The Champion's Legacy
Chapter 1: Letters
Author's Note: Terribly sorry to keep you all waiting. I've been swamped with so much work – at work, and at home – it's not even funny. Anyway, no excuses now – finally, I present to you the first chapter of The Other Champion – Part II (I'm calling it that until I get recommendations for better names). This story will be much longer than Part I, since a lot of the plot points from OotP need to be covered, or touched upon. I will bring a few of my own, but that's for later.
Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter, and providing me with the impetus to kick-start this story.
Also, thanks to all of you for your patience, and kind reviews.
Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.
The summer of the year nineteen ninety-five was a period of certain unusual occurrences across the British Isles. For one, temperatures were soaring – the residents of Little Whinging had audibly groaned and whined about the searing heat, and the consequent imposition of water use restrictions by the government. The lawns and parks in and around the area were now dry and yellow – if not for the lack of any breeze or dried leaves littering the ground, one would have been forgiven for thinking it was autumn.
For another, there was a distinct upturn in the number of owls being sighted in broad daylight. Notoriously difficult to spot even at night, their appearance during the sunlit hours had caused many a birdwatcher to abandon his or her usual chores at home and run outside for a look. When questioned, however, ornithologists were at a loss to explain this odd behaviour – as though the owls had simply reset their body clocks to become diurnal birds.
Thankfully, there was only one birdwatcher in the whole of Little Whinging: a batty old man who was wholeheartedly convinced that a raven flying by was a harbinger of 'bad, horrible things to come', as he termed it. As he lived alone in a rundown house on the other side of town, no one took him particularly seriously.
It was therefore fortunate, but of no great surprise, when he failed to notice the multitude of owls that regularly converged upon a single house on Privet Drive.
Unfortunately, the owner of the house, a large man with very little neck and a walrus moustache, had noticed.
'How many times have I told you,' snarled Vernon Dursley over breakfast one morning, 'to keep that ruddy racket down!'
He glared at his nephew, a skinny, bespectacled boy with jet black hair and brilliant green eyes, who was wearing clothes that wouldn't have been form-fitting even on someone at least twice his size. The boy stared right back at him with a sullen expression – as though he dearly wished to respond, but knew it was better not to.
The racket in question had been caused by a particularly excitable owl – a tiny Scop – that had twittered madly around the third bedroom, evidently proud of the fact that it had, once again, completed a successful delivery. The miniscule bird's cries would have still been manageable – until it almost collided with a rather regal looking eagle owl that had just flown into the room. The ensuing shrieks from the two birds, combined with the loud, indignant squawks coming from a snowy white owl enclosed in a nearby cage, had caused quite the commotion earlier that morning.
Vernon Dursley did not like to be woken up that early in the morning. Especially when it was a Saturday.
He continued to glower at the skinny boy for a good while, as though continuous staring would somehow provoke his nephew to retort. But after some time, when it became clear that the boy would not respond, Vernon dropped his gaze to the newspaper in front of him, although he was still frowning.
A few minutes later, the boy stood up, his breakfast plate empty. Without a word, he turned, deposited his plate at the sink, and left the room. Vernon ignored him.
Just the way the boy liked it.
Harry bounded up the stairs two at a time and entered his room. He was quite thankful he had managed to control his temper at the table, and not resort to the rudeness that usually bubbled up when speaking to his living relatives. Indeed, he felt a bit proud that he'd managed to restrict himself to a sullen stare back at his Uncle; he was sure that, a year or two ago, he would have lost it completely.
Come to think of it, he had lost it two years ago – against his Aunt Marge, just before his third year at Hogwarts.
Harry brushed that incident off in his mind as inconsequential – he had not received any punishment for it; he had been able to achieve two completely Dursley-free weeks that summer; and most importantly, Aunt Marge had thoroughly deserved what had happened to her.
Shame she doesn't remember it, though.
Hedwig had given a low hoot of greeting when he entered the room; ten seconds later however, she was looking at him rather reproachfully after he dropped a few owl treats for her in the cage. Her larger amber eyes swivelled from him, to the treats, and back, as though meaning to say, 'Are you kidding?'
'Sorry Hedwig,' said Harry softly, sticking a finger through the bars of her cage to stroke her feathers. 'I wish I could let you out more often, but it's too dangerous now.' He sighed as Hedwig shifted to avoid his finger. 'I just want you to be safe, that's all.'
Her eyes softened slightly – if that could happen at all – but it was still with a slight amount of forced compliance, coupled with a desire for food, that she bent down to gobble up the owl treats.
Harry chuckled as he turned back to his desk, where the letters delivered by Pig and Archibald lay, unopened and waiting for him. With Uncle Vernon having almost burst into his room in rage at the noise caused by the hooting owls, he had not had the time to peruse what the owls had got him. In any case, he had made it a point to deal with his correspondence only after breakfast – the meals were sub-standard anyway, so it didn't make sense to potentially spoil them even further if the owls delivered bad news.
Good thinking, Harry. You're finally wising up.
He grinned to himself, for that thought was surely something he knew Daphne would say if she knew of his routine. Resisting the temptation to open her letter first, he picked up the envelope delivered by Pig, slit it open, and began to read the letter inside.
Harry –
There's not been much happening around here. Apart from the secret meetings, of course. And the fact that the Burrow always seems to be full of people. Everyone seems to be coming and going – including McGonagall, can you believe it? I thought I heard Snape too, slimy git, but I couldn't be sure.
I think we're planning to move out in a few days, but I have no idea where to. Mum keeps talking about 'Islington', and 'that dingy old house' – d'you have any clue what she might mean?
No word from Hermione yet, although there's a chance she might join us where we're going to. Mum said she's trying to speak to Dumbledore about getting her by next week – and you as well. I don't know what he said though.
Don't let the Muggles get you down, though. I'll try speaking to Dad to get you to come pronto. We can't be leaving you there alone for four weeks – not after last year.
Any word from the herbologist? I've got nothing on my side since my last letter last week.
Cheers,
Ron
Harry had to hand it to his best friend – Ron sounded a lot more assured and self-confident than he had ever been before. And he was writing in code – or at least, what could be passed off as code by Ron. He smirked as he imagined Hermione's exasperated reaction to Ron's attempts to deliver news from his side, while also asking for updates.
He re-read the letter, paying more attention to what Ron had written. So they were moving out of the Burrow – why, though? He felt a pang of unease inside his stomach – the Weasley house outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole was one of Harry's favourite places in the whole world. If the Weasleys had been forced to move out, something drastic had to have happened. And where were they going? Some 'dingy old house' in Islington? The only Islington he'd heard about was in London, but he didn't know anyone who stayed there. Probably a relative of the Weasleys?
He shrugged, and went back to the letter.
The mention of secret meetings, once again, was nothing new: Ron had written about them in almost every letter over the last three weeks. It seemed as though the Burrow had suddenly become the hub for a lot of activity during the summer – but Merlin only knew what the adults were discussing. If Ron knew, he certainly wasn't telling Harry.
A small bubble of frustration threatened to make its presence known inside Harry once again that summer – wasn't he, of all people, entitled to know what was going on? Oughtn't they to tell him whatever they were doing, if it was, as Harry presumed, something to do in the fight against Voldemort? It had been him, hadn't it, who had faced Voldemort yet again in that dark graveyard? If it weren't for him, Harry, none of them would've known that Voldemort had returned! How was this – isolation, seclusion, abandonment, whatever you termed it – even fair?
But even as the feeling boiled up with every successive thought of resentment, Harry clamped down on it, bursting it before it could get a hold over him. It wouldn't do him any good to feel frustrated over such things – not when there was nothing he could do to control it.
Pick your battles, Harry. Channel your anger towards those who deserve it most. Like You-Know-Who.
Her words from previous letters rang out loud and clear inside his head, and he successfully shut off that part of his mind where the resentment had escaped from. She was right, as usual: he had to channel his anger and emotion towards the one who was truly responsible. He was sure all of them – the Weasleys, Hermione, and his Professors at Hogwarts (save perhaps for Snape) – had his best interests at heart. If they didn't want him to know something, it must be for a reason.
Doesn't mean I have to like it, though.
I never said you should, Harry. He could almost hear her smirk in the statement.
He sighed quietly, and resumed reading Ron's missive.
'We can't be leaving you there alone for four weeks – not after last year.'
He felt a sudden rush of affection for Ron that had nothing to do with a rather rare breeze that yielded to the temptation of Harry's open window, causing the pieces of parchment on his desk to rustle slightly. If anything, he was immensely grateful that Ron had been alongside him for the whole debacle that had taken place last year at Hogwarts. Ron had been there to prop him up when it all seemed too much, had helped him calm down and take a breather when he felt overwhelmed…and most importantly, he had been able to say out loud what Harry had been feeling, on their last day at Hogwarts three weeks ago.
'He wanted to win, but not at the cost of Harry's loss. He wanted Harry to win, too. And I know Harry wanted him to win as well, but neither of them wanted to sabotage the other.'
'We should all be proud that Cassius was our champion – our Hogwarts champion. Make no mistake, the Goblet picked the right choice, because people should know that Cassius…he was a good bloke.'
'He was a true Hogwarts champion.'
And not for the first time that summer, Harry had to steady his resolve before it crumbled, as wave upon wave of memories returned to him: the time he'd spent with Cassius training, laughing and joking around with him, Adrian and Terence, learning spells and charms from each other – and not just for the Tournament, seeking advice from Cassius as one would do from an elder brother…
And then, he remembered Cassius' desperate attempts to save him, Harry, from Peter Pettigrew and Voldemort, when they had first encountered them in the graveyard; his insistence that Harry get out of there immediately; and then…
'Kill the spare!'
Harry gave a great shuddering gasp, even as he wrenched himself back into the present. The nightmare that was the aftermath of the third task was still freshly imprinted in his mind – he was quite sure the images from that evening would not be forgotten anytime soon. He looked up to gaze outside his window, onto the hot, dry street that was Privet Drive.
Even as he did so, his vision felt blurry – not because of the heat from the tarmac below, but from a few tears that had filled his eyes, which were now trailing tracks down his cheeks.
I'm sorry, Cassius. I'm so sorry.
It took Harry a few hours to get back to normal. He had missed lunch as a result, not wanting to end up being almost provoked by Uncle Vernon once again, especially in the state he had been in. By the time he felt ready to get back to his usual activities, he heard the front door slamming, and the unmistakeable sounds of the Dursleys' car pulling out of the driveway and heading out towards Magnolia Crescent.
Almost imperceptibly, Harry heaved a small sigh of relief. The Dursleys were usually not very nice people, but this summer, they had taken their unpleasant behaviour to a whole new level. It might have had something to do with the fact that their living room had been destroyed (albeit put back together as well) by Mr Weasley when he had arrived with his Hogwarts-attending sons to pick up Harry for the Quidditch World Cup last summer. Harry was quite certain that Uncle Vernon was still smarting over the entire incident, and seeing as he had not been able to vent his frustration towards Mr Weasley, Harry had become the de facto target for his ire.
Coupled with the fact that they were no longer allowed to use water as freely as they wished to anymore – one of Uncle Vernon's favourite pastimes was to loudly wash his large company car in his driveway, so as to garner the attention of everyone on Privet Drive – it was no wonder that his Uncle was in a constant state of grumpiness, with the vein in his temple reaching dangerous levels with almost disturbing regularity.
Of course, it didn't help that all three Dursleys despised the excessive heat, either.
So yes, Harry was quite glad that the Dursleys had gone out that afternoon. With any luck, they wouldn't be back before dinner that evening, giving him plenty of time to do as he pleased. That being said, his first priority, he thought as he got up from his bed and stretched languidly, was to get a bite to eat.
After wolfing down a few bites of the leftover shepherd's pie, Harry trudged upstairs to his bedroom, locked the door, and sequestered himself at his desk once more. Ron's unfolded and re-folded letter now lay upon the rather sizeable stack of parchment at the corner of his desk. That left the last letter he'd received earlier that morning – the one delivered by the eagle owl, Archibald.
'Any word from the herbologist?'
Chuckling slightly, he slit the envelope open, extracted the parchment, and began to read.
Dear Harry,
It's always good to hear from you, even though I know you aren't feeling that great right now. I hope you understand that it's not your fault, Harry – he wouldn't want you to blame yourself for what happened. Remember what I told you – channel your anger and emotions towards those who deserve it most. Don't you dare get into a mode of self-pity, alright?
He couldn't help but grin at this: somehow, Daphne knew exactly what to say to cheer him up – even if she wasn't right next to him.
Not much has happened here since my last letter. We've had a number of unexpected guests at home over the last week or so, but Father was able to manage them pretty well. I doubt they'd want to return for another visit though, I didn't think our hospitality was that endearing.
Harry stiffened slightly upon reading this. He had a nasty feeling he knew what she meant by 'unexpected guests'. He knew Voldemort had tried – albeit unsuccessfully – to recruit her father the last time he had been in power, but it seemed as though he hadn't given up. Harry was not worried about Daphne's family: if they had resisted Voldemort the last time round, they wouldn't have any problems in taking care of themselves this time. But if he was already sending Death Eaters to get them…
He shook his head slightly. He needn't worry: Daphne would be fine. And so would her sister, if her next lines were anything to go by…
Tori is being a pest, as usual. She's yet to start on her homework, but she refuses to allow me to complete mine either. I've still got my Potions essay to finish – are you done with that? I hope it will be easier than Transfiguration – that was a nightmare.
Harry grimaced as he recalled his attempts at drafting a passable Potions essay for Snape, even though he knew that with the greasy-haired Potions professor, even his best work would not garner more than an 'Acceptable'.
I haven't heard from our friend since we met last week. I suppose things have been busy at that end too, although it's never been this long without an update. Have you got anything?
That's odd, thought Harry, re-reading the lines again. Neither Ron nor Daphne had got any news for the last one week. Was everything alright? They were supposed to have received a check-in every three days – just to make sure that everything was alright. The silence was, therefore, quite unnerving, to say the least.
Take care, Harry, and stay safe. I'll see you on the train on September first – I can't wait.
Love,
Daphne
P.S. You may end up receiving a number of letters over the next few days from people whom you don't usually correspond with. Trust me on this: they're all safe to open and read through. I think you'll find them quite useful.
Harry stared at the post-script – a first from Daphne in the six or seven letters she'd written to him this summer, and certainly not the usual post-script one would expect to see. People would be writing letters to him? Who? And what for? And what made Daphne think that they would be useful for him, or more importantly, safe?
After pondering upon this for a few minutes, and getting nowhere in terms of an answer, he decided to pose the question to Daphne herself. Grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment, he dragged his ink pot closer, dipped his quill in it, and began to write.
Dear Daphne,
You know me, I rarely get into that mode. It's usually the self-blaming mode that I sink into – but don't worry, I'm working on that. If anything, I know I'll feel better once we meet. And yes, I can't wait to see you on September first, either.
I hope your father didn't have to do anything questionable to your unexpected guests. I know you can take care of yourself, but you can always let me know if you need anything, you know that.
Actually, I did finish my Potions essay – that was the first one I decided to work on once I got back. I figured the earlier I get it done, the brighter the holidays would be. Of course, being here isn't exactly a ray of sunshine (we get quite enough of that these days anyway), but I'll survive. Ron's mentioned that I should be getting out of here soon enough, so that's something to look forward to.
You know, it's funny, because I just got word that nothing's been heard for the last week either. D'you reckon something's wrong? Maybe we should ask someone to check?
As for those extra letters…what exactly have you done, Daphne? Are you sure they would be safe to open? And who are these people, anyway?
Love,
Harry
Harry read through the letter once more, just to make sure he wasn't giving away too much. It was quite unlikely that his post was being searched – he didn't think his fame of being the Boy-Who-Lived really warranted that – but one could never be sure. If Ron, of all people, felt that it was necessary to write in code – or some form of code, at least – then he, Harry, needed to ensure that his letters were discrete, yet meaningful.
Satisfied with what he had written, Harry rolled up the parchment, even as he reached over and poked Hedwig awake. His snowy companion gave a disgruntled hoot, and opened a bleary amber eye to glare at him.
'Feeling up for a long journey?'
If owls had eyebrows, he could swear Hedwig had raised one of hers at him, as if to say, yet again, 'Are you kidding?'
Harry grinned as Hedwig opened both eyes, and hopped out of the cage which he had opened for her. As he tied the scroll to her outstretched leg, he said, 'Take this to Daphne, alright? Don't get caught, girl.'
She gave him an understanding hoot, then hopped from his desk to the window, where she opened her wings wide, as though stretching out her sore muscles. Then, with a soft whoosh, she took off, flitted about the trees that scattered the landscape, and vanished from sight.
Harry watched her go, a mingled sense of loneliness and dread coiling around him. Hedwig was the only other living thing at Privet Drive that didn't flinch in his presence, and while he was used to her frequent absences for deliveries and the occasional hunting, her departure this time had a slightly more ominous feel to it. He could only hope that nothing would happen to her.
With Hedwig absent from Privet Drive, Harry whiled away the next few days in the solitude of his bedroom, or by taking frequent walks in and around Little Whinging. He was careful enough to avoid treading along the routes taken by Dudley and his gang – he knew from experience that if they were bored with their usual bullying and vandalising activities, they tended to revert to their old favourite pastime: Harry Hunting.
He had still not heard anything else from Ron since his last letter. Of course, he hadn't been able to respond to him immediately, but he reckoned Ron would have figured as much after seeing Pig return without a scroll tied to his tiny leg. Maybe he was busy with the move, and hadn't noticed Pig's return at all? Harry tried very hard not to think of the alternative – he didn't think he'd be able to face it if something of that sort had happened.
It was odd, though, how…quiet, everything was. There was no news of Voldemort or his activities in the Daily Prophet; no mention of strange and unusual occurrences in the Muggle news; nothing about odd disappearances or sudden disasters in the country… Harry didn't understand why Voldemort was choosing to keep a low profile. Was he still not back at his full strength? What was he doing then? Why was he biding his time?
Distracted as he was by these thoughts, he almost collided with someone walking in the opposite direction on the pavement; stumbling slightly, he adjusted his askew glasses and apologised to the person, who had let out a string of colourful words that Harry had only ever heard his Uncle Vernon use when he was annoyed.
'Sorry!' Harry exclaimed, holding out a placating hand. 'Lost track – didn't see – sorry –'
The someone, Harry noticed, turned out to be a rather attractive young woman. She had a pale, heart-shaped face, with blonde hair that fell back in curls around her shoulders. She sported two mismatched earrings, a t-shirt that had the words 'Stare at your own risk' emblazoned upon the front in bright gold lettering, and a pair of ripped jeans. She looked barely older than twenty, judging by her overall appearance.
For some inexplicable reason, the woman almost tripped over her own feet as she righted herself from the near collision with Harry, but was able to regain her footing. She gave herself a once-over, then turned to glare at Harry in mild annoyance.
'Watch where you're going, will you?' she said, and without waiting for a response, she turned her back on Harry, and strode off in the direction she was heading in. Harry watched her go with a bemused expression on his face – not least because the woman kept patting the pockets of her jeans as she walked, as though trying to locate something on her person. Then, after a few moments, he saw her shoulder sag – whether from relief or defeat, he couldn't tell – before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
The encounter with the woman had made Harry a tad delayed – the Dursleys considered any time after Dudley returned home as 'too late', and while Uncle Vernon's testy mood had eased up after Hedwig's departure, Harry decided not to take any chance in avoiding annoying his uncle and aunt. And so, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his large jeans – Dudley's hand-me-downs – he swivelled on the spot at the far end of Wisteria Walk, and set off back towards number four, Privet Drive.
The evening was, surprisingly, quite cool. A gentle breeze – something which the residents of Little Whinging had been desperate for throughout the day – wafted across the landscape. The sun was slowly sinking to Harry's left, its fading rays casting long shadows of the houses and lamp poles lined along the streets. Those who had chosen to venture outside during the warm and dry evening now savoured their walks home, their moods notably lifted with the advent of the breeze.
As he turned into Magnolia Crescent, Harry walked past the narrow alleyway between the two houses, where he had first clapped eyes upon his godfather, Sirius Black, almost two years ago. He hadn't recognised Sirius then – he had been in his Animagus form – but he considered it to be a significant event, nonetheless. In any case, Sirius' presence had caused him to, albeit by accident, summon the Knight Bus.
Harry wondered where Sirius was right now. His godfather hadn't given him a location of his whereabouts – he rarely did, anyway, out of fear of the letter being intercepted – but quite unusually, Sirius had been more tight-lipped in his letters than he had ever been before. Even his letters during the Triwizard Tournament last year had been more expressive than what he, Harry, had been receiving this summer. Instead of telling Harry what was going on in the wider wizarding world, Sirius seemed to be giving vague and rather unhelpful hints as to what Harry was to be doing.
'Keep your nose clean, Harry. Don't do anything rash.'
'You must make sure that you are safe. Don't do anything to jeopardise that.'
'Don't attract too much attention to yourself right now. Stay safe, we'll come and get you soon.'
But when was soon? How long was he to be stuck here, in Privet Drive, this summer? His frustration, so long kept bottled and in check, threatened to burst out again – how could Dumbledore allow this? How could he have left Harry at Privet Drive, with not a word on what was happening outside, completely cut off from the magical world, for three weeks?
Channel your anger, Harry…
Harry stopped at the corner between Magnolia Crescent and Privet Drive, took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and willed himself to calm down. No point in getting angry now, no use in getting frustrated about this. He'd get his answers when the time would come.
Just focus, now…
He opened his eyes, feeling the vestiges of his annoyance seep out of him as he exhaled slowly. The technique had been taught to him by Daphne through one of her letters, when he'd asked her how he was supposed to 'channel his anger'. So far, it had proved to be a godsend, even if he was having to employ it more frequently these days.
Harry resumed walking once more, barely acknowledging Mrs Figg as the batty, old, cat-loving woman tottered along the opposite pavement, two of her many cats pattering in her wake. He had no desire to be invited over to her place right now, especially when it was this late in the evening. He wouldn't put it past his Uncle and Aunt to berate him for his lateness, even if he had been at Mrs Figg's house.
As the sun finally sank beyond the distant horizon, and the first stars shone in the night sky, Harry turned into the driveway of number four. Noiselessly, he slipped inside the house, shutting the door quietly behind him, and hurried up the stairs. He could hear the television blaring out some jingles from the living room below, which covered the sound of him climbing up to his room.
He was not surprised to see Hedwig's cage empty: he had left it open to allow her to swoop in and rest, but she had still not returned from delivering Daphne's letter. He made his way across the room, cleaning up stray pieces of parchment and quills, moving the odd textbook here and there, finally achieving the goal of a decently tidied room. None of the Dursleys ever deigned to show up in his room – Aunt Petunia seemed to treat it as a place outside of her cleaning territory – but Harry felt he ought to clean it up every now and then.
Hermione's words rang out in his mind as he lobbed a few crunched up pieces of parchment to the dustbin in the far corner: 'A cluttered place means a cluttered mind, Harry!'
Grinning to himself, and feeling quite proud of the progress he'd made, Harry adjusted the stack of letters on his desk, and looked out of the window –
– just in time to see three owls glide past the now-lit street lamp, in the direction of his bedroom.
Harry instinctively moved out of the way; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the three owls land smoothly – and thankfully, given the effort he'd put in cleaning – on his bed. As he straightened up, he looked outside once more, just to make sure there weren't any more owls in the immediate vicinity, before turning to the three in his room, each of whom had now stuck out their right legs, upon which letters were tied quite securely.
Harry's first observation was that his own Hedwig was not among the owls he now faced – and yet, Archibald was present, ruffling his feathers importantly as he shot a seemingly disdainful look at the other two, slightly more common, barn owls. Without wasting any time, Harry untied the letters from the three owls' legs; the two barn owls gave him soft hoots, and with a whoosh, took off from the bed and swooped out into the night. Archibald, however, stayed back – he hopped over to the edge of Harry's desk as the latter sat down in his chair, rifling through the envelopes he'd just received.
The one from Archibald was obviously from Daphne – he recognised the curved handwriting in green ink, just the way her previous letters to him had been. The others, however, were complete unknowns – neither of them had a return name or address on the back; instead, they merely sported his name, written in black ink and unfamiliar handwriting. Who could these be from? Were they dangerous – sent by some ambitious Death Eaters in order to kill him? Or were they harmless jokes sent by anonymous people?
As his gaze shifted from the unknown envelopes to Daphne's, the words from her last letter sprang to the forefront of his mind:
You may end up receiving a number of letters over the next few days from people whom you don't usually correspond with. Trust me on this: they're all safe to open and read through. I think you'll find them quite useful.
Were these them, then? The letters from 'people he usually didn't correspond with'? Could they truly be trusted not to contain anything dangerous that could potentially harm him, or the Dursleys (although the latter wouldn't have been too bad an idea)? Could he, in fact, trust Daphne enough to open these letters without any fear?
Deciding that he would deal with the unknown ones in a bit – who knows what they could contain – he opened Daphne's letter first. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out the parchment and, with Archibald's unblinking gaze upon him, began to read.
Dear Harry,
I'm sending this with Archibald because Hedwig stands out, and they know she belongs to you, they'll trace her back to you quite easily. I asked her to leave as soon as she came, and to take a long detour. She should be back soon.
We got another visit from Father's friends, and he refused immediately. I suppose it's only a matter of time before they send the people in charge to convince him – but I don't think they'd do it unless things go public. Father doesn't seem to be too worried about it.
We've decided to head to Lyon for the rest of the summer – Mother has been desperate for a holiday abroad since our second year, and I think even Father needed a break from his work and the constant house-calls. We're leaving tomorrow, Harry, and…I don't think I can send anything to you until we're back in Britain.
Harry thought the ink seemed slightly splotched here – maybe she had blotted her quill a bit too much.
I wish there was a way to speak to you, Harry, but Father has insisted that there be no owls or any communication while we're there. I don't like the forced confinement, but I didn't want to argue with him. In any case, I've asked Archibald to wait for a reply from you – I hope you can send something back with him.
I will miss you, Harry. I can't wait to see you on the train – or sooner, if possible. Take care, and stay safe.
Love,
Daphne
P.S. The two barn owls carry those letters I had told you about in my previous letters. They're perfectly safe to open, and definitely useful.
Harry stared at the letter, his eyes moving across the written words again, but not really taking them in. His mind seemed to have forgotten all other coherent thoughts, instead focusing on one fact: Daphne was going to be unreachable for the next six weeks.
He had not thought about this at all, had not considered this to be a possibility. Daphne's letters had seemed to be a constant over the last three weeks – ever since his first day back at Privet Drive, when he had almost jumped in shock at the appearance of the regal looking eagle owl outside his window. Her letters were a source of comfort to him, a break from the monotony of Ron's missives and Sirius' dreary and vague replies. Almost telepathically, she could cheer him up when he felt guilty and down about Cassius' death, or get him to focus and calm down when he got angry at Dumbledore and the rest of the wizarding world. But now, the prospect of her not being around seemed to strike Harry at the most vulnerable place in his heart.
Six weeks…how was he going to survive six weeks without her?
Harry didn't know what to think – indeed, he had no idea what to do. He sat there at his desk, unmoving, gazing with a blank expression outside his window. Six weeks…no contact for six weeks…
Archibald's hoot brought him back from his self-created oblivion. He stared right back at the eagle owl, which inclined its head and blinked its large eyes once. The message was clear: get on with it.
With some effort, Harry pulled himself out of his thoughts, and focused on the matter at hand. Archibald was waiting for him to compose a response – a reply for Daphne. His last letter to her this summer. He wasn't going to let this chance pass by him.
He mentally shook himself, pulled out his quill, dipped it in an open bottle of ink, and began writing on a fresh piece of parchment that he'd extracted from another pile on his desk.
Dear Daphne,
I will admit, your letter came as quite a surprise for me – I honestly don't know how I'm going to get past these six weeks without any letter or communication from you. I suppose the only consolation I can get is that you will be safe – I doubt there would be many house-calls while you are in Lyon.
Thank you for Hedwig, though – as smart as she is, it's reassuring to know that she's got someone else looking out for her. I think she feels the same way.
I can't wait to see you either – hopefully I can find a way to meet you during this summer. If not, I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express. Please take care of yourself, and Astoria.
Love,
Harry
P.S. As for those other letters…well, if you're sure, I'll go ahead and open them.
Harry knew it sounded dreary, maybe even meek, but what choice did he have? He had no avenue for contesting her father's decision to take a family vacation – it was a holiday, after all – just because he didn't like it. They were right, in any case: Britain was no longer as safe as it had been for those who stood against Voldemort, and if some people had already received house-calls…
For one wild moment, Harry wondered why he hadn't received any visits from the Death Eaters, or even Voldemort himself. He peered out of the window, glancing up and down Privet Drive as much as he could from his restricted vantage point. It appeared to be completely deserted – indeed, even the brief breeze that had blown that way appeared to have died down, leaving everyone scrambling for the cool shade of their homes.
You're being paranoid. Voldemort isn't going to come banging on your front door.
And for some reason, he knew that to be true. A direct approach just didn't seem to be Voldemort's style. Harry couldn't explain how he knew this, only that it seemed to be the most appropriate, and likely, explanation.
In any case, the Greengrass family had been approached, and they had rebuked the offers made by Voldemort and his henchmen. That would have made them prime targets for Voldemort – anyone who didn't stand with him was against him. With that in mind, Mr Greengrass' decision to take a vacation seemed like a wise decision.
Then again, that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially if it meant six weeks of silence from Daphne's end.
With a sigh, Harry rolled up the parchment, then turned to tie it around Archibald's outstretched leg. The regal owl gave a hoot, and a small jerk of its head that looked like a bow, then hopped onto the windowsill, stretched its wings, and took off into the darkness. Harry watched him go, trying not to think about the fact that that was his last letter to Daphne for the rest of the summer.
His eyes dropped to his desk, and spotted the two unknown envelopes, sitting there innocently, and with his name printed upon each of them in black ink. Daphne had assured him that these would be fine – he had anyway written to her that he would open them, but ought he to take a chance? Or could it wait until he had an adult, qualified wizard around him – maybe once he was with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys?
They're perfectly safe to open, and definitely useful.
His melancholy feeling that had arisen on reading Daphne's letter, and which had subsisted up till that point, was now replaced by a thrill of apprehension mixed with fear. Thoughts of 'Don't do this!' and 'What's wrong with you?' flitted in and out of his mind as he reached for the nearest envelope.
It was different – Harry had never come across this kind of parchment, least of all for an envelope. It seemed…sleeker, thinner – of a richer quality than what he was used to. Apart from this distinctive characteristic, its overall appearance was unassuming, and gave nothing away. There was no return address, no signature…nothing. Just his name, scrawled across the front of the envelope in block letters and in black ink.
Ignoring the discouraging thoughts and feelings that his mind was now full of, Harry turned the envelope in his hand, opened it, and pulled out the parchment from within.
To be continued…
AN Update (May 11, 2018): Story title changed based on recommendation from White Squirrel – thank you!
