A/n: Well...nothing new to say really.
Humongous thanks to the reviewers and supporters and... Enjoy!
Chapter 11: Will (s)he Survive?
Strange, peculiar, unfamiliar.
Those were the words the raven would have used to describe that afternoon.
The day had started with his expedition to the libraries, his encounter with Hermione, and his introduction to the large and mighty Hagrid, who reminded Harry of a strong and grounded oak tree. Although, oak trees weren't likely to hit him in the face with a palm the size of his head whenever it turned around without paying attention. The giant's clumsiness wouldn't have been such a problem if Harry and Hermione's heads hadn't been the perfect distance from the ground, in the danger zone about Hagrid's waist.
Morning had turned to noon as Harry and Hermione explained all about the animal in Harry's room, and what information they had uncovered about it. Hagrid had started giving instructions, but it didn't take long for everyone to figure out that bringing the creature to Hagrid would be the best solution. It would significantly increase the chick's chances at surviving. For even if Hagrid gave Harry the right food, it still would be a delicate and difficult task to feed it.
This had led Hermione to step up once again as a loyal friend and face her parent's disapproval (which from what Harry knew of her, was a big step for the girl). She used Hagrid's phone to call her mother and admit she wasn't at the library anymore, and add to it a request to drive them to Harry's house to pick up the baby bird and bring it back to Hagrid's as soon as possible. If Harry had to walk all the way and back, it would take ages, and the long exposure to the winter cold combined with the roughness and noise of the trip could prove fatal for the creature in its weakened condition.
The raven had sat in silence with Hagrid as they watched Hermione wince every few seconds. They hadn't been able to hear what was being said on the phone, but it hadn't been hard to guess it wasn't a pleasant conversation. Harry had tangled and untangled his fingers nervously, feeling guilty for getting her in trouble. To his surprise, the scary giant had looked just as uncomfortable and sympathetic; one of the first signs that had allowed the raven to catch a glimpse of the warm and soft heart at the core of the colossal oak tree trunk.
Hermione's mother had eventually showed up and driven them in absolute silence to number four Privet Drive. Only green-eyes had darted into the house. He'd barely made a sound coming in, but suddenly, as he was about to ascend the stairs, aunt Petunia had appeared from the kitchen and hastily shut the door behind her, an expression of surprise and alarm on her face.
"You…" she'd stuttered clumsily, "what are you doing here?"
The question, and the manner in which it had been asked, as if aunt Petunia was scared of him and not the other way around, had sounded very strange to Harry's ears. So much so that he hadn't been able to answer for almost a full minute.
"I'm just picking something up." He'd finally said with a confused frown. It had seemed the best answer, the one Petunia was expecting.
And the raven was right. Aunt Petunia had clearly been relieved, and re-entered the kitchen, carefully shutting the door behind her.
The exchange had puzzled the green-eyed boy, but not enough to distract him from his bigger goal. He'd found the bird where he'd left it under the radiator, relieved that its tiny heart was still beating, and brought it back to the car, keeping it wrapped up and close to his chest.
In the car, Hermione and her mother had already started arguing, and that too had been a very awkward and guilt-laden moment for the boy. He'd kept quiet, peering out the window or checking on the creature while words like "I expected better from you", "I told you it's not safe on your own!" and "your father will hear about this" flew around.
Back at Hagrid's, he'd been once again surprised at how tender and dexterous the giant could be. The inside didn't fit the outside. The outside looked scary, the inside was ridiculously sweet. It was the complete opposite of a certain blond, grey-eyed person, who looked graceful and angelic on the outside, but could turn into the devil himself on the inside. Fred and George had used the words 'snaky bastard' and Harry now understood how they'd come to that conclusion.
Harry's heart had ached a little when he'd had to let go of the small bird he'd clutched close to him for an entire day and night. But he wanted… he needed it to stay alive. He could not let anything or anyone die in front of him again. It was unacceptable.
"Ah! It's a girl!" The bearded man had exclaimed the moment he'd touched the animal.
"How do you know?" Harry had asked. Even after so much time with it, he hadn't been able to make out what it was.
"Hagrid just has an eye for these things." Hermione had simply answered with a cryptic smile on her face. She knew Hagrid quite well. In fact, he was her first friend, her only true friend until a few months back.
Just before stepping out from Hagrid's small house and into the car to return once more to his own residence, Harry had caught Hermione's elbow and apologised.
"Look, I'm really sorry I got you into trouble." He'd played with his fingers as they'd stood by the doorway. Hagrid had been at the back, finding a place for his new patient and preparing its first meal.
Hermione had felt very strange at that moment. She could not recall ever having lived a day like this in her life. Sure, she, Ron and Harry had had superficial moments of glee at school, but their common goal outside the school grounds that day, and the obvious worry for her that Harry showed, were something quite out of the ordinary. They had delved under the surface and uncovered things they hid from the rest of the world.
The smart and lonely girl had been unable to respond to the dark-haired boy's words.
"Will it be all right?" Harry had wondered aloud, glancing at the car through the window, where an angry mother was still fuming. Remembering the fight on the way there, and the words "your father will…" he could not help but seeing images of his own troubles with Vernon Dursley. "Will you get hit?" He'd added when he'd looked back at his friend.
"What?" Hermione had squeaked in surprise. "Of course not! What are you saying?"
Oh. The raven had stared in surprise. For why did Hermione look angry now?
Truly, the raven thought to himself as he reviewed the day's events, lying on his bed, it was a busy and peculiar day. It had been filled to the brim with new encounters, adventures. With all that had happened, he had not once had to think about what lay under his floorboard. He had not needed to hug his magician-book, or Rebecca's pictures.
The downside was that an entirely new void had been carved out into him. It was accompanied by a constant worry. Worry that the chick might die.
Oh! The raven suddenly straightened up, his head spinning (he hadn't eaten since gobbling down four baked cinnamon rocks at Hagrid's). He'd just had an epiphany (though Harry wasn't sure if he was using the word right, he'd learned it only recently). He hadn't paid attention at the title in the book he and Hermione had looked over in the library. He'd been so focused on figuring out how to keep the little one alive. But now that that was out of his hands, he'd had time to realise the link.
The Bubo Scandiacus or Snowy Owl, it had said in the book. The same one his mother had said he would turn into if he rolled in the snow.
Maybe Lily Potter had thought her son's snow covered feathers would resemble the snowy owl's white plumage with black freckles. As if the black underneath was poking out here and there.
A mother would have seen it for certain. But the orphan himself could not understand. And even if he could, he had no time to ponder it further. He was called downstairs to help serve dinner.
The evening meal was a quiet happening that day.
"Where's Dudley?" Vernon asked after a good ten minutes of silence.
"He's at the Polkiss' house. They'll bring him back after dinner." She answered in an even stiffer manner than usual. Even Vernon wasn't used to his wife's attitude.
"Has he been there all day?" Vernon inquired.
"Yes."
Harry focused on his potatoes. For once, he had a large portion, with no 'Dudders' there to take more than his share. But he couldn't help but think back to the weird exchange earlier that day with his aunt. If no one had been home all day, she must've been alone in the kitchen. Why had she been so scared and surprised when he'd come in?
"How was your day?" Vernon asked after another few minutes. He must be trying to make conversation, the raven mused, for usually he only talked about his own achievements at work, though Harry always considered them less than worthy of mention. His parents had always had much more interesting things to tell about their work, he thought proudly, but kept chewing his potatoes.
"Well, it was just the usual, dear." Petunia said lightly, but keeping her eyes on her roast beef and onions.
"What do you mean, the usual?" Just as Harry thought, his uncle did not really have a clue what his wife did while he was away.
The dinner went on much in the same atmosphere: a music-less silent movie, sprinkled with a few intermezzo's of awkward and stiff small talk (though the raven thought Vernon was proving himself much less dense than he'd previously thought, for he had clearly also noticed his wife's reluctance to talk much about her activities). It was only interrupted when Dudley came home a little sooner than expected; and while Petunia busied herself with welcoming the Polkisses into her living room for some warming evening tea or coffee, Vernon Dursley took Harry apart in the dining room.
"Listen very carefully, boy!" He began urgently. "You are to stay in this house during my absence and watch very carefully what is going on in my home. I will expect a report every evening. Do I make myself clear?" He added threateningly.
Again, the young boy wondered what was going on. He had not yet observed this kind of behaviour in his uncle and aunt, and he felt that the added tension would not benefit him. Besides, he'd been planning to go see Hagrid at least once a day to check up on the little snowy owl. He hoped that walking two hours in the freezing cold every day would somehow make it survive. If he made that much effort, he concluded, it had to mean something. Someone, somewhere, somehow would see he was really trying, and let him have this. Just this.
Other than that, he'd also started thinking of going to that other library more often. He wasn't so keen on studying, but he had to face it, that essay for Miss Snape was not going to magically fall down from the sky. And yes, he thought he needed some more company. Being alone in his room again, without the presence of the tiny breathing, living creature, wasn't doing him any good. He also felt that the distance between them had somehow lessened. He assumed she would be fine with him sitting at the same table from time to time. He knew not to disturb her when she was concentrated on her work. And if he did not do it too often, she was even happy to help him with some problems he had, so she could show him how much she knew.
That was still the hardest part for him: manage to not roll his eyes or complain when she was being her classroom-arm-permanently-stuck-in-the-air self. In his defence, he was much better at it than Ron, who didn't really feel the boundary and just said whichever came to mind. At least twice a week he managed to make Hermione angry, and then she would stop helping both Ron and Harry, which made Harry complain to Ron, and then the picture was complete. A quarrelling mess.
Diplomacy was a skill the raven was learning to perfect, stuck in the middle of those two.
For all those reasons, Harry ignored uncle Vernon's 'request' and slipped out every day after he left for work. The mystery of aunt Petunia's secretiveness was sort of intriguing, but far from enough to keep him in a house that had Dudley in it, who had developed a habit of aiming his toy-gun at Harry while he was doing the dishes or some other chore and shooting the tiny plastic marbles right at the back of his neck. He had (infuriatingly so) gotten quite good at it, and it hurt. Not to mention it was so annoying Harry just wanted to chuck whatever he was holding at his cousin. But that would bring on a punishment far more painful than the marbles.
As the days ticked by and the end of the Christmas holiday neared, Harry was starting to crave school again. His essay was starting to look good with some of Hermione's help, so he wasn't afraid of Miss Snape's class. And school would finally give him an excuse not to be in the house and get Vernon off his back.
His uncle had pestered him every evening, or early in the morning if he hadn't had the chance the previous night, to ask him what had happened, what Petunia had done.
"Do any blokes come by regularly? Does your aunt look happy? Too happy?" He'd asked about halfway through the holiday, when he'd caught Harry in the hallway.
In fact, Harry had noticed a neighbour's presence from time to time. But aunt Petunia had always made sure to get him out of the house, on an errand if needed, whenever that man came by; resulting in Harry not having anything to report to his uncle.
"I don't know." Harry answered. He wasn't sure what his uncle would do if he told the truth. He was afraid of what he could do in a fit of rage. Strangely, he didn't want his aunt to get hurt. He didn't like her…okay, he hated her, but…well… pain, death, blood…no one deserved that. And even if they did, Harry didn't want to see it, ever.
"What do you mean you don't…"
But uncle Vernon was interrupted when his wife came into the hallway to go down to the cellar. There was a tense moment while the both of them simply stared at each other. Harry could practically see the rage building up in his uncle, his face turning scarlet, his breathing getting faster, his veins becoming more prominent… But instead of lashing out at his wife, or confronting her about whatever suspicions he had, without even looking at Harry, he hit him, with a fist, right in the stomach.
Harry dropped to his knees, his breathing cut off, clutching his stomach. Greater than the pain was the panic of not being able to catch a breath. Through the shock, he was only vaguely aware of his aunt's exclamations.
"Vernon! I said to be careful! What will the neighbours think if they see any marks on him!"
"Which neighbours?" He mumbled venomously, but only Harry who was closer, heard. "It's just his stomach. Dudley's old clothes will cover it up." He added, more calmly. But, just to challenge his wife it seemed, the bulky man slapped the boy on the head a few times. With an open hand instead of a fist this time. No marks.
Harry's hands didn't know what to do. They were trying to get his airways free again by clutching at his stomach and chest, and trying to protect his head from the oncoming blows, all at once.
After that episode, the raven had been forced to stay in the house for a few days. He'd been too weak and scared to find it in himself to walk all the way to Hagrid's, or even to make it to the library to study. He stayed close to his aunt, dutifully, but the neighbour never showed. The only suspicious occurrences were the few phone calls Petunia received, when her voice turned suddenly as sweet as if she were talking to her dear Dudders.
On the bright side, the baby bird was still alive and gaining strength. Hagrid kept it on a tight feeding schedule, and had told Harry that he was pretty certain it would reach adulthood. The only matter left now, he'd said, was to choose a name. He'd instructed Harry, the finder, to choose one.
The raven had looked through the few books he had in his room (some he owned, some were from the library) and come across a name that reminded him of Hagrid, the one he considered the actual saviour of the animal. He had done all the work, and was going to try and train her to become a real hunter, to release her into the wild.
Hedwig. That would be her name. And it was then that Harry had started to think of 'it' as a 'her'. He promised himself he'd try and visit her regularly after school started again.
After a few more inquiries from his uncle, a few more painful outbursts, a few more marbles shot at the back of his neck, and a few more shrill exclamations and harsh comments from his aunt as he did some chores wrong or not well enough, the last weekend finally arrived. Harry sighed in relief when Saturday began, knowing that uncle Vernon would be home himself, and would no longer depend on Harry for reports he could not give.
He still got insulted for (yes, again) burning the bacon. But it was short, and he had gotten past caring about it. Even slaps didn't bother him that much anymore. It was the real hits, the hard ones he feared. With the fist was the worst. But even with the palm, it could be hard enough to knock him off his feet.
None of that for now though, he thought happily. The only downside was that aunt Petunia gave him less than his normal share of eggs and bacon, resulting in his tummy still being unsatisfied when he had to start doing the dishes.
It was then that the doorbell rang. The Dursleys were all comfortably seated in the living room, Dudley watching the telly, Vernon reading the paper, and aunt Petunia working on a costume for her son for an upcoming birthday party. (Harry thought Dudders would be the clumsiest and biggest Robin Hood he had ever seen.) So of course, Harry was instructed to go open the door. He rinsed his hands and hastily grabbed a towel to dry them as he ran for the front door.
He immediately regretted that action once he saw who it was. He was now wearing over-large clothes that had belonged to his cousin and hung to his knees and toes, his hair had gone unwashed and uncombed for several days, and he was carrying a stained dishcloth. He was the incarnation of sloppiness and in front of him stood the much too graceful Narcissa and Draco Malfoy.
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