The Scar

Everybody flinched.

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.

"That must hurt, mate." Ron said.

A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair.

Snape almost came to tears at the description of Lily's eyes. It was as painful as Dumbledore taunting him after her's and James' deaths.

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. . . . There had been a snake on a hearth rug . . . a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail . . . and a cold, high voice . . . the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought. . . .

Everybody gave him sympathetic looks. He didn't ask to look into Voldemort's head, but he still had to.

And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confusing. Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them. . . . Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the name . . . and they had been plotting to kill someone else . . . him!

So this did happen? Fudge thought.

A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks.

"Why did they allow you to have your trunk in your room the summer after our third year?" Ron asked.

"Because they were scared Sirius was going to turn them into bats. I didn't bother to tell them that Sirius was innocent." Harry said.

Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another.

Sirius and Ron smiled at the fond reference of the Chudley Cannons.

Even Quidditch — in Harry's opinion, the best sport in the world — couldn't distract him at the moment.

"Wow! That's a shocker." Hermione exclaimed.

He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

"Why did you?" Ron asked, disgusted.

"To see if Voldemort was there." Harry said.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

"That's boring." Fred said.

Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night.

Everybody looked away, remembering the Dobby incident in second year.

Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at his house and killed his father and mother.

"That's putting it mildly." Mrs. Weasley said.

At once, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to fill his head, shrill and panicky.

"Oi!"

"Your scar hurt? Harry, that's really serious. . . . Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I'll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. . . . Maybe there's something in there about curse scars. . . ."

"Well, you should consult a book." Hermione said.

"I know that, but I doubt any book would have my symptoms." Harry said.

He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose.

The headmaster gave Harry a smile, and he was taken aback as Dumbledore hadn't spoken or acknowledged him all year, smiled back.

And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron Weasley's, reaction, and in a moment, Ron's red hair and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before Harry, wearing a bemused expression.

Ron flushed.

"Your scar hurt? But . . . but You-Know-Who can't be near you now, can he? I mean . . . you'd know, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to do you in again, wouldn't he? I dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit. . . . I'll ask Dad. . . ."

Mr. Weasley flushed.

Mrs. Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron's sixteen-year-old twin brothers, might think Harry was losing his nerve.

"We care about you, Harry." Mrs. Weasley said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley." Harry said.

The Weasleys were Harry's favorite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite him to stay any time now (Ron had mentioned something about the Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn't want his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his scar.

The Weasleys flushed, even Percy.

And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn't believe it had taken so long — Sirius.

Sirius gave a childish smirk.

There was a simple reason for Sirius' complete absence from Harry's life until then — Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped.

Everybody but Umbridge glared at Fudge, even Madam Bones. She was going to open a re-investigation into Sirius, hopefully give him a fair trial.

Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he had been

back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds.

"I was in the Canary Islands." Sirius said.

Dear Sirius,

Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get through my window.

Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't going

too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his

room yesterday. They told him they'd have to cut his pocket

money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked

his PlayStation

"A what?" Ron asked.

"It's a video game. That is basically a movie, but you can interact with it." Harry said.

"He's on a diet, now?" Cho asked, shocked.

out of the window. That's a sort of computer

thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn't

even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off

things.

I'm okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask you to.

A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar

hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?

I'll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she's off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for me.

Harry

"Why didn't you tell me about the dream?" Sirius asked.

"I didn't want to worry you and you do something stupid and get caught and sent back to Azkaban." Harry said.

"Do something stupid? That would be beneath me." Sirius said, giving Harry a playful glare.

Harry shrugged.

Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast.

"What? Sometimes I envision leaving the Dursleys forever." Harry shrugged.