Downtrodden
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. I am just using the plot of Harry Potter (owned by JK Rowling), to use for my own amusement. Nothing here is mine, with the exception of some characters, which I will describe later... Basically, anything you recognize is NOT, in any way or form, MINE.
Hello everyone! Just a few words before I start…
This is my first HP story - and probably my longest. I actually thought of the plot a few months ago, but was too much of a wimp to post it before… I didn't bother to write it… And then, I found Portkey, and voila! My muses began working, my mind exploded, and I went insane. But in a good way, of course… ^^
Also, go easy on me if I mess up with one of the facts from OotP. I read it once, and that was two months ago. I mean, I know it basically, but… I'm a little rusty. But if I do horribly butcher something, PLEASE tell me! Thanks!
I'm terribly sorry if I don't update as quickly as the other authors. I'm going to try to do long chapters, but if most of you would prefer shorter ones, then just say so. Also, I have the everlasting homework issue -> don't worry though! Holiday break in exactly a week! Yay! Two weeks off!
I really, really appreciate constructive feedback! I'll try to mention everyone who does review in the next chapter! ^_^
Cheers ~
-Lauren
It was another terribly dreary day at Number Four, Privet Drive. The only sign of life was in fact, not life at all - just the constant drumming of rain on the roof and gutters. The sound was all too familiar to sixteen-year-old Harry Potter, who had spent the last fortnight in his bedroom, reading (or perhaps re-reading) his books and finishing schoolwork. The gale of rain and wind had come unexpectedly at the end of the fifth year term, and many disappointed Muggles had sadly put away their suntan lotion and lawn chairs, secretly crossing their fingers for another just as unexpected heat wave. But Harry didn't care. The storm suited his mood perfectly, and he was glad to see everyone miserable; the weatherman on the public weather station baffled and confused. Downtrodden
For once in his young life, Harry was glad he was alone and unwanted during the summer holidays - forced to live with the people he despised most (though not, perhaps, as much as the Malfoys). It meant he wouldn't have to have an intelligent conversation, and face the pity he knew everyone would lavish onto him. He wouldn't have to watch their faces; anxious and antsy as if they were waiting for him to erupt into tears at any given moment…
He didn't even try to tell the Dursleys. The very idea was ridiculous. Why would they care about whom he cared about? They never did before, and they never would.
Harry laughed at himself. They never wasted a second thought on Harry's dead parents. Their pity was practically a sliver of oblivion, and if they cared at all, it didn't show. Everything Harry said about the Magical World was shushed hurriedly, and then shoved back down his throat. So it was pointless, it seemed, to explain his newly aching loss to Harry's curt aunt and uncle.
And Dudley? Harry picked up a crumb from his smuggled biscuit and smashed it between his fingers angrily. Dudley had been nothing but a nuisance and bully towards Harry. He was better off talking to drywall.
Harry sighed, and for a fleeting instant, wondered what Ron and Hermione were doing. But this thought was shoved aside as a pang of hunger bit into the lining of Harry's stomach. He groaned and sat upright, finally stretched his skinny frame. The biscuit had not been very filling.
Harry walked towards the door, flung it open carelessly, and proceeded downstairs, rubbing his sore eyes free of any grit.
He was alone in the house again. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had long since forgotten their fear of leaving him alone and coming back to a smoldering house, and now, with Uncle Vernon's drill company making twice as much profit than before, they were constantly being invited (or deviously inviting themselves) to parties or friendly get-togethers. Dudley, unlike most boys of his age, was still living at home, but was currently staying with his Aunt Marge somewhere in the United States. Harry found this quite a relief; there was nothing worse than watching his cousin get anything he wanted with a snap of his pudgy fingers, amid his mother's coos and loving nicknames.
Harry scrambled around the kitchen, looking for food. Finally, he came across an apple, and he chomped down hungrily. Glancing at the clock, Harry sighed thankfully. The Dursleys wouldn't be home for another two hours.
Well, at least I can watch TV now… he thought, staring at the blank screen. But Harry had watched so much television lately that even the very thought bored him. He thought of his Firebolt, about how he wished to fly it, and he smiled wistfully…
He jumped up. That was it! At least his broomstick would keep him busy. Harry was meaning to polish the handle anyway… He would just take it out and look at it. Maybe then his mind could do the fantasizing for him.
Throwing the apple core into the wastebasket by the kitchen sink, Harry sprinted up the stairs and into one of the closets in the hallway. As soon as he came home from school, Harry had stored his Firebolt safely upstairs in the attic. Though he was sure Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were quite content to leave his things alone, Harry wagered that if they saw his most treasured possession out and about, they wouldn't pass up the chance to make him miserable. Besides, no one ever went into the attic; Aunt Petunia had seen to that.
Before Hogwarts, Harry had often climbed up the ladder and into the attic when he felt threatened by Dudley and his dim-witted gang. It was almost a sanctuary. And now, it was a perfect place to keep his belongings out of harm's way.
Harry climbed the ladder, and pushed up on the heavy trapdoor, groaning with the effort. He certainly didn't remember anything being this heavy when he put his Firebolt up there just a few weeks ago…
He pushed one last time. He heard a sliding noise and a deafening clunk as the door swung inwards and hit the attic floor.
Harry heaved himself up and stood up, coughing. He waved his hands in front of his face, warding away the dust that had swirled up around him, and grabbed a hanging chain. He pulled, and a drowsy-looking light flickered on.
It was extremely musty in the attic, and everything around him looked at least one hundred years, due to the collection of dust and dirt. Boxes, labeled with various names, were stacked in neat columns, and broken toys and game consoles lay, forgotten, in pieces around the surprisingly large room. Harry could have sworn he even saw the remains of Dudley's long lost turtle.
The only thing that was visibly untouched by age and debris was Harry's Firebolt. It was still glossy and polished, and only a few hairs on the end were twisted and bent. The clearly engraved name - Firebolt - was as beautiful as ever, catching the rays from the hanging light and reflecting them against the ceiling. The wooden body still looked as smooth as when he last polished it. Harry's heart spun a three-sixty inside his chest and surged with pride.
"There you are," he said softly, taking it from where it had been leaning and peering closely at it. "No harm done, either." He looked around at the scattered rubbish. "Mixed in with this lot, I'm surprised you're in one piece."
He slung it over his shoulder. But as he turned to leave, his eyes landed on a rather small parcel stuffed carelessly into a corner of the attic. It was huddled between two stacks of boxes (all labeled "Dudley's baby pictures"), and, in fact, if he hadn't been standing exactly where he was, he wouldn't have seen it. Dust was covering most of the papery outside layer, but most of what had been wrapped around it, however, was browning and dilapidated.
Harry moved closer, suddenly curious. Then carefully, with both hands, he lifted it off of the floor.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps, and Uncle Vernon talking loudly. Harry looked wildly around, quickly propped his Firebolt against one of the stacks of boxes, and flew down the ladder and into the closet. With a small groan, he pulled the trapdoor back down.
Then he realized he was still holding the package. He hurriedly hid it behind his back… pushed the closet door open and slipped through…
He was about to turn on his heel and run to his room when he found himself face to face with Uncle Vernon. His eyes were more bloodshot than usual, and he looked slightly drunk. His dark moustache was twitching as he looked Harry up and down.
With one hand, Harry tried to brush some of the dust from his untidy hair.
Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes. "What are you up to, boy?" Aunt Petunia's beady eyes glanced suspiciously towards his hands, which were still hidden behind his back. Harry shifted away from her gaze.
"Nothing. I came down for something to eat."
They both stared at him. Aunt Petunia was still clinging onto Uncle Vernon's arm tightly, her nails digging into his skin. The tension was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
Harry could see Uncle Vernon's teeth grinding together behind his angrily pursed lips (as well as he could hear them) and his nostrils were flaring like a winded horse. But the more frustrated he got, the harder Aunt Petunia grabbed onto him.
"Well, that's nice," Aunt Petunia managed to sputter. Harry got the impression that she was holding back a raging bull. And he knew it was not out of kindness. After Mad-Eye Moody's threat at the end of fifth year, Aunt Petunia had constantly acted as a barrier between Harry and Uncle Vernon. Usually this wasn't a problem, because they hardly ever even acknowledged each other, but every once in a while, Uncle Vernon would resort to his old habits and bark threats at Harry, who would respond with an icy glare.
But in truth, Harry felt like he had enough on his plate already to really care what Uncle Vernon did. Sirius's death was draining, and it exhausted him. And whenever he came back to the painful subject, he could feel the tears forming in his eyes, the heaviness in his chest… He always blamed himself. He had fallen for Voldemort's plan, and his godfather was dead because of it. He set himself up for failure, he always did… He was the one who led everyone into terror. Everyone he knew and loved was in danger - even more than before. Harry shut his eyes painfully. First his parents, then Sirius. Who was next?
Harry looked at his aunt and uncle, who were eyeing him with apprehension, and suddenly understood. Everything fit; the terrible, bias lifestyle he had grown up knowing, his aunt and uncle's refusal to tell him what he rightly should have known - that he was a wizard… They knew his history. They hated him because they were afraid.
Harry was shaking; breathing through his nose in short, ragged breaths…
They were afraid of him, of the looming dread he brought upon everyone he was close to. If he cared about someone, they were bound to die. Of course, it was just a matter of time before everyone he knew was nothing more than ashes beneath the earth…
He could feel his heart pounding, his blood pulsing through his veins…
Harry clenched his fists. He wanted to shout himself hoarse, he wanted to kick and scream. Why was everything piled onto his shoulders, anyway? There was nothing special about him… Why was he suddenly the one who had to destroy Voldemort?
It's ironic, really, thought Harry coldly, at first I was a nobody. Then, suddenly, I'm the single most important person in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds… I'm the one in charge of defeating the greatest dark wizard of all time…
Harry felt the parcel weighing down his arms, jerking him back to reality. Aunt Petunia was staring at him strangely.
It was then that he realized he couldn't stay here, watching Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia give him angry and resentful looks whenever they thought he wasn't looking; hearing them speak in hushed whispers when he passed them by; feeling the tension envelope them every time he entered a room… it just wasn't worth it anymore. All of this pretending was in vain, and Harry knew that if he didn't leave, he would drive himself crazy.
"Did you finish any schoolwork while we were away?" Aunt Petunia was talking, trying desperately to make a conversation out of the choked silence. Harry shook his head, looking out of the corner of his eye at Uncle Vernon. His face was a dramatic purple color, and it looked like he was struggling to remain calm, but was failing miserably.
"No, too tired," Harry told her shortly. Uncle Vernon grunted his acknowledgement.
Aunt Petunia stared nervously at him for a second more, then pulled her husband into the kitchen. Harry turned around sharply and stormed up the stairs, glad to be rid of their awkward company.
As soon as Harry reached his room, he slammed his door shut and flung himself onto his bed. The parcel flopped pathetically out of his hands, settling a foot away. His snowy owl, Hedwig, awoke with a loud shriek, beating her large wings against the side of her cage. She gave him a very annoyed look, which Harry ignored.
It felt hopeless. Dumbledore was looking after him, making sure that he didn't go anywhere, do anything stupid… The whole Order was keeping a close eye on his well-being, and even old Mrs. Figg was doing her humble duties.
It was always the same. Protect Harry; help Harry; feel sorry for Harry… He was fed up with everyone's extra attention, the wandering eyes, the whispers following him down the halls of Hogwarts…
Harry turned his eyes to Hedwig, who had apparently settled down, and was now contently preening her feathers. For a second she held his gaze, her inquisitive eyes wide, as if she were asking him something. But then she looked away and dipped her beak into her water bowl.
Harry got off his stomach and sat, leaning against the headboard of his bed. His mind whirled.
He could seek a home at The Burrow for the rest of the summer holidays… But where would that lead him? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who always had his best interests at heart, would whisk him back to Privet Drive before he could say "Fizzing Whizbees". Both were avid members of the Order of the Phoenix, and would certainly know about Dumbledore's concerns and wishes. No… it was too risky.
Old Grimmauld Place? He wasn't that thick… That would send him right back to where he began…
Stoatshead Hill?
Hogsmeade?
Harry racked his brain, desperate.
The Shrieking Shack?
King's Cross Station?
Harry grabbed a handful of his soot-black hair and massaged his fingernails into his scalp. No, no, no… he thought mournfully. Everything felt wrong.
Hedwig stared at him, and Harry said to her, feeling discouraged, "I guess I could always tag along with Stan on the Knight Bus…" He pushed himself off his bed and went over to her cage to stroke her. Instead of letting him, she snapped her beak and screeched loudly. Harry stumbled backwards, taken aback.
Then suddenly it hit him. It was so obvious, so amazingly obvious… Harry was astounded he didn't think of it before…
"Hermione," he whispered.
Harry thumbed through the phonebook impatiently, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His eyes scanned the pages and pages of addresses, peering through his glasses in hope of finding what he wanted. He had been looking for an hour, and had gone through almost all of the Dursley's old phonebooks, except for the few that lay in a scattered mess on the table in front of him.
Harry's entire luggage collection was piled by the leg of the table, with the exception of Hedwig, whose cage was resting atop the hardwood table. Harry, who never really believed in animal communication by speaking, gave up his ideas for that one night and pathetically resorted to pleading Hedwig to be quiet, lest she wake up the Dursleys. The rest of the nights, he promised, she could hunt and screech as long and as loud as she pleased.
He ran his finger down the Gs he had managed to find, mumbling names under his breath.
"Granare… Granetta… Granger…" Harry muttered. His eyes opened excitedly and his heart skipped a beat. With much more enthusiasm, he jotted down the address written in the book, checked once more to see if there were any more Granger's listed (there weren't), and slipped his jacket around his shoulders.
With a thankful sigh, Harry pocketed Hermione's address and grasped his luggage. Carefully and quietly, he switched off the kitchen light and slipped out of Privet Drive and onto the front porch.
Though Harry was no stranger to late-night ventures and daring escapades, he concluded that this was by far the worst felony he had committed. Deliberately going against Dumbledore's gentle reasoning was the worst Harry had ever done; even the other experiences were nothing compared to what he was doing now. A pang of guilt rushed through him as he realized he was pulling Hermione into this as well…
But Harry balled his hands into fists and ignored his musings. It was better this way, he told himself firmly, even if it does mean challenging Dumbledore's logic.
It was perhaps the rainiest, most horrible night of the entire summer. The wind was howling through the streets as Harry walked along; gusts tangled and weaved through his hair, and his black bangs found their way into his stinging eyes more often than not. Most of the wind, however, swept around him and whistled as it brushed past the houses, rattling the windows and gutters. And it didn't soothe the situation that the gale was blowing against him, resulting in the raindrops pounding into his face: he could have sworn each made a small dent where it collided.
Harry had long since given up on trying to quiet Hedwig, and finally, with much unease, let her out of her cage. She had taken off into the sky, looking ruffled and very much windswept, but very relieved. Harry had been relieved also, for Hedwig's well-aimed beak was attacking a new target (if she had continued nipping him any longer, his fingers would have reduced to mincemeat). She had taken to diving out of sight and returning with what Harry presumed was a shrew (though it was hard to tell in the weather).
It didn't take more than ten minutes for Harry to become utterly and completely soaked, but with each step he took, he felt more elated.
Seeing Hermione was more than enough to relieve all of Harry's pain and discomfort. It was this idea alone that kept him going, kept him strong. In fact, he needed to see her so badly, not seeing her was agony. He had to confide in her. She would listen.
Painstakingly, Harry continued, until finally, he found himself lifting his head to look at the residence in front of him. Still staring at it, he pulled out Hermione's address and glanced down quickly. He lifted his eyes heavenward in gratitude.
It was a very cozy-looking house, painted a warm tan color. Its door was a darker brown, but still very friendly, with shutters to match. Compared to the Dursley's spacious lot, it was rather small, but Harry wouldn't have cared even if Hermione had lived in the smallest house in England. He found himself drawn to the house like a magnet, liking the feel it generated immediately. And even the Dursley's couldn't outdo that.
Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer, and sprinted up the driveway and onto the front porch. He raised his hand and knocked on the door desperately.
The sound echoed through the house, and for a split second, Harry felt insecure. What if he did do the wrong thing? What if he was he being moronic, leaving the Dursleys? What if -
Footsteps pitter-pattered down the hallway of the house, until…
The door flung open, revealing a harassed-looking Hermione, who was fumbling with the buttons on her nightshirt, clearly not seeing Harry. "Mum, Dad, I didn't expect you to be home so early…" She stopped in mid-sentence. Looked up. Blinked.
Mouth agape, she gasped, "Harry!"
He managed a weak smile, but he was at a loss for words. His teeth chattered.
Her eyes traveled from his soggy hair to his waterlogged clothes, and back up to his exhausted face. "Oh, Harry…" She also looked speechless, which was not like her at all. The two of them stared at each other, lapsing into silence. Hermione tried to wring her wet hair dry.
Harry spoke first. "Can I -?"
Hermione jumped out of her reverie instantly. "Yes! Yes, Harry, come… come in!" She leapt forward and grabbed his suitcase in her hand, waving him in with another.
Harry stepped into the house, feeling more than aware of the growing puddle of water surrounding him where he stood. He felt a shiver pass through him as Hermione closed the door with her leg. She turned to face him.
"Hermione," he managed to choke out (his voice felt oddly out-of-practice).
She had returned to her old self; the shock of seeing Harry at her front door had worn off just a bit. "You're chilled to the bone, Harry," she noted, biting her lower lip, "You need some warm clothes." Her hands went to his suitcase, and still watching him carefully, she handed him his luggage. "This will still be dry. Go ahead and put them on. I'll make some cocoa."
"Right," said Harry, "Er… where is your bathroom?"
"Upstairs, first door on your right."
As soon as he arrived in the bathroom, he stripped himself of his wet clothing, and dressed himself in his semi-dry clothes. He attempted to slick down his now drying hair, but he only managed to dishevel it even more. He sighed.
"Never mind then," he muttered to his reflection.
When they met downstairs for the second time, Hermione had made some steaming mugs of cocoa, and had the fireplace blazing. It was extremely pleasant.
Hermione asked him once more if he needed anything, he shook his head, and she sat down on the flowery couch, wrapping a wool blanket around herself. She was absently rubbing her index finger with her thumb, looking torn.
"Harry…" she started cautiously, with care; "I need an explanation before I can help you. Because that's what you want, right?"
He felt like an idiot. All of a sudden, nothing made sense. He had traveled miles and miles to visit her, for what purpose? Did he really want to burden her with his worries?
"No," he lied quickly, "no. I just wanted to visit you."
Her eyes burned right through him. She said bluntly, " I don't believe you."
Harry stared determinedly at his mug.
"Harry, just tell me. Please. I know you, and I know how you're feeling." He raised his head to look at her. "Don't feel guilty, okay? I'm not fragile. I can help you."
His eyes were stinging. "I left the Dursleys."
Hermione looked confused. "Yes, I know…"
"I can't go back," Harry continued, breathing in deeply. "I can't face them."
He turned to look at her, and his usually bright eyes were shadowed with hurt.
"Hermione." His voice cracked. "Are you afraid of me?"
She was shocked, taken aback. "Of course not, Harry."
"Are you sure?" Before he could stop himself, he was raising his voice, "Are you sure you're not afraid of me?"
"Harry -,"
"Everyone else is, aren't they? Why aren't you any different? Even Ron is afraid of me!" Harry's fingernails dug into his palm and his chest heaved. "I don't know how, but somehow he's jealous and scared at the same time." Hermione's mouth opened in protest, but Harry said quickly, "Don't try and defend him. We both know what he's like."
He sighed. "It's stupid really, but I'm jealous of him. Mother and father… a family…"
Their eyes met, and Harry looked away.
"It's not your fault," Hermione said softly.
At this there was resolute silence, which Harry used to stare absentmindedly into the crackling fire.
Hermione had pinpointed it. Precautions had been taken to hide it from everyone, even his friends, and she had laid his feelings out, simple as one mere sentence. It was then Harry realized why he had come to Hermione. She could make sense out of feelings so shattered, so distorted, even Harry himself didn't understand what they were about anymore…
Harry reached shakily for his cup of hot cocoa and grasped it between his hands.
Hermione's eyes were fixed on his when he looked back up at her. She drew her breath in quickly.
"Harry, I know that everything seems to be happening to you. I know that you've been living with the most ghastly relatives imaginable, and I know that…" she trailed off.
"… Everyone I care about is in mortal danger," he finished her sentence lamely.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and Harry expected a harsh contradiction, but instead, she just laid her hand over his in a comforting way and said, "Oh, Harry, don't you see? That doesn't matter to me at all. In the end, we're all in danger. And I'd rather be by your side as a friend, then trail behind as an onlooker."
Yet a question still nagged at the back of Harry's throat.
"Don't you ever regret it, though?" he blurted out, unable to contain himself.
Hermione's face was firm and decided. "No. Never."
There was long silence, in which there was an irritated tap, tap, at the window. Both friends jerked around, but it was Harry who jumped up and opened the window to let Hedwig inside. She tumbled through, hooting indignantly, and landed on an arm of the couch. Hermione stroked her absently.
"What're you going to do, then?" she asked suddenly.
Harry just stared down at his swirling mug of chocolate and melted marshmallow. He hadn't had much, and it was now lukewarm.
"I mean," she pressed quietly, gliding her hand along Hedwig's downy neck, "I'm sure Dumbledore didn't exactly allow this. Won't he know that you've been here?"
"I don't care," Harry said firmly.
"But…"
"Nobody else knows but you and me," he finished quickly. He noticed her questioning look and said, "Not even Ron."
She didn't question him further. Harry was relieved. He didn't know what he would have said if she asked him why he didn't confide in Ron about all of his troubles. It wasn't like he couldn't - he couldn't have gone to The Burrow, for sure, but he could have owled Ron. It was true, over the years, Harry had begun to resent some of Ron's behavior, but he dismissed this quickly. They had been friends for over five years, and it was common for friendships to have their snarls and knots…
Harry didn't know how long they sat there in a silent mutual agreement, but soon, the flames of the fire died, his cocoa turned cold, and Hedwig was asleep on the couch, her head buried deep into her soft, snowy feathers. Hermione was still awake, but barely. He could see her head bobbing slightly, her eyelids drooping.
"Hermione…" Harry whispered, getting off the chair and standing beside her, "Where should I sleep for the night?"
"Guest room," she murmured, looking at him through dazed eyes. Up close, Harry noticed for the first time the dark rings beneath them. "I'll explain to Mum and Dad."
"Listen, Hermione…" Harry started, feeling a burst of gratitude toward Hermione's ability to welcome his unexpected arrival so graciously. He tried to form the right words to describe his appreciation, but nothing felt right. "Listen… er… thanks."
It felt so lame, so pathetic, compared to how he grateful he was. But Hermione just smiled. "You're welcome, Harry."
Harry lay awake in the dark guestroom, his hands behind his head, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
He had decided not to awaken Hedwig, who would have just been angered if he did. Now, surrounded in darkness, Harry felt particularly lonesome and melancholy. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. Restless thoughts raced across his mind.
Instinctively, he reached for his suitcase. He pulled it up onto the bed, into his lap, and sat up. He was in such a hurry to get out early that evening he didn't even remember if he had brought everything he needed. And since he had nothing else to do…
Harry sighed.
That evening. It felt like forever.
Zipping open his suitcase, Harry felt something tumble out and land softly atop his bedspread. He picked it up and squinted. His hands groped for his glasses, and he pulled them on.
He stared at it for a second before it came to him.
It was the small parcel from the attic.
Harry turned it over in his hands, looking for some kind of description of what it was, but he didn't find anything. The only peculiar quality was the way it was wrapped; so haphazardly, as if someone was in a hurry…
He dismissed this thought quickly. It was in Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's attic - it could be anything that they wanted to get rid of.
Still, his curiosity overcame him, and he hastily unwrapped the package eagerly...
But nothing could have prepared him for the shock that followed.