 |
second chances: james & harry au
The Phoenix Song… The most beautiful melody that Harry had ever heard in all his life. How such a delicate timbre could take command of his entire being Harry would never know. His wand vibrated powerfully with the rhythm of it - the shimmering stream that was spouting from the end of his wand, connecting it to Voldemort's was shooting out in shards of gold in every direction. It danced violently, cutting a path around them, engulfing them. The Death Eaters watched in awe, following Voldemort's command not to get involved. They could only stare, backing away, robes billowing and catching graveyard dirt, tossing it into the air as they moved.
Don't let go. Don't break the connection.
That calming voice still called to him and Harry listened, despite his initial fears. He'd almost pulled away just a moment ago when the connection had first been set. He struggled with the instinct to jerk his hand and to run but this violent golden stream was the only thing saving his life. There was a spark of some unknown emotion in Voldemort's monstrous eyes, perhaps a flicker - a glimmering of fear, of uncertainty. That was as good a sign as any.
Still the phoenix sang. Harry's wand felt as though it would scorch his palm with his fist so tightly bound around it but he would not let go. Then the screams of pain emerged and Voldemort's shocked eyes bore holes into him. Cedric's ghostly form nearly caused Harry to drop his wand in amazement but he held on, astounded at the vision, buried in grief and guilt… So Cedric was gone from the world now… but hadn't that been obvious? The shout ofAvada Kedavra - his form going limp, stiff, his eyes soulless… it was almost as though Harry had been in denial until that point, but this moment made it all too real. To see the spirit Voldemort had stolen hovering before him - pleading with him to hold on, not to break the golden web; there was no denying it then. They appeared one by one out of the tip of Voldemort's wand, thin threads of smoke that stretched and formed the shapes of others The Dark Lord murdered. The old man from his dreams, then Bertha Jorkins, she too pleading for him to hold on as if his life depended on it. But Harry wouldn't let go, not until he saw them for he knew what was coming… From the moment Cedric was revealed, his heart had begun to ache with a longing to see them.
When it was her turn… when that long hair swirled out from the tip of Voldemort's wand and she fell into a heap upon the ground, he stopped breathing. When Harry finally looked into his mother's face, a face he'd only seen as an infant and in photographs - looking into her eyes, as her soul too embraced him with its gaze, he swallowed a sob, finally able to catch a breath but the sense of longing only grew. A warmth washed over him, killing the sickly void that was forming in his gut and he waited in anticipation for he knew what - no who was next. He'd finally get to see him…
"Harry, you must let go…"
Harry furrowed his brows, what was his mother saying… why would he let go? That would never happen, not when he was so close to seeing his father. He wanted to meet them both.
"He isn't coming Harry…" ****
His eyes shot open. Harry was wheezing violently, chest heaving as he gazed up into the clear blue sky. This summer had been unrelenting and he was covered head to toe in a thin film of sticky sweat which he attempted to wipe away from his forehead with the back of his hand. Harry sat upright in his spot just beneath the Dursley's window and he examined the quiet, perfect street, lined with quiet, perfect little homes. Harry cursed himself for having fallen asleep. Now he would have to wait until tomorrow to know if anything important had happened on the news. It was rare that the Dursley's had the attention span to listen to the news more than once, (as nosy as they were) finding the stories repetitive. Harry never had any say in what was on the telly and so the prospect of seeing the Nightly News was entirely out of the question. Besides as desperate as he was to make sure nothing terrible was happening, he hated being in his Aunt and Uncle's presence. All the questions and suspicious stares. They couldn't understand why he'd be so interested in knowing what was happening in the world.
Then again, they didn't know that Voldemort was back, that he had killed someone right before Harry's eyes. They also didn't know that it was possible that James Potter, his dad was still alive.
The letters from Ron and Hermione weren't helpful at all. They seemed to be together, so why was he left all alone 'til damn near the end of the summer? The short vague notes sent by Sirius infuriated Harry even further. None of them even attempted to try to help him understand why his father hadn't emerged from Voldemort's wand and why he wasn't with Harry's mother in… well wherever it was that spirits went when they passed on. Dumbledore had promised there would soon be an explanation, but when? The Headmaster hadn't even contacted Harry once since the school year ended!
The memory of the graveyard kept him up at night, which was why he'd fallen asleep and missed the news to begin with. Harry's brain was so frazzled, and his heart ached for what seemed like every minute of every hour without relief.
All he could think about was the graveyard; Cedric lifeless before him. He obsessed over the many ways that it could have gone differently. Had Harry simply grabbed the cup on his own no one would have died.
When he wasn't being consumed with guilt over Cedric, he thought about seeing the ghost of the mother he never knew. He wondered what it would have been like to be raised with her love, to feel her brush his messy hair away from a pristine forehead that had never felt the sting of a deadly curse. What was it like to have a mother to wipe the tears from your eyes? Harry was slipping into despair, aware that he would never know.
What a gentle thing; to be swallowed by despair. He ached. He longed to draw forth violence from his very core. To ripple the seas, to rattle this terrible cage. To shatter. To scream.
But even that wouldn't accomplish anything. There was nothing he could do to change what had already transpired, yet still, a fire raged in the pit of his stomach that undulated to the rhythm of his phoenix song. There was a new mystery to be solved wasn't there? His father might still be among the living. He could search for him, there was still so much they could experience together. So much that he'd missed out on that his father could teach him. He only hoped this wasn't a dead end that would lead to disappointment. Everyone warned him not to get his hopes up but how could he deny that fire inside? It was the only good thing. The only thing keeping him from the darkness. The only time that his dreams weren't nightmares was when he was meeting his father in the flesh. They talked, roughhoused, told stories and best of all, played Quidditch. He knew that the chances of any of that coming true were slim but it didn't hurt to dream. He'd had enough of nightmares. Harry stood then, and made for the front door, opening it, stepping inside and closing it in a swift motion. He made quickly for the stairs and his Aunt and Uncle ignored him for the most part besides a gruff scoff that had come from his Uncle Vernon, but there was nothing to say, really. He'd finished his chores and arrived home earlier than Dudley. Harry went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and collapsing unto his bed. He hardly noticed the sound of the ringing doorbell... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Once you go, never, ever turn around. I have sacrificed, and I burned.
Oh, you gotta live before you learn and I wanted the truth, but sometimes the truth hurts.”
A night lived in infamy. The night a legend began. October 31, 1981 "Moh! Moh!" "You've had a lot of candies, Harry and Mummy said no more..." "Moh...Pease?" Wide green eyes blinked up at him in quick succession, all wide and full of wonder, the child's ability to strip him of his fortitude astounding. His lips twitched, trying to remain firm, but easing into a crooked smirk as he sighed in defeat. "...Just one more, but this is the last one, alright? I know it's Halloween and that's quite special." With that, he extended the candy to an instantly gleeful child who laughed and took it, immediately eating it as James scooped him up. A lilting voice beckoned him from a room or two away, and he moved to meet Lily at the bottom of the stairs. Harry was long done with the candy, but as he licked his fingers, the redhead turned a suspicious gaze on him. "...Hmm... how strange, I just cleaned his hands a couple minutes ago, funny how they got chocolate on them..." Feigning innocence as she took the babbling child from his arms, he laughed, "Oh, that IS strange!" Rolling her eyes, she swatted at his chest, which made him grin, "He looked at me with those eyes and you know how badly I fare against those eyes..." The answer earned him a coy smirk from the witch, "...Oh, I'm quite aware, James." Stooping slightly, he ruffled the boys hair, "Goodnight Harry, Daddy loves you." A small hand touched his cheek and he smiled warmly. Pressing to his temple, earning a happy coo as Lily turned, and then disappeared up the stairs to put him to bed. How could he have known this would be their last moment together for over a decade? That he had just experienced the final interaction as ‘The Potters’. Would he have done something different? Alas, the man was clueless to the course of events that would transpire in the next half hour. As quickly as he could manage, he picked up the living room, stowed the candies where Harry couldn't sneak them, and ultimately met Lily at the bottom of the stairs when the soft padding of her footsteps alerted him. Hands came to rest on her shoulders, as he smiled down at her, "He went down that fast, even with all that sugar?" "We're lucky he also happened to run around like a nut for most of the night." "Hmmm, I 'spose that's tru-"
James never did get to finish that thought, as the near-deafening sound of their front door exploding interrupted the thought. For the first time in their life together, James pushed roughly at Lily, his arm slamming across her to push her behind him. Did he scream? Did she? Everything had imploded into a battle that he was woefully unprepared for. "Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off-!" He'd break that promise. He'd hold off nothing. Prevent nothing. Those twisted words were uttered and cast at him. Avada Kadavara. They were supposed to kill him, to destroy him the moment the curse left the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Years of Quidditch granted James the ability to twitch his head to left just enough that the spell hit the mirror behind him. It rebounded, the spell damn near destroying him, yet they left just the faintest bit of breath in his lungs. Survival came at a cost, for it would be years before James Potter would wake from that coma. June 26, 1994 It was quiet as he awoke, slowly blinking away the brightness of the room. He felt a strange numbness in the tips of his fingers, though as he began to shift about, he found the sensation spreading through all of his limbs. “Holy hell…” He managed to mutter, but the words were coarse and raw, unused vocal cords stretching and making his voice sound all wrong in his own ears. The world was a mere blur before him, as he began ungracefully patting around for his specs. Where was he? Where were his glasses? They were nowhere, nothing felt familiar, the silence of this room was disconcerting and his head was heavy, like it was filled to the top with lead. An unfamiliar woman’s startled shout sounded from a distance away, and the sound just as quickly dissipated. Where was his wand? Where was Lily? Where was Harry?! “Hello? Miss? My son, he’s just a baby, where is he?!” Though he was certain he’d projected his voice, it barely sounded like a whisper. And his head. Oh! His head! It was pounding and dull, and every thought was slow and felt like it was coated in mud. “Mr. Potter? Oh my… Mr. Potter… Calm down, please.” Calm down? Calm Down?! Was she insane? He couldn’t see, he felt like sh*t, he knew nothing about where his family was and this blur of a woman expected him to calm down? “Answer my damn questions! Where is my son? My wife?” “Here are your glasses, though, you may need a new pair…” The voice trailed off as he felt the black plastic frames pressed into his left hand. Eagerly, he unfolded them and clumsily managed to put them on, the room before him growing mostly clearer, but nothing was as sharp as it should be. Blonde. The woman at his side was a healer of sorts, with a perplexed expression upon her face. “Alright… thanks and… I guess.. Hello. You seem to know who I am. Who are you?” With a shallow dip of her head, “Of course, of course. I’m Annalise Palane, a healer and I’ve been working on your case for… well, quite some time now. There is quite a lot to tell you about, Mr. Pot-“ He waved a hand dismissively as he interrupted her, though the gesture felt far more difficult to perform than it ever had before. “James. My name is James, and I don’t care about anything except Lily and Harry. A redhead, and a dark-haired baby. Just tell me where my family is. Please.” Some of the fog was beginning to clear out of his head, likely fueled by the adrenaline of not knowing where his family was. Heart was pounding as Annalise hesitated, her gaze flickering to the side, shifting over the faces of a small crowd who had poured into his room. Was he a circus act? Had something remarkable happened that every healer in this… wherever the f*** this was, had to bear witness?! Suddenly, he wanted to scream, to leap from the bed and shake this woman until she told him where Lily and Harry were! Why would she keep such vital information from him! “Please.” He managed in a calm tone, though he could feel his composure lapsing, panic replacing sensibility by the minute. Each word was still a challenge to utter, his voice feeling strained at each sentence. “Your son is just fine, James.” She said sharply, not meeting his eyes as she placed a hand on his. “…But I asked… I asked… I…” The words tumbled worthlessly from his mouth, which he promptly covered with his hand. Harry was ok. Harry was ok. Harry was ok!! HARRY. Harry, but not… not… oh. Oh. Oh no. Some of the panic had quelled, knowing that their son was alive. Well. Was ‘just fine’. Whatever that meant. But he wasn’t an idiot, and that was a well phrased sentence and he could easily read between the lines. Without permission, hazel eyes filled with tears as he went to look at his left hand, seeing it devoid of his wedding ring. In fact, his hand looked all wrong. “…My ring.” “Oh, it… stopped fitting, it’s right in this drawer here.” “Stopped fitting…?” He repeated quietly back to her as she retrieved the ring and handed it to him. Sure enough, as he slid it onto his finger, it no longer stayed in place. Everything was so damn wrong! Nothing felt right, he didn’t feel right! Lily was… no. He couldn’t do that yet. He couldn’t…Couldn’t reckon with that yet. Harry first. He’d promised her that. Always, Harry first. James had already broken his vow to protect her at the cost of his own life, he owed it to her to find their son. And to find him now. Pushing the blanket off of his legs, he began shifted to move from the bed, a series of actions which horrified Annalise, who pressed her hands forcefully to his chest. “No, you aren’t ready to get up yet.” “I’m not a child, Miss. I don’t need your damn permission to do sh*t. I need to see my son, and you’re not going to keep me from him.” Pushing against her, he found resistance. Wait. What? Why? Bloody f***, why?! July 1, 1994 Four days. Four entire days before they bothered to give him the details. Two days for Albus Dumbledore to show up and have the talk. That the information overload was enough to send him back into a f***ing coma. That he’d been in a coma for twelve f***ing years?! That he’d missed his son’s entire life. That his beautiful wife was dead. That his son had been attacked by that f***ing monster and survived. With a scar to prove it. He’d never kissed that scar to make it better. Oh, and one other fine detail. The entire wizarding world, outside of Dumbledore and the Healers in this secret hospital, thought James Fleamont Potter had died that Halloween Night. Slayed just a minute before his wife. There was a tombstone erected beside hers and everything. For all intents and purposes… he was dead. That was a fact he might have been able to handle, except, Harry thought he was an orphan. From his bed he could see that there was a calendar at the desk station. What day was it now? Dumbledore had said twelve years had passed. That Harry had just completed his fourth year at Hogwarts. Everything about that thought made his chest tight and his heart squeeze with an agony he couldn't even articulate. Merlin, Morgana, Circie! How could he have let this happen? How could he have let his son be alone all these years?! What kind of a father was he? A dead father, as far as Harry knew. Lily was gone. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to think such words. It wasn’t time yet. Not yet. Their son had been alone, forced to think himself of an orphan while he slept off a bad spell! Teeth gritted and he nodded slowly, resolving to revolutionize their lives. They would be together again. Harry would spend the rest of his days with a father who loved him, so long as he could forgive him for his absence. Staring at the ceiling, he closed his eyes as they filled with tears, his voice tense, "I'm coming for you Harry. I promise that I won't f*** it up this time." The whisper sounded so damn loud, perhaps because the entire notion of it resonated through every fiber of his being. If he was going to get out of this bloody hospital, he would have to get his strength up, and he wasn't about to miss another birthday. Moving slowly to his door, he turned the handle quietly, as to not arouse any suspicions. It was about two in the morning, and the healers on duty seemed to be off checking over other sleeping patients. Crossing the hallway, he slowly shambled over to the calendar, "July First. Alright. I can do this. I can get out of this sh*thole." James knew that these people had no intention of letting him leave. Apparently Dumbledore had succeeded in filling them with such fear that should he escape and get to his son, that Voldemort would just poof back or some sh*t. It wasn’t for them to decide. No one was going to keep him from his son. Harry needed his family, deserved his family, deserved to know him. It was awful, not being physically able to just fight his way out of here. So he had to play their game, feed into the belief that he was a weak, pitiful shell of a man who’d never recover. When Annalise came to coddle him, he’d answer each question wrong, beg to skip physical therapy, anything to keep them from looking too close. Minutes began to blur into hours, hours into days that dragged on and flew by at the same time. Spending most of his days in bed, sleeping as much as he could to give the illusion of weakness, to keep everyone unsuspecting of the fire that was burning inside of him. Therapy sessions were basically a theatrical exercise for him. Every step was hard fought, and he'd allow himself to tumble to the ground in defeat. With a strangled sob, he'd pull himself back to his feet wearing a humble expression as he'd ask the healer to let him rest again. Hook. Line. Sinker. By night, the Mischievous Marauder was alight with passion and secrecy as though he were still seventeen years old, tucked beneath the invisibility cloak. How helpful would that be right now, he admitted bitterly to himself as he ducked out of the doorway of his room, knowing he had about fourteen minutes before the aides returned to this wing. Rushing to the nearest refrigerator, he grabbed all the food he could grab quickly, tucking them beneath his arm and quietly made his way back into his room. There he ate through them all hastily, lest the aide find him. Each day he felt stronger, like he could take on the world. Like he could get to his son. This was really going to work. July 29, 1994
Everything seemed to be going according to plan, he was putting on weight. Atrophied muscles from years of disuse were beginning to awaken, dexterity returned to formally nimble fingertips and the damage didn't seem to be completely permanent. Catching sight of himself in the mirror on July twenty-ninth had him nod affirmatively to himself. Today was the day. Gingerly he reached out for his wedding band, hoping it wouldn't slide right off his finger yet again. The metal band was pushed over his knuckle and as soon as he flexed his hand, he grinned for it stayed in place. Whispering to the empty room, as though she were with him, "I'm going to get our son, Lily."
There were sounds in the hallway, so James rushed back to bed, his footsteps sure and lively, but it was time to act sickly, to feign distress. As the healer came in, he let out a convincing moan. "...My head aches today, I don't think I can do my therapy..." She shook her head, "It’s very important for your muscle tone, Mr. Potter, don't you think you can muster just a couple laps?" Stubbornly he shook his head, "Oy, I barely slept... can't you let a poor man rest...?" With a clumsy hand he reached out for his drinking cup, and purposefully spilled it. "I-I'm so sorry..." He murmured weakly, trying to show genuine sadness in his face as he looked down sheepishly. As she bent, picking up the cup and casting a clean-up spell, she smiled softly, "We can take today off, Mr. Potter, just rest." "Thank you, you're very kind." Patting his arm reassuringly, she poured him a new cup of water and he nodded weakly, not looking up until the door had clicked behind her. Waiting for night to fall was painful. Anxiety had his nerves tingling, desperate for the cover of darkness to overtake the wretched hallways of the domain that had kept him from Harry for all these years. The actions he was about to take would spit in the face of Albus Dumbledore, but he couldn't find it within himself to give a sh*t. On July 31, 1980, his entire world had shifted to revolve around Harry and Harry alone. Once upon a time, he'd lost sight of that and damn near lost everything. Fate had gifted him this second chance and he wouldn't screw it up again. Getting to 4 Privet Drive took too long. Every minute he continued to be away from Harry was eating away at him. Impatiently his foot rapped against the floor of the Muggle bus. With an uncomfortable lurch, the bus screeched, slowed and doors swung open. "This would be your stop, sir!" The bus driver offered cheerfully to which James rose, tipping his hat and pressing an extra coin into his hand gratefully. Without hesitating, he turned and briskly began walking down the street. It felt so damn familiar and yet, it had been years since he'd been here. So many things were different. Including the lack of a beautiful redhead at his side. 'Don't think about it right now, James. It's all about Harry, that's what Lily would want.' A mantra that repeated itself over and over again, each time his heart squeezed with loss, he clung to the thought of his son. How tall would he be at fourteen? Or, rather, thirteen, about to turn fourteen. Reaching the Dursley's front walk had him pause for only a moment, staring at the house which had gone from being a hellhole he loathed, to the structure that held his entire world. Trembling fingers reached for doorbell, the sound causing his heart to hammer relentlessly in his chest so much that he felt as though he would faint before the doorknob even turned. "Coming!" Petunia uttered from a distance away, as though she'd been expecting someone. The door swung open and hazel eyes went wide at what the years had done to Petunia's face. The fullness of her cheeks had ceased, her hair far more intricate than he'd recalled. "Hello!" She'd started cheerfully, but her face fell at the lack of recognition, as he obviously wasn't whom she'd expected on her doorstep. Pulling the hat from his head, dark hair falling from it in typical disarray, he met her gaze and managed a wry smirk. "Hello Petunia." Horror struck her expression, slender fingers releasing their hold on the cup she'd been holding and it hit the ground with a shatter as James pushed the door all the way open and roughly stepped right in, his height imposing as he moved into the entrance way past her. Closing the door, he looked around, the place looking exactly the same in here, save for more photos littered about. "I'm here for my son." Each breath she took was shallow, "J-James? But, how? Yo-You and Li-" "Don't believe everything you hear. I'm very much not dead." He cut her off sharply. As halfway amusing as it was to horrify Lily's ghastly sister, he was itching, shaking with the idea of seeing his son. Would he even recognize him? Twelve years apart hadn't quelled the depth of adoration for his son, and his arms ached with the need to hold him. "Where is he?"
Stepping into the living room, he looked about, eyes glazing over the kitchen, before looking back to the still clearly-shaken Petunia, "My son, Petunia. I know he's with you, though I can't imagine why anyone would do such a thing to a child." Wordlessly, she looked towards the stairs and then immediately back at him, "You've been alive all this time and I got saddled with … with… him?!? One … of your kind?!" Fire flashed in his eyes as he moved to stand uncomfortably close to her, hands pressed against the wall on either side of her face. "If I find out you harmed so much as one hair upon his precious head, pray to whatever the f*** you believe in, because there is nothing in my world or yours that will save you from me, should I decide to come for you…” As he spoke the words, he'd leaned down, hissing in a raspy tone against her ear so she could feel the heat of his breath. Petunia paled again, but there was the soft thump of footsteps which stole his attention away from the harsh conversation with his sister in law. Thud. Thud. Thud. It sounded so familiar, even though it was the first time he’d ever heard it. Something about the cadence of those steps called to him and he just knew. Everything suddenly seemed to move in slow motion, excitement and thrill making him shake again, hazel eyes wide as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs staring up them desperately. It felt like his entire broken existence was lifting itself from the ashes and becoming something again. Their eyes met and all the breath left his body. It was like a mirror. Almost. An echo of a memory that made him merely stare up at the boy. How had he grown so much? How had he missed so much of his son's life? As his heart swelled with pride, joy, agony, despair, happiness, anger and every bloody thing in between, he promised himself that he would spend every minute of the rest of his life making up for the last twelve absent years. Swallowing hard, he tried to keep his composure, tried to keep from falling apart in front of his son. There he was! All long limbs and skinny like he was once. Ebony hair that fell into his eyes when it got too long and specs that often slid down his nose. James covered his mouth, rubbing at his jaw slowly, as he let out a breath. "Harry.” It had been twelve years since he’d beckoned his son like this. “…It's me.. it's... your Dad." With that, he extended his hand to him, hand twitching in a gesture to encourage him to come closer. How he wanted to look him over, see that every hair, pore or freckle on his body was sound. Petunia was still clinging to a wall in a state of shock and awe, but he couldn't find an ounce of compassion for her. Deep down he suspected that Harry hadn't lived a semi-charmed life here; despite the illusion they sought to display for their perfect little neighborhood. It was one of the many fragments that James had to stow away for now. A battle for another day. For today was about new beginnings. Tears stung his eyes, catching in his lashes before descending down his cheeks without regard for his masculinity or the bravado he once fiercely touted. This was his SON. Finally, right here. For he was so far away from being the same man he was on October 31, 1981. Now he would be a single father, haunted by the choices he made a lifetime ago. Don’t scare him, he reminded himself painfully, remembering what he’d read in those books that the healers didn’t know he read at night. Let him come to you. This is probably scary and confusing for him. You were explicitly told to NOT do this. To just let your son stay with the Durselys. As if that was ever an option for him. Thumb on his left hand fussed with the band of gold as though it summoned Lily to him, as if she too were gazing upon their son. A sight for sore eyes, he couldn't bear to look away, fearful that the boy would disappear and be nothing but a beautiful memory. "You are never going to be alone again, kiddo." Though he struggled to sound confident, he somehow succeeded. The firmness in his wavering tone surprised even him, but it felt like a prayer, a promise that he would keep this time. Would things be better somehow if Harry had died instead? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Harry tried to fall asleep but as tired as he was that now seemed impossible. Despite his exhaustion, he just felt anxious. It didn't help that every time he closed his eyes all he saw was Cedric. The graveyard, dark, cold and desolate and Cedric's isolated, empty gaze. It was as though Harry couldn't control those thoughts at all, even when they weren't a nightmare. He was lucid, mournful - calculating every second that progressed between that shrill shriek of "Kill the spare!" and the horrid jet of green light that had stolen Cedric's life. Harry tried to retrace his steps, every action, every moment. Was there really nothing he could have done to save Cedric? No, no, no. Don't think like that. That's nonsense. It would only mean that Voldemort had won and what would the world possibly be like if it had been that easy for Voldemort? Being gone… being completely helpless to improve the situation might seem beneficial if Harry fell in line with his baser instincts. For one, he'd no longer be consumed with so much guilt and pain and anger. He wouldn't feel this terrible lonesomeness that was creeping up and eating a hole into his chest either, but it was the selfish option - not the proper option.
So instead... he was meant to feel this guilt, anger, this loneliness, despite knowing that his father's spirit hadn't emerged from Voldemort's wand and that there was a possibility that his dad was out there somewhere just waiting to be the comfort Harry needed. He was told not to search, not to go after this ray of hope that any person would naturally want to follow. There were so many rules that Harry had found himself being on the improper end of but there was never one that he wanted to break so much as this. It wouldn't fix everything, nothing could, but it would certainly change everything. Hadn't it already?
Harry sat up in bed and breathed in deeply. His rationalizations hadn't eased his mind. In the end, he knew that he couldn't control what others thought of him and that always left him wondering if there were deeper reasons why everyone he knew was being so distant. They could reassure him that it was simply because Dumbledore told them to be vague but did that require for their letters to lack warmth and understanding as well? While they got to spend the summer together, talking and laughing was it enough to make them forget that he was alone with his thoughts? He had watched someone die. He nearly died. And yet he hadn't felt an ounce of human affection since he'd exited the Hogwarts Express bound for the Dursley's.
Ron and Hermione couldn't possibly be the type to forget those things though, there had to be something, anything, if only Harry read between the lines. It was better than doing nothing, anyway. So Harry stood from the bed and toggled his bedroom light. He fished for all of the letters he'd been sent from the school trunk under his bed and tried to ignore that fact that it was so much less than there had been in the previous years. It wasn't their fault, he told himself, they had to be careful and yet it was so difficult to quell his emotions when it was at the very time that he needed them the most. He gathered the letters and sat atop his mattress, hunched over the pile of parcels, ordering them as best he could.
Hedwig chirped and shivered in her cage, spreading her wings out and stretching hopefully.
"I'm sorry, girl. Nothing for tonight, I don't think. I'm only reading. If you promise not to fly out, I'll let you stretch about the room, do we have a deal?"
She gave a sort of coo that Harry took as affirmation and he stood up again to undo the latch to her cage door. Hedwig brushed his arm in gratitude and after a bit of petting Harry was back in his bed ready to pore over the letters. He read every word and line carefully, especially in Hermione's letters, backwards and forwards, up and down. He tried to find meaning in arbitrary sentences or in the overuse of words but he had to be honest with himself, there was really nothing there. He released an exasperated sigh and laid back, parchment rustling as the back of his head hit his pillow. What was he expecting, some sort of code to appear out of nowhere? For all of his questions to be answered? Was he really that dense and desperate? It was just wishful thinking, all of it. It would get him nowhere, but it was something to pass the time. Something to keep him from thinking.
Harry hadn't heard the doorbell, or at least he'd found no interest in it. Once he did, his first assumption was that it was Dudley, home after dark as usual after harassing neighborhood kids. But Dudley would never use the doorbell, would he? Not unless he'd lost his keys. Harry didn't know who would be coming to visit the Dursleys at this time and that thought was what caused him to perk up his interest. The Dursleys were not the impulsive sort, any visitation was thoroughly planned and rehearsed. Harry was reminded a thousand times what they expected of his behavior beforehand, (which was honestly usually to simply stay out of sight and pretend he didn't exist for as long as he could manage it) Dudley would have been home long ago, his aunt and uncle finely dressed and aunt Petunia's hair would be 'perfectly coiffed' (or at least to the best of her abilities - but then again, Harry wasn't exactly the expert on perfectly styled hair).
He thought it might be best if he ignored it and remained upstairs, Harry didn't see that he had anything to add by going to look. He had no reason to believe that it was any of his friends or their parents and as far as Harry was concerned there was no way that it was Dumbledore. But there was this feeling in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't describe it if someone asked. It was simply there.
SMASH!
Harry sat up with a start as the sound of ceramic shattering reached his ears. He jumped out of bed, sending letters flying this way and that and causing Hedwig to hop up and flutter her wings wildly. Harry was down the hall so quickly that his head was reeling. He slowed down as he reached the stairs. At that point the timbre of voices were clear. Aunt Petunia's was obvious, familiar… but the other…
"Where is he?" said the unknown voice.
'He?' thought Harry. From his place at the top of the stairs, he could see the bottom half of his aunt's frame as well as the ankles and shoes of the man that had just spoke, she was blocking the rest of him from view. The shattered remains of her favorite mug were scattered about their feet.
The voice continued. "My son, Petunia. I know he's with you, though I can't imagine why anyone would do such a thing to a child," the figure pushed by Petunia, stepping through the foyer quickly so that Harry barely got a glimpse of him.
Harry couldn't even fathom what the man had said. He was so busy hung up on the words 'my son
|