Harry Potter and the Years of Rebellion

Chapter One

PROBLEMS WITH CONTROL

Drizzle fell on the large, square houses of Privet Drive for the fifth day in a row. The inhabitants of Privet Drive were unable to lounge in their flowered gardens or dote upon their emerald yards. Drizzle wasn't even interesting to watch, in the way of a good storm. Some holed up in their homes, glued to the telly. Others wandered through shopping centres without betraying a hint of original thought. One resident of Little Whinging didn't mind the rain.

A lean young man with round dark-rimmed glasses ran steadily along Magnolia Road. He wore baggy grey sweatpants and a dark boxing jersey, and his black hair stuck out the back of a faded sporting cap. His shoes didn't fit - they never had - but he didn't care. If he hadn't been alone and running in the rain, there would have been very little to distinguish him from the other youths of the neighbourhood. He was rangy and fit in the way of a runner, and he had longer hair than some. Still, he could blend. There had been a time, not so long before, when he would have sought to be invisible to passers-by. Not this year, not during the most improbable summer of Harry Potter's life to date.

Harry ran every day for an hour and a half, immediately after cleaning up from the evening meal. He had taken up running on his first day back at Privet Drive, for two reasons. First, he had heard somewhere that physical exercise could help a person sleep more soundly. Second, he was able to avoid Uncle Vernon's nightly fit of bellowing and spluttering - and this is where the improbable part began - at his cousin Dudley.

Against all expectations, Dudley had developed two genuine talents. First, Dudley had become a smashing boxer - not just good, but great. The previous winter, he had won the 15-stone division in a major amateur competition with entrants from England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Harry had assumed that Uncle Vernon would be pleased that Dudley could knock most of Little Whinging unconscious. To the contrary, Uncle Vernon bitterly resented Dudley's success. Of course, he never said it outright. Instead, he complained constantly: about the expense of competition, the quality of the trainers, the officials at the sporting federation, the cost of two sets of groceries due to Dudley's training diet, and anything else that he could concoct.

It was Dudley's second talent that truly sent Uncle Vernon around the twist. Dudley had actually taken guidance, first from his boxing trainers and then from some of the teachers at his boarding school, Smeltings. They encouraged him to seek a focus other than tormenting his fellow students. Dudley unexpectedly found his passion sometime during his third attempt at an art class. As it turned out, Dudley could draw quite well with pen and ink, and was a better-than-middling watercolorist. Uncle Vernon was furious from the moment he discovered that Dudley had been registering for art classes, and refused to let it lie.

“Why don't you take up knitting, boy?” Uncle Vernon had spat at Dudley the second day Harry returned to Privet Drive. He was absolutely convinced that if a few students - or perhaps alumni - would just take their knobbly sticks to those teachers, then Dudley would be somehow returned to normal. “Turning you into some kind of Nancy-boy, they are,” Uncle Vernon would tell him. “Do you want to be a bloody freak like that Potter boy?” he would splutter, as though Harry was elsewhere.

For the most part, Uncle Vernon acted as though Harry weren't in the house at all, from the first moment they walked into the front room. The warning from Mad-Eye Moody had taken thoroughly, and Uncle Vernon had apparently decided that the best way to avoid being horrible to Harry was to avoid Harry.

Aunt Petunia split the difference, on all counts. Rather than take on Uncle Vernon, she hung Dudley's artwork in Harry's bedroom and in the cellar where Dudley's punching bags and weights were kept. Harry had thanked Aunt Petunia for the attractive drawings and watercolours in his room before he knew who had made them; while she still wasn't exactly friendly to him, Harry suspected this had accounted for her civility. If there was any constant whatever in her demeanour toward Harry, it was a bit of something like sadness in her eyes. She required very little work of him, not even the cooking. By the end of the first week, she had disposed of his disintegrating clothes and replaced them with Dudley's things from the previous year. Owing to Harry's modest growth through the spring and early summer, the jeans barely needed cuffing, though they were still baggy.

The ongoing row over Dudley-the-artist was a border skirmish next to the war that broke out when Dudley's ordinary level exam results came in the post, on Harry's fifth afternoon in Little Whinging. Harry decided he was quite pleased that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would never acknowledge his OWL results.

The fact that Dudley sat for the O level papers in Art left Uncle Vernon stammering. The fact that Dudley was awarded the O level qualification in Art reduced Uncle Vernon to gibbering. The fact that Art was Dudley's only O level qualification likely caused the chest pains, the ones that nearly made Aunt Petunia race for the telephone.

“Bloody - effing - ART!” Uncle Vernon had stammered. “A qualification in Art! That's just effing brilliant! Imagine my pride, Petunia, that our ickle Duddydums is now qualified to become a lazy penniless queer when he grows up!” he had gibbered. Uncle Vernon was determined that Dudley would earn another O level qualification, in anything at all. He berated and browbeat the Smeltings headmaster until it was agreed that Dudley would sit a second time for the subjects in which he had earned his second and third highest scores. He also arranged for Dudley to sit for the O level papers in Mechanical Drawing; “at least you could work as a draughtsman, and stay off the dole,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. Harry had stifled a laugh when he found out that Dudley had just missed passing the Food and Nutrition papers, but had been shocked to find out that Dudley's third highest score had been in Latin.

The strangest, most improbable change in the Dursley household was found in Dudley himself. Dudley Dursley - foul, nasty, bullying Dudley Dursley - was quiet and decent. In fact, Dudley's loudest complaints regarded the poor quality of the produce at the market. Harry enjoyed the relative peace, pleased to be out of the fray.

Dudley didn't react to Uncle Vernon's baiting until two evenings after his exam results had arrived. Uncle Vernon made it clear that Dudley had better not bother coming back to Privet Drive if he failed to pass the Mechanical Drawing examination and at least one retest. Dudley grew several shades paler, and left the dining room table for the cellar without a word.

Harry followed him, out of morbid interest in the new-and-apparently-improved Dudley. He heard the thump-thumping of Dudley's speed bag as it took a pounding.

“Leave it alone, Dad,” Dudley snapped without turning around. He gave the speed bag two furious shots, and then looked to the stairs with narrowed eyes.

“And what do you want?” he grunted, moving to the heavy bag. “Laughing at the queer? Take your shot, Potter. I'm sure Dad will forgive you.”

“Your dad's a stupid git,” said Harry, trying not to grin or do anything that might set off Dudley.

Dudley said nothing, although Harry thought there was a trace of a smile; he simply pounded hard at the bag.

Harry pressed on. “Look, I would think you'd want to leave. You could stay at your school or something, couldn't you? You did pass one OWL… erm… I mean, O level. I'll bet your mum would pay for school, behind Vernon's big fat back.” This time, Harry was sure that Dudley both smiled and suppressed a snort.

Dudley kept pounding away. Without looking away from the bag, he asked, “You know those demented things…?”

Harry hesitated. “The Dementors? Yeah, I know them better than I'd like.”

Dudley grunted, “They can't come here, can they? I mean, er, that's why you stay here - right?"

“It's something like that,” Harry said.

Dudley jabbed at the bag in staccato bursts. Abruptly he stopped, and his arms fell to his sides. “This Lord Voldy-whosits, he can't come here either - right?”

Harry thought for a moment about what to say. He decided on the truth. “I don't know. I don't think so.”

Dudley slowly took off his gloves. “And this Lord Whatsits, he killed everyone in Mum's family?”

“Well, he and his supporters killed my parents, at any rate,” Harry told him.

Dudley lost his colour again. Harry thought he looked like a Dementor was in the cellar with him.

After a bit, Dudley said, “I'm not that smart, you know.” Harry bit his lip as Dudley continued, “I'm smart enough to know that I don't want to get thrown out of somewhere safe from those dementle things and Lord Nutter.”

Harry mustered a wicked grin, and caused Dudley to back away a step. “I'm supposed to kill him.”

Dudley took another step back. “Kill who?”

“Him. Lord Voldemort. You see, there's this … oh, never mind. Point is, I'm supposed to kill him.”

Dudley looked uncomfortably eager. “Bloody hell! Actually kill him?”

“That's the long and short of it, yeah.” Harry felt his smile slip away. It felt good to tell someone what he had to do, even if it was out of context, but he felt a wave of everything come at him - especially Sirius. Thankfully, an idea popped at him from amidst the wave.

He cleared his throat. “Dudley, I have a proposition for you. I'll study with you for your O levels. You teach me how to box and lift weights.”

Dudley shot him a dubious look. “You know Latin?”

Harry started, “Well, wiz… that is to say, I've picked up a bit for casting sp… I mean, uh, not exactly. I'm a pretty fair student, though.”

Dudley began to unwrap his hands. “Better sweeten the deal, then.”

Harry thought for a bit, then added, “Tell you what; I'll take over the cooking and the marketing entirely from Aunt Petunia. I can take care of your training meals the way you want them.”

Dudley looked satisfied, and rapidly regained his colour and bluster. “Well, I'm well trained in the sweet science, you know, and, uh, I suppose I could show you the ropes, you know, so to speak… you know, how to give old Lord Whoop-dee-doo the old one-two, and all that.”

Harry decided to feign gratitude. “You set the times, then. Looking forward to it.” Give Voldemort the old one-two - please! he thought. I just need to pound the stuffing out of something.

---

Harry studied with Dudley for one hour after lunch, seven days a week. Dudley tutored Harry in boxing and weight training every evening after his run. Harry didn't need Latin classes to recognise that Dudley was more hopeless than Neville Longbottom in Potions. Even with heavy studying, that particular retake would surely be a close thing. Still, Dudley certainly behaved as if he were motivated.

Harry also found out why Dudley had nearly passed in Food and Nutrition. He'd learned quite a lot at the training table, as Harry discovered while Dudley instructed him in the preparation of the complex training diet. Harry figured that Dudley must have frozen up during the examination, and should surely be able to pass his retake.

Harry decided to prepare Dudley's selections for the entire household. Aunt Petunia didn't appear to mind, and Harry enjoyed subjecting Uncle Vernon to balanced and precisely formulated meals. Uncle Vernon stopped publicly complaining after Aunt Petunia reminded him that their ickle Duddykins had to defend his championship title in a few months. There turned out to be two other advantages to preparing Dudley's training table. First, Harry was eating more than he had ever eaten at Privet Drive, as Uncle Vernon ate very little; Harry reckoned that he was ordering double fish-and-chips at noontime. The extra portions were valuable, as Harry was constantly hungry. Second, he was eating the same muscle-building diet as Dudley while running and training every day, and it started to show just a bit as the end of July approached.

On the evening of July the 28 th, Harry settled into his bed after a particularly nasty bit of weight training in the cellar. I should be working on my scroll for Snape, he thought. It's a shame that I don't care. At that moment, it struck him. I'm living like a Muggle - a real, honest-to-goodness Muggle. And it seemed to work for him, better than a Dreamless Sleep potion. He hadn't had a single coherent dream about Voldemort all summer - certainly, he hadn't felt anyone crawling about in his mind - and his studying and training and cooking and reading left himself very little time to think about… well, everything. He dreamt regularly of Sirius falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries, the look of wonder and shock frozen on his face. There were a few variations. Sometimes, Sirius would fall through the veil over and over. Other times, Harry would dive after him, and wake up abruptly. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon should be grateful, he thought. I haven't screamed in the night all summer long.

His only contact with the wizarding world since his fourth day back at Privet Drive had been a telephone call every two or three days to Arabella Figg, the Squib who lived two streets away. Mrs. Figg could be relied upon to tell the Order of the Phoenix that he was in good health and that the Dursleys were not mistreating him. He hadn't bothered to contact anyone by his third day at the Dursleys' - he had torn up letters from Ron and Hermione, in fact - and Lupin had shown up in a panic, dragging Dumbledore with him. Harry felt badly for Lupin, but the very sight of him was a living reminder to Harry of what he'd lost through the veil. Harry had made his feelings clear as crystal, before telling them to get out - he wanted no visits, no owls, nothing. They were all reminders, and he wanted none of it. Thus far, everyone had respected his wishes. He assumed that Dumbledore held everyone back. Lord knows, they all hang on Dumbledore's every word, he thought. Harry's owl, Hedwig, was nonplussed at having no letters to carry, and responded by disappearing for days at a time.

Harry was thus quite surprised to hear tapping on his bedroom window. An unfamiliar owl perched on the ledge, with a large and floridly addressed envelope. This particular owl clearly expected payment for its services and Harry scrambled for a few Knuts, hoping that the owl wouldn't screech.

He looked carefully at the illumination on the envelope. In the upper left-hand corner was a scarlet and gold crest, dominated by a capital “G” formed from illuminated dragons.

Harry held the envelope for a long time, with no desire to open it. Harry was sure that opening it would return him to somewhere he didn't want to be, to the Ministry for Magic, to Grimmauld Place… to Sirius.

Mister Harry James Potter

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

Dear Mister Potter:

Gringotts Wizarding Bank expresses its deepest sympathy to you upon the demise of your godfather, Sirius Black.

In his Last Will and Testament, recorded February 16 of this year, Mr. Black entrusted Gringotts Wizarding Bank with the disposition of his estate. The Trust Department has recently demonstrated the validity of Mr. Black's Last Will and Testament to the satisfaction of the Contract and Administrative Services section of the Wizengamot. Subsequent to the posthumous restoration of Mr. Black's rights by the Ministry for Magic, Gringotts has been authorized by the Wizengamot to provide Mr. Black's beneficiaries, relatives and creditors with official notification of his death. Mr. Black's property has been identified, inventoried and appraised. The Wizengamot has authorized Gringotts to pay any and all outstanding debts and taxes and to distribute the corpus, including all remaining personal and real property, as the will directs.

Mr. Black's Last Will and Testament names you as his principal beneficiary. Accordingly, you are asked to contact the Trust Department of Gringotts Wizarding Bank at your earliest convenience, in order to begin the execution of the will. At the direction of the late Mr. Black, Mr. Dedalus Diggle, Esq. has been appointed has your representative in this matter pending your response. You are to respond no later than the close of business on August 16.

Respectfully,

Fliptrask

Head Goblin, Trust Department

Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Harry dropped the letter onto his bed, and walked quickly and quietly down two sets of stairs to the cellar. He put on the elastic hand wraps slowly and deliberately, and then pulled on Dudley's spare pair of boxing gloves. They were stuffed tightly with extra foam padding, to account for Harry's smaller hands. He worked the speed bag just as Dudley had shown him. Harry was a good student when he wanted to be.

He switched to the heavy bag, hitting it stoutly. Pound. Sirius, I don't want your money or your things. Pound-pound. I'd give anything to bring you back. Pound-pound-pound. Anything. POUND-pound. He saw Bellatrix Lestrange, as though she were before him in the cellar. Pound-pound-POUND.

“Bitch!” he cried out. The word tasted like blood in his mouth. POUND-pound-pound-pound.

He thought about Dudley's fear of the Dementors, his fear of leaving Privet Drive. Pound-pound. He's right, of course. Nowhere else is safe. Well, maybe Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place. Pound-pound. Voldemort will do anything to get at me. Pound-pound-pound. Anything. Pound-pound. He'll take away everything and everyone I've ever cared about. Pound-pound-pound. The Dursleys - well, Dudley and Aunt Petunia at any rate. Maybe `care' is too much, but they're all the family I have. Pound-pound. He'll kill Dumbledore, too, I suppose - if he can manage it. Pound-pound. Lupin, definitely. Pound-POUND. And Hogwarts. He'll destroy Hogwarts.

Harry felt quite odd. Pound-POUND-pound. The Order - he'll kill them all to get at me. Pound-pound. He couldn't shake the Department of Mysteries from his mind. Neville. Luna, too - she's suffered enough. Pound-pound-POUND. A draft blew upon him, almost a light wind. The Weasleys, all of them. POUND-pound. Yes, a wind definitely blew - a hot wind. Ginny, poor Ginny. Pound-POUND-POUND-pound. The heat burned the sweat right off of him. Ron. Oh Lord, not Ron! POUND-POUND-POUND-pound.

Something creaked. Harry could feel bits of … something… flying around. His eyes squeezed shut as he pounded away. Pound-POUND-POUND. Hermione. POUND-POUND-creak-POUND-creak! He saw Voldemort with Hermione, forced to her knees before him; he called her a stinking Mudblood. The wind roared in Harry's ears. He will destroy everything and everyone I've ever cared about. POUND-creak!-POUND-creak! Voldemort sneered, spoke the curse, and shot a flash of green light. Harry wanted to cry out, but his only thought was very matter of fact. Voldemort dies - NOW. POUND! POUND! POUND! CRASH!

Harry gasped for breath. Sweat soaked him like the unceasing drizzle outside. He extended a hand toward the wall for support and instead caught the floor. There were soft bits of something under his hand. He looked around the room through a greenish haze, struggled to focus, and recognised the problem - no glasses. He fumbled for his glasses, and brushed his hands across more soft bits here and there. He could hear bangs and thumps, growing closer. His hand closed on his glasses; the frame was askew, but they were otherwise undamaged. He put them on, and still couldn't see clearly. Were they steamed up, or was the room full of steam?

Bits of foam, elastic and leather were strewn all over the cellar. The boxing gloves were torn apart. That figures, he thought, how else could I have picked up my glasses? But that wasn't the worst of it.

The heavy bag was in five pieces. One small piece swayed crazily from the chain that had held the bag from the ceiling. Three small pieces lay about the room. The fifth and largest piece stood across the room from Harry. It was - melted? - and embedded firmly in the concrete wall.

Thump… thump… thump… THUMP… THUMP. He heard panting and wheezing. “WHAT IN BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON DOWN HERE?” His last thought as the room spun and he passed out was, Oh, well; it was too good to last.

---

Harry's head slipped under the dark waves. Long white fingers clutched at his throat, slitted red eyes burned at him, and a cold laugh haunted him. He gasped for air, and took in mostly sea spray. A woman's shrill voice called out, “Let go of him!” The voice was far away, or perhaps right next to him.

“For God's sake, let go now!” Yes, the voice was definitely close. Harry raised his hands to his throat, and felt thick-fingered hands.

“Look - at - my - wall! This tears it! I'll dump him on the corner, so his freak friends can fetch the body!” Through the rippling dark waves, Harry made out a purple face with spit bubbling at the corners of its shrieking mouth. Then there was a second pair of large hands and then - air! Fresh air seared his chest. Darkness resolved to reveal Dudley pushing Uncle Vernon back against the wall to one side of the molten punching bag.

Harry tried to speak, but only a squeak came out, then a few raspy crackles that made him choke and cough. There was an insistent rapping from upstairs, a loud tapping on glass. Aunt Petunia, looking as distressed as Harry had ever seen her, told Dudley, “Keep your father off him; however you have to do it.” She hollered up the stairs, “What is that racket about? I'm coming!”

A screech owl hurtled down the stairs into the cellar, swooped over Harry's head and dropped a parchment envelope at his feet. It veered around gracefully and rushed back up the stairs.

“OWLS! AAAHHHH!” shrieked Uncle Vernon. He slid slowly down the cellar wall onto his ample backside, and burst into a hysterical cackle.

Harry tore at the envelope, wondering what kind of punishment the Ministry for Magic dispensed to underage wizards who destroyed the cellars of their Muggle relatives.

Dear Mister Potter,

The Ministry of Magic detected an indeterminate emission of magical energy within the confines of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, at nine minutes past eleven this evening. This energy emission did not correspond to any known spells or potions, and was not associated with the energy signature of your wand. Therefore, this activity is not addressed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.

Though uncommon, it is not without precedent for young wizards to experience unanticipated nocturnal energy emissions or other episodes of unintentional wandless magic. We believe that this incident was most likely a consequence of your natural development, although the amount of energy detected was rather more substantial than noted in the literature.

It is important that young wizards affected by these circumstances learn to control nocturnal emissions and similar episodes, and to constructively channel their pent-up energy. Accordingly, we have notified the Headmaster, your Head of House, and the Matron of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry of your suspected condition. They are well prepared to assist you in the selection of effective methods and learning materials, and will guide you in the development and maintenance of appropriate control.

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry for Magic

Harry looked up at the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia stood at the foot of the stairs, ashen faced, occasionally looking about the ruined room. Dudley watched him expectantly. Uncle Vernon, still purple although a shade or two lighter, closed the distance between them much faster than a man of his size had any right. He whipped his arm toward Harry, before either Dudley or Aunt Petunia could react, and seized the letter.

“EVERYONE SIT DOWN!” bellowed Uncle Vernon. “From your ruddy Ministry, is it? Maybe you'll get the gallows for this,” he said, and reinforced his point with a gesture toward the ruined room and equipment. His brow beetled and he squinted at the parchment. He read the letter from the Ministry, shook his head, and read it a second time.

“What are they playing at? Nocturnal emissions… natural development… appropriate methods… maintain control… pent-up energy?” Uncle Vernon stood still for a moment, and then snorted, and then laughed wildly. His beefy torso rolled in waves. Just as Harry thought he was going to stop, he burst into laughter again, bracing himself against the wall.

“Give me that,” Aunt Petunia snapped, snatching the letter from Uncle Vernon. She, too, read the letter twice, and then sniggered. “Goodness, when this happens to Dudley… heh, heh… I just have to… ha, ha, ha… wash the sheets!” She erupted into horsy laughter.

Dudley flushed beet-red, and angrily seized the letter from his mother. He read the letter very slowly, then pulled it closer to his eyes and read it again. He looked up from the letter, and raised an eyebrow. Harry shook his head no, slightly. Dudley shrugged his shoulders, read the letter again, handed it back to Harry, and turned to his mangled training equipment.

Harry read the letter again. `Unexpected nocturnal emissions'… `a consequence of natural development'… `constructively channel pent-up energy'… no, they couldn't think that… He felt his face burning just as his insides dove toward the floor. Uncle Vernon tried to speak, waggled his index finger at Harry, and burst out laughing again. Harry considered dashing up the stairs, straight out the door, and southeastward until he fell into the sea and drowned, but his feet were rooted to the floor. He forced himself to jam the letter back into its envelope, as though that might serve as a counter-curse. The corner of the letter hung up on the inside of the envelope, leaving only a line below Madam Hopkirk's signature visible:

Cc: Prof. A. Dumbledore, Prof. M. McGonagall, and Madam P. Pomfrey, HSWW

Harry was absolutely certain that the contents of the letter would be out to the entire wizarding world in a matter of minutes. Might as well have put “Cc: The Daily Prophet”, he thought. A one-way journey to the sea sounded better to Harry with each moment that passed.

After a very long time - Harry was sure it was somewhere in the neighbourhood of a week - Uncle Vernon calmed down enough to say, in a voice raspier than Harry's, “You - clean this up! Stay up all night, if it's required. I expect you to figure out how you're going to repair the wall, and to start at it tomorrow. That wall will be repaired before you go back to that loony bin school. Is - that - understood?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Vernon harrumphed, Aunt Petunia gave a baleful shake of the head usually reserved for pets that wet the carpet, and they began to climb the stairs. Uncle Vernon muttered “Nocturnal emissions,” sniggered as he climbed the first flight of stairs, and then laughed all the way to his bedroom.

Dudley crossed his beefy arms, and stood silent until his parents could no longer be heard. He reached down and picked up a ten-pound dumbbell bent at a 45-degree angle. “My bags… my gloves… my weights… all - ruined! RUINED!” Harry took a conscious step backward.

Harry said quietly, “I'll buy you new equipment.”

Dudley eyed him like a predator scouting for a live meal. “With what? You wear my hand-me-downs, you don't get an allowance… hold on - you don't get an allowance, right?”

“I'm receiving an inheritance,” said Harry, taking a second step backward. “You remember my… godfather?”

Dudley abruptly paled, and squeaked in the affirmative.

“He was killed this spring by one of Lord Voldemort's followers,” said Harry matter-of-factly, even though there was nothing at all matter-of-fact about the churning in his stomach every time that he thought it or said it. “There should be enough to take care of everything.” And if not, there's surely enough in my vault to cover the cost a thousand times over, he thought.

Dudley pored over the free weights, most of which were bent or cracked. “When?” he asked menacingly. “I don't intend to miss any training over this.”

Harry trudged up the stairs, to gather up supplies. “Tomorrow, then. I may need a lift,” he croaked, his throat still burning. “Right now, I need to start cleaning.”