Chapter Two
It was always interesting to him how one could be asleep, yet not feel a single bit more rested. He had been in bed sleeping fitfully for 4 hours and felt, if anything, worse than he had before he had initially gone to bed. It was 5:00 in the morning, and he began to prepare himself for the daily ritual of cooking the Dursley's breakfast.
Slipping an outfit of tattered clothes, he made his way downstairs without comment, without thought, and without care. He was in a monotonous mode of stupor that he made no effort to push himself out of….it was a casing of non-feeling, a total anti-thesis to emotion. It was a haven, a place of hiding….a form of protection.
A couple minutes later a red-faced and highly groomed Vernon Dursley marched downed the stairs sporting a new suit he had recently gotten on the eve of his "greatest step in my climb to corporate greatness". Naturally, he and the other Dursleys never talked so frivolity around Harry, but Vernon, even with Harry's sudden and dramatic change of attitude, could not always help boasting loud enough to inform Harry, who was either in his room or somewhere in the vicinity of the house.
Vernon's beady eyes squinted as he caught sight of Harry cooking at the stove, his crumpled and bent clothes no match for his even more angled raven-black hair. It had been this way the whole summer. Vernon would come downstairs to find a silent Harry cooking his meal. Once Vernon settled down and began reading the Business section of the newspaper he didn't understand, a fully palpable tension would immediately fortify itself in an almost impregnable manner between the two figures in the room. One a porky, snobbish muggle, the other a lost and forlorn wizard. One a student in a magical school, one a middle-aged man in business. One totally aware of the awkward and highly uncomfortable situation, one utterly oblivious.
It was a battle of emotions for the beleaguered Vernon Dursley. It was painfully obvious he would rather go under the ranks of servitude and even go to the lengths of cooking his own meal rather than having this stoic of a boy silently cook and serve his own. However, this strong feeling was immediately countered by his utter and fully-fledged fear of speaking to this enigma of a nephew. It was a never ending battle that he knew full well would never come to a conclusion.
He chewed on his food as a cow would chew grass. Even the food tasted how the boy looked. It wasn't tasteless, really, but it most certainly did not have any zeal or exceptional flavor. As a matter of fact, it had been his opinion of the last few days that the eggs had indeed turned a shade or two grayer than before. And lately, it seemed as though this effect was creeping into the bacon and toast.
Once more Vernon caught himself thinking of him. He had been doing this more and more and found that he couldn't fully stop it either….much to his chagrin. He and Petunia had spent long nights talking about the boy and his unusual behavior. From the very start of the summer it was obvious something was going on….perhaps something was even wrong. Theory after theory he and Petunia shot out of what kind of conniving plot the boy was playing now. Why was he trying to play the "poor me" role? Was he trying to leech even more of their already-benevolent giving's? But the more and more they tried to convince themselves they were right of the insolent boy's behavior, the more it became painfully obvious they were not. It was too real….even his own exceptional hate of wizards could not block out the almost solid waves of hurt radiating out of the black-haired object of observation. It slowly proved to him that even such things as him were just as human as he was….and had a considerable effect on his view and treatment of him. It was still chilling to him, and wrenchingly painful to Petunia of the realization that they had begun to worry about a person that had tried so hard to ignore, expel, and forget for so long.
* * *
Nymphadora Tonks sat behind a hedge, facing the household of the Dursley's and their nephew. Shifting her invisibility cloak so as to not reveal her right foot, yet position herself comfortably, Tonks pushed a stray band of golden hair out of her eyes. Last year, she would have been exulted to be chosen to guard Harry Potter. But now, it was so much different. The sentinels were supposed to watch for a series of psychological problems in the boy, but in common consensus among the guards, they had to watch for those same problems in themselves. It was also commonly agreed that the beginning of these symptoms were to catch a glimpse of those eyes. From then on, a whole new perspective was cast on their subject. Small and subtle signals previously unnoticed became painfully aware. Once meaningless actions now carried potent but silent implications. It became an earnest task to hear him utter a single syllable of speech. It had now been two weeks and five days since anyone had heard him say a thing. To say that they were worried was a serious understatement.
Discussions had been held concerning his welfare, but all that could be decided for certain were the uncertainties. For now they would wait. It was painstakingly clear that they could not take him out because of the terms of the protections. It was better to have this Harry rather than a dead one. Though lately that statement had undergone serious second-thoughts.
To think that he wasn't changed by the events of last month hadn't crossed the mind of anyone. Though, mused Tonks, he had changed physically as well. He'd grown a few inches, probably around 5' 11", but she doubt he'd noticed. He had begun to have chiseled features, hard angles….giving him a further mature look than he had already attained since age 11 or earlier. Whether this was the byproduct of the recent events, teenage growing spurts, or both….it was incredibly hard to tell. Such was the multitude of the effects of what happened.
Now all they could do is wait, watch, and hope. Though, thought Tonks, that hope was fading fast.
* * *
Breakfast was efficiently taken care of, Vernon left without comment, and Dudley and Petunia had gone out to a breakfast place after leaving Harry with a short list of chores. There was no personal reference, merely containing the minimal wording on a Grunning's notepad.
Trim Bushes
Plant new flowers on East side gateway
Start Stone Fence in Front Yard
Before #3, wear clothes sitting on coffee table
Without a word, Harry walked outside into the shed to grab a pair of clippers and started on his chores. Though there were only a few things to accomplish, they were highly time-consuming. Not that Harry cared. In fact, if possible, he touched on the fringes of enjoying it. It felt relatively good to focus on something other then his life, even if it was on menial tasks such as yard work. His relatives could find no fault in anything he did outside of the house….the house had too many reminders of his other life….the Dursley's had never made him do yard work before, as that would mean unnecessary exposure, so the yard did not carry as many memory flashbacks as other places inside the house. Harry found that once tasked on such things, he would sometimes be suddenly possessed a wholesome self-determination that was altogether refreshing and rejuvenating to a certain degree.
However rejuvenating it was though, it never did make Harry totally forget his troubles, nor did it brush those feelings from his frontrunner thoughts.
Brushing a few stray leaf clippings off his tattered clothes, the boy-who-lived strove to contain his eddying emotions and focus on the servantile task in front of him.
His eyes told the tale of which of those two striving forces won out.
Behind Bush #2, a barely-audible sigh could be heard amidst the faint breezes of summer.
* * *
It was afternoon now, and he had accomplished tasks One and Two. He stepped inside to grab the clothes that apparently had been laid out for him to wear for task number Three. It did not escape him, when he found the half-way decent clothes sitting on the coffee table, that they did this not out of care, but out of the care of their household's appearance. He did not, however, realize that a few rips that would not have been seen by even the most diligent of walkers were caringly repaired by hand.
* * *
It was scorching hot outside. Unlike last year, the air was full of humidity, and perspiration was unavoidable. Harry was painstakingly carrying heavy stone rocks to the front of the yard and setting them in a fashionable stone fence. His shirt had come off a few minutes before, when he made a second stain on the shirt with a particularly muddy rock….Underneath it was an exceptionally toned body, silently radiating times of glory on the Quidditch Pitch beneath a shining layer of sweat. He had grown into his body, and his tattered jeans and shirtless top showed it remarkably. If he had but adorned a more approachable presence, his cut, lean figure would have undoubtedly brought him a consistent feminine presence. He had not gone completely blind and missed the frequent glances of passing females. He had, however, gone on completely oblivious to such blatant expressions of interest. It did not matter to him, it did not even occur to him to even act on it. Too many other emotions plagued his mind to let him concentrate, let alone conceive such thoughts of romantics.
Placing the last stone of the Right-hand section of the wall, Harry picked up his discarded shirt and walked inside and was not seen again that day.
* * *
A brown tawny owl floated above the nearly identical rows and rows of houses many feet below it. It drifted upon a strong breeze, which, like many others this summer, carried the scent of change, the feel of motion, and the touches of fear….So subtle, yet blatantly persuasive was it, that it could not be ignored by even the most ignorant of sentient beings.
The owl itself was another facet of monumental alteration. The predatory claws clenched in it a parcel of paper that bore a manuscript so preliminary and rudimentary that its initial meaning bore an inescapably essential significance. Not more than 50 words littered its surface. Not even a signature enamored its description. It was not an element to be recorded in history books, or even fireside tales….it was merely a piece of paper that just as easily could have been used as a note to remind the custodian to clean the 3rd floor cabinet….Indeed, it was just as good as.
But it wasn't.
It was anything but a piece of paper.
It was the spark that set the fire. The gear that set it spinning. The bullet that started the war.
It was the one object that set the pieces of the Second War into inexorable movement.
It truly had begun.
And hardly anyone knew it.
* * *
-->