tool to others in exchange for his protection?
A stronger person would probably answer yes. But I'm not strong. I'm selfish and love too hard. I've lost too much in my last life that I've come to hold everything I own close to my heart and possessively. I'm positive I can protect Harry on my own, this fluke aside, and I'm not ready to let go of him.
I reach out a hand and gently wipe a trailing tear from his tender cheek. The rest of the tears having been soaked up by his bandages already. Harry opens his eyes and looks at me with a vulnerability and I feel a protective urge rear up in me, vicious and angry, but I don't show my internal state and just smile at him. It placates the shaken boy and Harry smiles a wet smile back at me.
No, I can't trust anyone else to protect him. I'll just have to get stronger on my own.
Bryce shows up much later in the day and excitedly tells me about his new friends. I'm amused by the young mind's ability to bounce back from the most traumatizing situations. Apparently, the hospital is home to a few dozen ghosts that have formed something of a community here. One that welcomingly opened it's arms for the recently deceased child. It's a bit of a relief since I have no idea what I would've done with the boy otherwise. I have no idea the forces behind their continued existence after death, death itself is still a mystery to me even having died once. How come I was reincarnated while these people resided in a non physical form? They seem to be tied to this plane of existence since wizards can see them (and by extension I'm assuming most other magical beings) and they have some influence on the physical plane.
Aside from all that though, the discovery has put Bryce in high spirits (no pun intended), and he hasn't expressed much in terms of meeting his own family. That observation strikes as somewhat off to me but it's not like I can share in his current experience nor do I know the situations of his life. I've never met Bryce's parents so what do I know? So the questionable behavior goes untouched and unmentioned. Bryce seems happy enough and who am I to take that away from him? I have more pressing matters to focus on anyways.
Such as Vernon's increasingly agitated state.
"Diddykins," Petunia cups my face and runs a thumb affectionately under my eye. However, her face is tight with worry and her bottom lip is raw from her unconscious abuse of it. "I know you're scared to talk about what happened but we're worried sweetheart. The doctor said your voice is much better now…" Her eyes flits nervously towards the door.
It's been two weeks since the event and my throat has healed nicely in that time. While that's a welcomed development along with it came the inevitable line of questioning as the adults around us try to puzzle out exactly what occurred that night. They haven't given me much in terms of information of what they know but I've mostly pieced together their current idea.
Most likely they discovered Hencurse's body, probably left unrecognizable after the fire. I'm not sure what kinds of magical evidence was in the house but I'm sure the police were left baffled at some of the artifacts they found. From questioning of neighbors in the area most of them would've probably sworn that the house was uninhabited, adding to the mystery. Of course, they probably want to know how I got to the house two days after Harry went missing. The current theory is probably that the perpetrator came back and snatched me too.
I sigh and gently pry her hand from my face, "Mum, I'm fine. I told you before that I don't remember…"
There's something about the way she holds herself whenever I tell her I don't remember that tells me that she doesn't quite believe me. Nevertheless, Petunia just brushes a hand through my hair and doesn't push but I can see that she wants to say something but holds herself back.
It's not a completely foolproof plan, but backed by the trauma counselor's assertions that retrograde amnesia is a common symptom from an event like this, especially at my age and also the slight concussion I apparently had. The only suspicion is from the particular that both Harry and I suffer from memory loss. It's not impossible that both of us don't remember but it's highly improbable. I also suspect that there's more unknown factors that cast suspicion on our facade.
"Aunt Petunia?" Harry calls from across the hospital room.
She turns her upper torso towards her nephew and for once her gaze isn't hard. The whole event seems to have broken past that last wall of bitterness encasing Petunia's heart from Lily Potter's memory. Her reactions towards Harry is still a little awkward, but it's a far cry from the frosty and sharp tongued treatment she used to give him.
"Yes Harry?"
"I think Uncle Vernon and detective Turner are here," he replies with his face pressed against the window. The confinement to this room has made the seven-year-old antsy and restless.
Petunia visibly pales at the news but then hardens her face accordingly. She stands briskly and pats invisible dust from her skirt. I'm actually rather amazed at the strength she's capable of displaying in moments like these, which is so different than the Petunia Dursley I had grown used to in my past life (bitter and petty). This is a woman ready for battle. A women ready to fiercely protect her children, something I can relate to and admire.
"Alright boys," she says with a voice of command. "You know how this works. Harry make your bed and make yourself scarce. Dudley," Petunia looks at me affectionately, "remember that you don't need to do anything you don't want to love. Don't let your father scare you."
"Yes Mum." I answer. I don't tell her that nothing about Vernon Dursley scares me, not before and certainly not now after all I've seen. The big oaf of a man (less "father" day by day while Petunia, inversely, continues to grow my respect for her) is nothing more than big bully, more bark than bite. It's easy to see how canon Dudley became what he did, though it's still not clear if what I've become is much of an improvement.
The two men meander into the room minutes later. Harry has excused himself to the bathroom, where he'll likely stay for the duration of the visit. They're never long so it's nothing to fret about.
"Petunia love," Vernon greets his wife with a brisk kiss to her cheek. He checks around the room, beady eyes briefly pausing on me, "Where's the boy?" No need to ask who he means by that.
"He had to run to the toilet," Petunia answers. "I'm afraid the he's not feeling too well today."
Vernon visibly bristles, "Again? He always seems to need to use it."
"Harry's not feeling well," I remind him.
All the adults in the room turn to face me. It's Turner who speaks first, "Good afternoon Dudley." He dips his head in Petunia's direction, "Petunia." He turns back to me, "It's a shame that Harry isn't feeling good today, but perhaps you're feeling up to some talking Dudley? Have you happened to remember anything about that night that you'd like to tell us?"
So right to the questioning then. Maybe they're getting desperate for answers. I shake my head and add meekly, "Sorry…" Might as well play up the baby looks while I still can. Honestly though, they've already had several psychiatrists in here to analyse and question me and the answer is still the same. What makes them think that sending in the a less qualified detective will garner a different result? What is it that they expect two seven-year-olds to be hiding anyways (not that we aren't hiding anything, just that it's a rather illogical presumption of them).
"No worries," Turner soothes. "I'll just come back in a few days. Perhaps Harry will be feeling better by then and one of you'll have remembered something." He moves to leave.
"Now just wait a moment," Vernon cuts in. He doesn't look like he's ready to let this go. "You haven't even asked the boy yet."
"I'm not going to make the lad come out of the toilet," Turner grunts. "It's better if I just return the following week." The visits are always like this. The detective arrives not long after Vernon, pleasantries are exchanged, Turner asks the same question he always does, my answer is also the same, he attempts to leave, which then prompts Vernon's temper to flare.
The detective hastily removes himself from the room and Petunia moves in to sooth her husband. As soon as Turner leaves it's all hushed whispers, a quick glance in my direction, and the couple step out of the room to discuss.
I don't dare risk heading over to the door to listen to their conversation, there's too much room for mistake and I'll more than likely be caught eavesdropping. But I do listen closely (I'll have to learn that one spell to extend my ear one day… Or at least one that'll extend my hearing range) and catch snippets here and there.
The predominate one is "freak" courtesy of Vernon himself.
Of course they're talking about Harry, what else?
Out of the corner of my eye I see his head pop out of the bathroom door. I catch his stare and offer him a sheepish smile. I get a dimpled one in reply. At least someone's in a good mood.
Vernon's voice spikes in anger and I frown. Then the doorknob wiggles and Harry retreats back into the restroom.
This unnecessary hostility towards Harry is completely unwarranted, it must have something to do with what I overheard the other day. Whatever they found in Hencurse's home Vernon has deemed it fit to make Harry into the scapegoat. At the very least Petunia is on our side, I'm not exactly sure when she finally came around but it's good that one of the adults in our lives is going to be mature and responsible about it.
The couple bumble into the room, Vernon's face purple with fury and Petunia's face sour. Neither are speaking to one another and Petunia sits down primly next to me, checks me over, before excusing herself to "check on Harry". The moment the door closes Vernon is on me.
"No more hanging out with that little freak Dudley," he demands and I stare at him with wide eyes trying to figure out what brought this along. "And I mean it son. I've put up with you-your… friendship," the word is seeped with despise, "for long enough. It's time I put my foot down. You are not to hang out with the Freak anymore. We'll get you a new room if need be but mark my words! That boy is going to tear our family apart..."
Something tells me that things aren't going to get much better. At least, not until they get worse first.
Interlude
Petunia
Petunia Dursley née Evans knows that she is not a very good person. She knows that she's jealousy, she knows that she's petty, and she knows that she let's these traits get the better of her on most days.
It's the reason why she let her baby sister run off to get married to a wizard and involved in a war. Petunia at the time told herself that she wanted nothing to do with her freak of a sister, that it was Lily's fault their parents perished in a fire, that she would be better off ignoring her existence entirely.
Then Lily died.
And a baby was left on her doorstep.
Petunia wanted to hate the baby. She did hate the baby. It was so easy when her husband agreed wholeheartedly with her (a man she married, though she'll never admit this to herself, to spite her parents because if she can't ever live up to the expectations of "Perfect Lily" then she'll do everything she can ruin all those expectations, starting by marrying an oaf of a man her parents didn't approve of, by turning up her nose at other people, by spying on neighbors, by raising a perfectly ordinary and square family because she wasn't special enough to be apart of hers).
And that's how they ran their little perfectly ordinary house, with a powerful animosity against the child of her (beloved) deceased sister, a child that had no idea why everyone treated him so different. And if Petunia ever felt guilty she would simply clean the house and throw a tea party, inviting all her equally jealous and petty friends over and gossip and push the definitely not real guilt out of her head (except how can you banish an emotion from your head if it exists in your heart?).
However, despite it all, somehow her baby, her wittle Diddykins, struck up an uncanny friendship with the black sheep of 4 Private Drive and she couldn't understand why (though a quiet voice in the back of her mind reminded her of that harrowing moment when Dudley was just a babe). Petunia hesitates to call it a friendship however, because while at first glance that's exactly what the two share a closer look reveals a strange dynamic unseen in children their age.
Dudley always makes it a point to talk to Harry, to laugh with Harry, to use his intellect (her baby boy's a genius!) to help Harry, to guide Harry, to teach Harry, to care for Harry, to love H-
Petunia will never say it but deep inside she knows that somehow her Dudley is doing a better job at parenting her nephew than she is. Lily must be rolling in her grave, cursing her sister's name from the afterlife. Guilt continues to chew at her heart.
Sometimes, Petunia even gets the distinct impression that her son is disappointed with her. Which is crazy because he's always been such a loving, polite, and obedient child, the neighbors all agree! Dudley always smiles at her and offers to help her with dishes when she's feeling particularly tired (even though he's not even in the double digits yet!). Yet, whenever she (unfairly) scolds Harry (cruel and harsh) Petunia always feels that Dudley (her toddler son!) is the one scolding and she's the one being scolded. There is no real basis to the feeling but it does succeed in making the guilt in her heart fester.
Then she sees it. When Dudley and Harry play in the yard, and the sunlight shine just right, catches perfectly, and lights up Harry's hair a highlight of brilliant red and reflects the radiant green of his eyes and her mind screams (lilylilyLilyLilyLILYLILY!) and her heart tightens, it's not Dudley and Harry she sees then playing in the yard. Instead she sees a scene from long ago, buried deep in the recesses of her heart, a picture of little Petunia and Lily running around and playing in the flowers, giggling, laughing, so full of joy and untarnished by resentment (a boy dressed in black hovers at the edge of the clearing).
She stops watching the boys play in the yard after that, refuses to admit the emotions tearing at her heart. How can she continue to hold this petty grudge against a dead woman and take it out on her only legacy? (A woman that happened to be the most important person in her life before her baby was born). Petunia vowed to never watch the boys play again, but is drawn in by the beauty of laughter, joy, and youth (love) and she finds herself unable to look away. Vernon doesn't understand, wouldnt understand, and Petunia does not share her thoughts (her crippling emotions) with him.
At that point Petunia was stuck in a stasis, wanting to do… something other than the horrible treatment she had given him thus far. Wants to follow in her son's footsteps and give Lily's legacy the life he deserves. But she's scared, scared of history repeating itself, of growing to love the boy (though she already did love him in her own strange way) only to grow to resent him later on. Petunia doesn't make a move to try, to change.
Not until the Terror.
When the first boy popped up on the news dead Petunia stopped in her tracks, as horrified as the rest of the community that something so terrible could possibly happen in a wonderful little town like theirs. A fluke people said, a one time occurrence, they'll catch the killer, it won't ever happen again.
It did.
Again. And again. And again.
Petunia felt the true terror then, especially in the moments driving up to St. Grogory and wondering if her children would be there (and since when had it become her children?). What if she was the parent that arrived only to be told her wards were missing. It was horrifying and sickening and Petunia wanted to hold her two boys close to her and never let them go, fearful for their lives.
It was then that she finally understood. Her fear so prominent finally showed her that she would be devastated if any happened to Harry Potter, her nephew, her baby sister's son. And that's what prompted her to change.
Vernon was rightly confused at the sudden transition in Petunia's priorities. Temper flaring at the sight of new clothes out of their money for the little Freak. But the sight of Harry's huge smile during Christmas, as uncomfortable and unused to it Petunia was, brought forth a warm feeling deep in her chest. His smile was blinding, and it was all Lily and Petunia wondered how she could've ever thought that he looked anything like his father when he so clearly took after in mother in every way (down to the same crinkle of happiness in the corners of his eyes).
And then Harry went missing and Petunia wanted to scream.
It seemed like everything in her life was falling apart, Dudley was in the hospital because he wasn't eating enough and her other boy was probably being raped and tortured and oh god they were going to find his body dead in a ditch some morning. Vernon seemed more worried about Dudley and while he expressed his worries to the police Petunia knew that he probably couldn't care less if Harry was found or not.
Then Petunia wanted to scream at him.
She didn't, but it opened her eyes to a third revelation: She could not rely on her husband to care for her boys. She remembered then the magical onslaught of Dudley's childhood and knew that the moment both boys turned eleven (because they had to find Harry, they will find Harry) that Vernon was going to be an unpredictable force and she the only buffer for her children.
Two days after Harry went missing Petunia woke to a horrifying sight. One of her kitchen blades was missing and her Diddykins was gone. She had been hysterical, inconsolable, Vernon had no way of calming her and he ended up being the one to call the authorities (again for the second time in less than a few days, what madness is this that grips the town in it's vicious grips?!).
Then they were told about two boys found by a burning house that were currently in the hospital. Checking it over it was revealed that they two boys and her two boys were one and the same and Petunia felt a huge weight lift off of her shoulders, nearly collapsing from relief.
But the trouble wasn't over.
For once they thoroughly checked over a bag they had found with Dudley and released it back to Petunia (and wasn't it lucky that it was she who found it and not her husband?) she discovered something terrifying that offered her little to no explanation.
The detective working on their case showed them some pictures of things found inside the burnt home that they couldn't place. Cauldrons and vials of strange materials found in the kitchen, all survived the fire. Vernon was livid and demanded an explanation but at the same time already turned his ire and blame towards the the Freak.
Petunia wasn't so sure, didn't know what to make of the whole situation.
She found a wand in Dudley's backpack.
A/N: I was hoping for this chapter to be a little longer (wanted to include a scene with Bryce and the ghosts of the hospital) but this chapter just kept dragging and it was taking far too long to finish so I'm just going to cut it short here and post what I've got. I hope you all took the time to read Petunia's part, because while it's not necessarily all that important to the over arching plot there are some points in there that enhance the story, give Petunia's character a little more detail and fleshing her out, and also revealing some of the motives for her actions. I honestly really love Petunia as a character, she's very contradicting and interesting and writing her is always a pleasure.
So I hope you all enjoyed! Sorry for the super long wait. Like I said, this chapter was just really hard to write.
And as always, if you see any typos or anything please please please point them out to me! I won't get offended.
And I love reviews because they help me flesh out my ideas and lets me know that I'm not just wasting my time writing a story no one wants to read. I love feedback, even if it's just a one word "good" review. Just let me know you exist! I won't write without an audience!
And thank you all for reading too, it means a lot to me that you can enjoy this on my journey to become a better writer (there is much I still need to learn!).
-The Firecrest