The Dark Phoenix

Harry was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, his back against the wall and staring out the open window of his room. It was night and he was thinking about Hedwig, his owl, wondering where she was right now. Probably flying and looking for mice. He wished he was flying. He would dearly love to mount his Firebolt, and just take off. It didn't matter where. Anything to feel different than he had the past several weeks. "Cedric, I'm so sorry," he said out loud. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "Why didn't I take the cup when he offered it to me? God, he would still be alive!" He clenched his hands and then the pain. He looked down in surprise, he had almost forgotten. He looked at his hands in disgust, "Stupid thing to do" he muttered. They were all bandaged up.

Aunt Petunia had not been happy with him, having to help him put ointment on his bleeding hands and bandage them up. He remembered looking at her while she went to work on his hands, as she rattled on. "What on earth were you thinking of, obviously you weren't thinking at all. As usual. Couldn't think to put on some gloves. Honestly the trouble you put me through. Put all of us through. Ought to be more grateful. Us, having taken you in." Harry didn't really listen, it wasn't as if he hadn't heard similar things from his Aunt, or his Uncle, during his life with them. He was looking at her when it just, came out. Just a question, a simple question really. "Did you really hate my mum?"

Petunia had stopped wrapping his last hand and looked at him in shock. It was unusual for her to be completely without something to say. She looked about the kitchen as if there was something she should be doing and then back to Harry. She did this one more time before regaining her composure and finished wrapping Harry's hand. Without looking at him she said, "That's not a polite question to ask. Go to your room and try not to cause me anymore trouble." As Harry left, Petunia turned and looked across the living room of her house, not at anything in the room but more as if she were looking across a vast distance, maybe another place, maybe another time.

Harry was thinking, even now, sitting on his bed and glancing at Hedwig’s empty perch, that it had been a fair question and wondered why he had never asked it before. He didn't ask whether his aunt hated him. He thought that he might know the answer to that one.

Ever since he had gotten back for the summer to stay with his aunt, uncle and cousin Dudley, he had felt driven. He knew he had some summer homework but he had no desire to work on it, which would mean he would have to think, and he didn't want to think. He didn't want to think about anything. In the past he had always been told to do things in the Dursley household. Not that he had ever been given much of a chance to offer, but this summer things were different. This time he wasn't waiting to be told what to do, he was asking to do more, anything. Clean the house, cut the grass, clean out the garage, wash the car, paint the house. Painting the house had taken a full week and a half. It had been hard work, good work. It kept his mind from thinking of other things. His aunt and uncle probably figured he was attempting to get on their good side for something he wanted. He wasn't sure he cared what they thought. It didn't matter anyway. All he had to do was drop a comment about his Godfather, the escaped, convicted murderer, and they would be off his back.

Harry had only received one letter from Sirius since the end of the school year. Harry could read the concern in the letter Sirius had wrote, but Harry had sent a rather short reply stating that he was fine. He wished that he could talk to his Godfather face to face. There was just no way to put into a letter how he felt, the dreams of his parents and Cedric. But, it was far too dangerous as Sirius was still wanted by the Ministry of Magic, for a crime he didn't commit. Even Ron and Hermione had sent letters expressing pretty much the same concern as Sirius. Ron's had come by his personal owl named Pig, and had signed 'Your Best Friend, Ron'. Hermione's had come by post and she had signed 'Love, Hermione'. He had replied pretty much with the same short response to their letters as he had to Sirius. He had signed Hermione's 'Love, Harry' but changed it and signed 'Your best friend, Harry', the same as Ron's.

Today though, had been the clincher. He had almost exhausted all the things he could do around the house. He had finally offered to dig out the old stump in the back yard. Uncle Vernon seemed surprised he had offered and skeptical that he could do it. The stump had been there for years and the reason was that uncle Vernon didn't want to shell out a hundred pounds or so to have a contractor remove it. Harry had gotten a shovel and an axe out of the garage early in the morning. Harry thought uncle Vernon could be right. It might be more than he could handle, but Harry didn't care. The stump had become the focus of all his frustrations. He dug and chopped the day away late into the afternoon. It was hot, sweaty, dirty work. With only one root left directly underneath, holding it in, he was pulling and lifting for all he was worth. Harry pictured Voldemort's hideous face in his mind wanting to rip him apart with his bare hands and started thinking of all the things that had happened in his life because of him.

When Harry was one year old Voldemort killed both his parents and then tried to kill Harry. Had it not been for his mother sacrificing her own life for Harry's, Voldemort would have succeeded. Voldemort tried three more times after Harry had gone to Hogwarts. In his first year at Hogwarts Harry was nearly done in as he prevented Voldemort from stealing the Philosophers' Stone. In his second year Voldemort's old diary nearly led to his own death as well as that of his best friend's sister. In his forth year Voldemort had managed to regain his old body and had almost killed him once more. And would have if not for the luck of their wands being 'brother wands'. On top of all this, he ordered Cedric, a fellow classmate, killed in front of him.

All his pain, all his concentration, his strength of will, he was bearing down when with a loud snap, the stump shot several feet up and out of the hole. Harry was surprised, but happy, feeling a satisfaction he hadn't felt in awhile. Harry quickly filled the hole in and started dragging the stump from the back yard around to the front.

Dudley had been watching Harry work on his project off and on all day with abject interest, but upon seeing Harry's success and dragging the stump. "Like a hand Harry?"

"Er, sure", said Harry, thinking this was rather nice of Dudley.

They both dragged the stump around by the front drive to be hauled off later, when Dudley said "Harry, look at your hands!"

Harry looked down. His hands were bloodied and blistered.

Vernon's voice could be heard in the back yard as he swore. He came around holding the axe and shovel like they were something nasty. "Get these tools cleaned up, boy" he said gruffly tossing them toward Harry. Vernon noticed Dudley was looking at Harry's hands. In a more even tone "When you get that done, get yourself cleaned up, and have your aunt Petunia look at those hands".

As Harry was walking away he heard Dudley say, "Dad, I helped get the stump out."

"So you did. So you did. Good work son. Here's a fiver," said Vernon.

Harry kept on walking. 'Some things never change' he thought to himself.

That had been his day and the only good thing that had happed to him in awhile was seeing that stump pop out of the ground. No, that wasn't right. The nicest thing that had happened since the Triwizard Tournament was Hermione kissing him on the cheek at the train station, before going home with uncle Vernon. 'Hermione'. The thought of her name made him feel better. He looked out the window again. It was a nice warm summer night with a slight breeze. He wasn't sure what to think about a small feeling that stirred within him. Hermione was as dear a friend to him as Ron or Hagrid, not to mention his Godfather Sirius, yet . . . he shook his head. Finally, the exhaustion of the day came over him and it was welcome. He figured he could get a good night's sleep for a change. He had after all, defeated that stump, wishing it had been Voldemort.