"So, Potter… give us a shout if you need us. If we don't hear from you for three days in a row, we'll send someone along…" Moody instructed both Harry and Uncle Vernon. Leaving Aunt Petunia whimpering at the thought of her embarrassment should the neighbors see any of these strange people marching up the front walk.
"'Bye, then Potter," said Moody, grasping Harry's shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand.
"Take care, Harry," said Lupin quietly. "Keep in touch."
"Harry, we'll have you away from there as soon as we can," Mrs. Weasley whispered, hugging him again.
"We'll see you soon, mate," said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry's hand.
"Really soon, Harry," said Hermione earnestly. "We promise."
Harry nodded. He somehow could not find the words to tell them what it meant to him, to see them all ranged around, on his side. Instead he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around and led the way out of the station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake. -- "Harry Potter and the Order of The Phoenix" - J.K. Rowling ; page 870, U.S. edition.
His thoughts of the warning Moody had given his uncle during the drive back to the little house on Privet Drive had bolstered his confidence so he felt he could survive the summer. He knew Uncle Vernon was afraid of the Auror and a simple reminder of that could keep the animals at bay. The others in the car on the drive back to the little house on Privet Drive missed the smirk on his face. One missed letter and I'll have help. He thought. They would have to come back. Just the thought of having people who cared enough to offer to help lifted his bleak mood.
"Potter, you'd better not get any smart ideas. If you intentionally forget to write those people just to bring them back, so help you, it will be the last time you set foot in my house." Uncle Vernon ordered, although Harry could still detect the fear in his voice. He gave his Uncle's threat as much thought as it deserved, just barely ignoring him.
"What a brave man to threaten a child." He muttered to himself, as he stared out the window.
Dudley began to comment on the dress and styles of Harry's friends but the ridicule and snide comments went unanswered. Harry took the remarks for what they were, hot air from an over blown wind-bag.
As soon as they arrived at number 4 Privet Drive, Harry pulled his trunk from the boot and dragged it to his room. He began writing to his friends the moment he had finished unpacking and let Hedwig out for some exercise. He was full of fervent hope for a better summer than usual, and wanted to begin with letters to the friends he has just left. Even though only a few hours had passed and it was still less the two weeks since the battle, time had slowed; every tick of the clock seemed to last a lifetime. His refuge was to busy his mind, to push his memories as far back as he could. Writing to the two people he was closest to would help pass that time.
His decided his first note would be to Ron.
Ron,
Want to let you know I made it here safe and sound. Uncle Vernon was being a git on the way back, but he's not stepped out of line, yet. I'm looking forward to getting out of this prison and back to… his house with you lot.
I'll write in a couple days.
HP
He carefully folded the note, addressed it to 'Ron Weasley, the Burrow'. Now for the second letter, he stopped for a moment and his pulse raced while he tried to think of what to say.
Hermione,
I'm so glad I can write to you without worrying about my uncle getting mad. I made it here safe and sound. Uncle Vernon is still being the same git he's always been, but he's not stepped out of line, yet.
I miss you and Ron already and can't wait to see you again.
Harry
PS. Send me your phone number; I can use the phone to call you from time to time.
He folded her letter, sealed it and addressed it to 'Hermione Jane Granger'. He laid them carefully on his desk to wait for Hedwig to return. He stood and after a brisk walk of half a step to his bed, he flopped down. He reached to his nightstand and pulled his album that Hagrid gave him after his first year. The pages were quite worn, as he slowly flipped past pictures of his mother and father. He skipped the next two pages, pictures of a man he was not ready to see. He stopped at a collage of wizard and muggle pictures of Ron, Ginny and Hermione. The only muggle pictures he had were of her. He picked up a small group of pictures he saved from the last year, one was a group picture of his core team from the DA, one from the past summer with Sirius and the last was one he saved was of Hermione. He glued the group shot in the album, slid the picture of his godfather with the others he past. He held the one of Hermione in his fingers, and grimaced when he though back to the battle.
We made a good team. He thought. Until she got hit and I almost lost her. He felt a chill run down his frame and a lump build in his throat. He's mind began to wander down the path of those he's lost and almost lost. He let his album fall to the floor and began to study the cracks in the ceiling above him.
His journey was short lived when he heard a familiar peck at the window.
"Hedwig!" He called joyfully as he opened the window. She hopped in and latched on his arm waiting for a scratch around her neck. "I have two letters for you to deliver, bring the first to Ron and the second to Hermione. If she has a reply for you, wait for it, ok, girl?"
She hooted and stretched out a leg for the letters. Once they were tied in place, she hopped back to the windowsill and flew off.
That night while he tried to wait patiently for the replies, he ventured out of his room to see how his relatives took to Moody's message. Aunt Petunia had dinner on the table, ready to serve, and as usual, they did not call him down, hoping he'd skip the meal.
His dreams of living with his Godfather were gone, forever, but he still wanted for a more normal life. He had hopes of a tolerable summer, and maybe build some relationship with his relatives. After all, Aunt Petunia did show she knew more of his world than she ever admitted.
He quietly walked down the stairs while they were at the table, and strained to pick up their conversation before he walked in.
"…worthless lot. All of them. And he believes all the trash they've been feeding him."
"…ahem -er…actually, it's all true. I remember Lily whenever she came home for the summer, and how she was with James."
That was the first time Harry ever heard both his parents name's in the same sentence without cruelty. He felt a sudden surge of gratefulness to Aunt Petunia.
"Mark my words. He'll be the worst of the lot. Bad breeding, as Marge said."
"Still, she was my only sister, and he's her son. "
"A mistake of birth, I assure you. The lot of them are all frauds. Good thing they both were killed, shame they didn't take the brat with them." Harry's temper began to rise when he heard that.
"But Mum, what about what happened last year with that thing Harry scared off?"
Aunt Petunia's face paled at the reminder of her son's encounter with a demon that James had described many years ago. Harry had indeed saved her son's life, but that fact was never acknowledged. "Let's not worry about things we can't control," she finally said, to put the incident to rest.
"Rubbish. He must have hit you from behind and claimed it was part of his fantasy."
"Well, Harry was in front of me the entire time, and how could a runt like him surprise me?"
"You did say the lights went out just before you were hit. He must have broken them somehow and hit you from behind. Simple as that. No demons, just that brat. Now I'll have no more talk of this foolishness. The sooner we get rid of him, the better. I don't want any convicted murderers showing up on my door step."
Harry lost what little appetite he had as he fought back his feelings about the way his parents were maligned.
These people never knew mum, dad or Sirius. Sirius wasn't a murderer. he thought.
Aunt Petunia did say a few kind words about his parents, but that was the only bright spot. Uncle Vernon wished Harry had died with his parents, just so he wasn't burdened with him.
He quietly turned and went back to his cell. There was no need to lock the door; Uncle Vernon would see to it later. He picked up one of his schoolbooks and absently turned the pages, glancing at the words without reading a single one. A picture fell from the heavy volume . As he picked it up, his hands began to tremble. It was a picture of a group of old friends. They were smiling after they had learned the truth about his godfather - that he wasn't the murderer the Ministry claimed. That he was just a man trying to fulfill a promise he made on the day a young baby was greeted by the world. That he just wanted to teach him how to live, love and be happy. The picture had been taken just after Sirius had left on Buckbeak, to find a safe haven . The three in the picture were the happiest they've ever been. It was a time before Voldemort had returned to ruin his life. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Sirius was gone.
Harry couldn't face his role in his godfather's death. He rushed in without considering the consequences. He felt responsible for Cedric's death; if he hadn't suggested they share the Cup, Cedric would still be alive. It was his fault. He had almost caused Hermione's death because she followed him into danger. Even though she knew it wasn't right, she stayed by his side until she was wounded. He failed his partner in battle. He knew he was responsible, but couldn't face these realities yet.
Another picture fell from the volume - a picture of a woman and a man: he, with jet-black hair and round glasses, and she, with cinnamon red hair and the deepest green eyes. They radiated their love for each other. They too, were gone. He lost the two people that loved him unconditionally from before he was born. He could only remember them from a handful of pictures and a couple memories of a mirror, and the night HE came back.
He let the book of spells and pictures fall as he raised his hands to his eyes. He had been crying inside for many days, weeks actually. Now, the tears were real. They began his long journey of mourning. He sat there in his darkening room and wept. For those he lost and those he hurt. He wept alone. There wasn't a soul to see his weakness.
The summer holiday had just begun, but Harry couldn't bear being away from his friends for such a long time, and now the only relations he had were bad-mouthing his very existence behind his back. He took a deep breath and wiped away the last of his tears. Uncle Vernon had ridiculed him and his parents for so many years, but it was just that tonight his cruelty was so painful to Harry. He couldn't bear that, as well as the awful loneliness he faced. The last year had taken a heavy toll on him. He had started out the summer so hopefully, but now...
He could hear talking and laughter in the hall.
They are laughing at me again," he thought. "Well, let them laugh! I don't need them. They don't want me. He vowed to himself in the dark of his room that night to never rely or care for another person ever again.
He was just beginning to drift off to sleep when he heard a scratching at his window. A stern-looking bird was hovering outside his window. In its talons it held an official-looking document, complete with seals and ribbons. He opened the window to allow the bird to enter, and removed the document. The bird flew off.
Looks like something important. Could be my OWLS, but it's too early for them, he thought as he nervously opened the letter.
Mr H. Potter
4 Privet Drive
Little WhingingRE: The Estate of Sirius Black
Sir, this is to officially notify you of the disposition of the will and estate of Sirius Black.
The will left with his solicitor at Gringotts had named you, Harry James Potter, as the sole beneficiary of the aforementioned Sirius Black. In addition to the various accounts in Gringotts for the Black family, there are properties that remained in his possession to include 12 Grimmauld Place, and the property in Godric's Hollow.
Due to his status as a convicted murderer escaped from the Azkaban Prison, the execution of that document is pending an official hearing on July 30. Should the Ministry void the document; the inheritance will be awarded to the nearest living Black, a Narcissa Malfoy.
Thank you.
After reading it, Harry continued staring unseeingly at the letter in his hand. A vindictive politician obscured the truth of the life lost. Harry couldn't stand it. His eyes felt like they were going to well up with tears again, but he furiously blinked them away. The letter landed in the rubbish bin.
He fell into bed and closed his eyes . The growl from his belly finally stopped, upon realizing his hunger, he knew there'd be nothing to eat tonight. He fell into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
A black cauldron large enough to cook a man is balanced on a bed of red-hot coals. Whiffs of a silvery smoke flow from the massive pot. A splash is heard from the other side of the pot. He feels a searing pain in his arm followed by the familiar warm ooze of his blood. A scream of pain and another splash is heard, followed by a rhythmic chanting from the ring of hooded figures surrounding the scene -
He shot out of deep sleep with a searing pain from his forehead, his bedcovers soaked in sweat. It's the same dream he'd had for over a year. The pain burning in his forehead reminded him who planted that dream. "Why can't I have a normal dream? It'll never happen; I'll never have any kind of normal life. I might as well die now and be done with it," he said to himself as he rolled over in his small and slammed his fists into his pillow.
His eyes swelled again from remembering he was back. The memory of his empty belly added to his torment as he tossing and turning for nearly a half hour. He finally drifted off again.
…The Great Hall is crowded for the end of year feast. The seventh years are reveling in their success at having just finished their NEWTs . It is a cheerful sight. Then a scream broke the festivities, a hooded figure drifted from behind the girl, she stood there in shock to see the end of a sword extruding from her chest. The crimson on her robe glistens against the blue cloth. She never fell to the ground, but instead floats in air, under the figure of a black skull and snakes. Her blood drips into a dark red pool.. .
"Nooooo!" He shot out from his bed.
"SHUT UP POTTER!" Uncle Vernon screamed from down the hall.
Shaking, he looked at the clock on the nightstand. 3:45. He'd had little restful sleep in those few hours. His cold, damp sheets reminded him of the blood dripping in his vision. He was shaking, from the terror or cold sweat, he couldn't tell. His stomach grumbled again, but not from hunger, he was glad it was empty, or he would have heaved his dinner. He stripped the soaked covers from the bed, grabbed a cloak from his closet and curled into the fetal position, and again waited for sleep to rape his mind. His mind raced with the fresh images of the blood dripping from the girl; he could still see the blade through her chest, but not her face. He lay in his bed for what seemed like days, the only sound was his labored breathing and the steady tick of the clock. Sleep finally claimed him again.
He watches her body as it floats several feet above the ground, blood pours from her wounds. Dark crimson fluid ribboning down her leg, pools at his feet. In the moonlight he could see a green glow surround her body as she screams in agony -
His head snapped up again, his heart felt as if it were about to explode from his chest. He remembered the blood and the girl, but not her face. He had seen her die twice tonight in his dreams, once in the Great Hall and then he saw her in the moonlight. He shook the dream off, and sat on the floor in the corner furthest from his bed with his knees pulled to his chest, afraid of his bed and afraid of sleep, cold drops of sweat rolled from his brow. He sat there, afraid. Not anger or regret as he had with past dreams, but this time he was afraid. All his eyes could focus on was the second hand on his clock, moving… with… each… tick… of… each… second… Until his chin drooped to his chest.
He was awakened by an owl tapping on his window in the light of the new day. His head snapped up so quickly as he lay on the floor, he felt shooting pain down the left side of his neck. 'Hedwig, she must have brought a message from Hermione.' he mumbled to himself. He left the window ajar so she could push it open, if he was away, and she swooped to her master. His heartbeat revived as he thought this could be a ray of hope. "Come here, girl. Let me have the note." He took the letter from his faithful owl, and saw the perfect script handwriting on the envelope, as he tore it open not noticing the shaking in his hands, he realized it's from Hermione.
Harry,
I'm glad to hear that we can write each other, and even more so that you're willing to write. Please don't forget to tell me everything that happens. I'll always be there to help you, I promise.
My parents are planning a trip to the United States for the summer, my dad wants to visit a distant cousin, didn't even know I had relatives in America. I don't think your uncle will allow you to make a call overseas, but you can call my mobile phone, it's 07202349845. I don't know if it will work there, but I'll bring it. They want to leave in a couple days but I'll be back for your birthday.
Please keep yourself safe, I don't know what I would do if… please be safe.
Love always,
Hermione
Harry continued staring at the letter long after he had finished reading it, thinking:
'Love always'. She always signs his notes like that, he thought, but this time it seemed different, almost mocking him . And 'keep yourself safe'. Not that she cares, does she? …No. Of course she couldn't care a jot about me! She just doesn't want to lose her 'hero'. I'm tired of being everyone's hero. And she'll be gone most of the summer, there'd be no way to owl or call her.
He fell back to the corner of his cell where he found a few hours of peace and stared at the perfect handwriting. She was leaving him, abandoning him like the rest of the wizarding world. He felt trapped in his prison for the summer. Harry had completely neglected the fact that she had posted her mobile phone number in the letter and would be able to actually hear her voice. He angrily crumpled up the letter from the one of the few people that didn't think he was crazy, or a hero- wannabe 'grandstander'. He couldn't see or remember that Hermione knew the realHarry Potter because his mind was fogged with self-doubt and denial.
Hermione's crumpled letter landed on the floor.
He tried to pull himself up, to face the day. But his body was still numb from the images that ran through his dreams all night and from sleeping on the floor. He'd had bad nights, but two horrible dreams in one night? 'Two, or was it three?' he scratched his head and tried to remember the details of yet another horror filled night, 'It was some girl dead hovering over a pool of blood. I wish I knew who she was…Why do they keep coming back to me? ' He cupped his face in his hands and could feel his fear creep into his waking thoughts.
In the distance of his isolation, he heard movement in the house. The others faced the day as if there wasn't a thing to worry about. He could hear his uncle rant about the cost of this and the price of that, then leave for the day to his mundane life. Dudley's voice rang through the halls informing his mother he was going 'out' for the day.
Harry sat there, rocking. Watching the clock as each second of his life ticked away. He kept rocking.
He watched the shadows creep across the room, as the sunlight raced through his window. He heard more voices in the house as first Uncle Vernon and then Dudley returned. He could hear the sound of the other people in that house continue through their day without once calling his name or checking to see if he was even alive.
They've forgotten about me already. He thought in the corner of what remained of his world. He held his knees tighter to his chest while the sun left his world. He never once left his corner; a sheet of parchment remained crumpled nearby. The sunlight was quickly replaced by moonlight. He kept rocking, the visions still haunted him.
Grrrrrrr! His stomach grumbled. He fought to push the visions to the back of his mind where they would have to wait; his stomach reminded him of his neglect. Reluctantly he stood for the first time since the evening before and tried to stretch kinks from his stiffened joints. He stripped the sweat soaked clothes from his body and forced clean clothes to cover himself as he slipped out to forage for food in the kitchen. He glanced at the clock, 5:15.
"Good those animals will still be asleep." He murmured to himself.
He opened his door, thanking Merlin it wasn't locked, and crept down the stairs. He avoided the 5th and 9th steps, remembering those step creaked and slipped into the kitchen.
Food. It was one of the many things that he'd been denied in this house, something else he pushed from his mind since he returned. Many times he had to resort to parcels of food from his friends; now he'd have to resort to stealth. As quietly as possible, he opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bit of leftover sausage from dinner and a slice of bread, wrapped the bread around the sausage and ate without warming it. He pulled out a bottle of milk, and took a deep pull from the bottle. He looked around the kitchen for anything he could stockpile in his room, and only found a box of stale biscuits. Satisfied the box wouldn't be missed, he carried that and a bottle of water to his room. He had a supply of food for Hedwig, and besides, she could hunt her own dinner in the fields.
As quietly as he had slipped into the kitchen, he made his way to his room. Down the hall, past the cupboard he spent his first 10 years in, and up the stairs. He counted in reverse, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9 skip that step, 8, 7, 6 CRREEK…
'bugger!' he thought, 'another loose board.' He froze in his track, not thinking he could skip the next two steps, he waited to make sure he wasn't heard. He raised his foot, reached past the next two steps and made it to the landing. Sighing in relief at having successfully traversed the stairs, he slipped into his room. It was now 5:25. He had escaped his "cell" for ten whole minutes .
The biscuits were hidden under the loose flood board, next to his most personal possessions- his broom cleaning kit from Hermione, and replaced the photo album given to him by Hagrid at the end of his first year. He didn't feel like looking through it at the moment. Seeing the smiling faces knowing he couldn't be with was too painful .
He sat at his desk; he began to ponder his situation.
He would be trapped in this house until his birthday. At best, they might come for him sooner; after all, the hearing for Sirius' Will was the day beforehand. Harry desperately hoped that they would think it necessary for him to leave earlier in order to prepare for it . He knew it would be painful for him, since he loved Sirius so much. So much and now they're trying to take away his last link to the man. He could loose 12 Grimmauld Place.
Sirius' possessions had been seized and that included 12 Grimmauld Place. Where would the Order go now? The Order… he had forgotten about them. He wondered if they're going to remember that he's stuck in this prison. Would they remember Sirius now he's gone or is this just an inconvenience for them? He thought. No one there really believed me anyway.
He would have to sneak to the kitchen for his food each night, to avoid confrontation with his uncle. Aunt Petunia seemed to have softened her position on his world after he saved that pig of a cousin last year.
Hermione was going away for the month; he was looking forward to sharing more with her this summer. His chance was gone. He already began to miss her. She surely had left by now, he thought. Her note was now several days old.
Ron… Ron's at home with his family. He's enjoying his life. No reason to bother him with his problems now. Ginny too was safe. She mentioned her plans to start seeing Michael Corner at the end of last year. She's forgotten me too, he thought.
Voldemort still had spies everywhere trying to kill 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'.
He silently watched the clock as the second hand slowly moved. He tried to focus on what he could do, but his problems kept seeping back into his thoughts. The old clock ticked the seconds into minutes. The minutes seemed to take hours to pass. He finally blinked and looked at the calendar on his wall. Today was the third day.
It was 11:45 in the morning, the box of dry biscuits was long gone, and he had no desire to spend another minute listening to his relatives telling him how worthless he is and how he and parents were frauds, to boot. He sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and realized he needed to send a "status report" to Moody. He thought of sending a note to Ron and having him forward it on, but Ron hadn't answered his first note yet.
"Guess he forgot and is too busy to remember me," he said to his other self, half waiting for a reply. None come. He tore a piece of parchment from the sheet he'd been mindlessly scribbling on, no sense wasting an entire sheet for this.
Moody
I'm fine.
Harry
He folded it once and called his owl.
"Come here, girl, I need you to deliver this to Mad-eye," he said to the owl while he tied it to her leg.
There were three more days before he had to send another message.
"If this is going to be my summer, I don't know if I can take any more." He said to himself as he glanced from the clock to the pile of books on the desk, next to a thin shaft of wood. He had been afraid to sleep since his first night back. His mind began to wander and the thoughts that raced through his head and voices in his mind kept saying 'Do it, the pain will be gone.' New voices, he had begun hearing them that morning. Familiar voices, but he didn't recognize them.
'Do it. Pick it up and it will be over.'
He reached for his wand and held it in his hand, gently stroked his oldest friend from the wizarding world. 'Do it,' he heard again. He pointed it at his chest and closed his eyes. 'It will only work if I truly want it to happen.' He thought.
He closed his eyes tighter, and began to think of the incantation. His lips parted to begin the spell, when he heard another voice in his mind, his voice of reason, that of a young girl. 'This isn't what you really want, Harry. It's not in you.' The voice said in a different uncharacteristic soothing tone. Through his clinched eyes, he felt a tear leak through as he dropped the wand and the moisture on his face. He wiped his face dry but his quiet sobs continued. He eyes grew heavy for the first time in days and finally shut. His lips parted again, this time to draw a deep breath, a cleansing breath as he slept restlessly. 'Sleep, then you can think clearly,' she said to him.
His eyes cracked open to find the sun's light again waning. He desperately needed to clear his head. The visions continued to gnaw at him, he wished he could either forget them entirely of see them with total clarity. The voices both taunted him and consoled him; he fought to listen to the comforting voice. He clearly heard the voice of reason as it commanded him 'Push them aside, busy your mind with other endeavors.'
He looked back to the pile of books and pulled out the list of summer assignments, and thought that maybe this would take his mind off his problems. And maybe he'd finish them early; after all, he had nothing else to do. Potions, skip that. Care of Magical Creatures, not in the mood. Defense Against the Dark Arts, nothing was assigned since Umbridge was in charge last year; shit, she didn't teach a thing anyway. Divination… he opened the book and it fell open to the chapters on Dreams and Dream Interpretation. Dreams, maybe there's a clue in here. He hoped.
As he read the large tome, he heard the muted voices of a family ending the day, blissfully ignorant of the dangers facing them as the hours passed into the night and then to days.
He read the chapters on Dreams, and re-read them, trying to understand the meanings. He focused his mind on this one topic, ignoring all other assigned work. He hadn't worked out the details of his two dreams, except for one. It was simple enough, Voldemort's resurrection. The other dream was more mysterious. If only he had seen the girl's face . He had refused to sleep last night, or the night before, not wanting a repeat of his dreams. "How I wish I had a dreamless sleep potion," he said to himself, as he's the only one willing to talk to him.
He opened his books again and tried to concentrate on them. This time he picked up his Defense Against the Dark Arts volume from the year when Remus taught class; that was the best year they had with that topic. He decided to re-read the book from the beginning. He made it through the first two chapters before his eyes grew to slits, his head began to bob, and it fell to rest on the page he had been trying to read for the past several hours.
" STUPEFY! WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" He was reeled back; the girl in his arms was torn from him. He watches the girl rise in the air, her back to him. Her blood pours from her body to pool at his feet ... A green glow surrounds her body; he hears a voice and an unfamiliar curse.
His head jerked up, off the damp pages of the book he had been reading. The sun was gone from the sky again and he had missed another day's worth of meals. It was the dream again, but different. This time he grabbed a scroll of parchment to record the dream. With unsteady hands he wrote every detail he could remember. I'll figure it out; I need to know what it means, he told his other self. He could still see the images, it was in a battle and he was helping a casualty, but who was she?
It took more then an hour to write the details of his dream; he was trying hard to remember every detail. He looked at the clock on his desk, 12:35, past mid-night. He thought of writing to Remus to talk about this dream, but when he looked at the moon, it was full. Moony would be having a bad night, probably locked in some basement to help keep him from hurting someone. He'd be unable to help anyone, let alone himself, for a few days at least. He wouldn't write Dumbledore, not after last year. He was still angry at his mentor's deception.
Hermione… he could ask her to help interpret this dream, but Divination is a load of garbage according to her, she'd just write it off and try to rationalize its meaning. There was Ginny, she was good at interpreting dreams, but she'd tell Ron and Ron would tell Hermione, and Hermione would go to Dumbledore. Luna, he thought. Luna was decent at Divination too; he'd get her help. He'd tell her it was something he saw in a TV show and thought it would make an interesting essay. That's his plan. He'd add to the scroll any new details he remembered, and if it recurred . He'd record it all.
The clock quietly turned to 2:45 in the morning; time to raid the kitchen. He put his papers away under the loose floorboard and went to the door, and turned the knob but it wouldn't budge. It was locked. With a sigh, he resigned himself to his cell and tried to sleep.
He managed a full 4 hours of peaceful sleep, and woke when Aunt Petunia quietly knocked on his door. It had been five full days since they had seen him and with the warning of a three-day interval of reports, Uncle Vernon was worried. The coward that he was, he sent his wife to defuse the bomb in the smallest room of the house.
"Harry, dear."
She never called me that before, they're really afraid of me.
"Come down for breakfast."
Harry felt that he would rather starve then have to put up with them. How could such cruel and thoughtless people even have the nerve to bag him behind his back, and then invite him to breakfast with them?
"GO AWAY!"
"You haven't been out of your room in days; you really need to spend some time outside."
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted.
" Okaaaay… Ummm…. I'll leave the door unlocked, we're going to Marge's for the day, are you going to be ok?"
"JUST GO!" Harry yelled.
Marge's, that's what he needs, time alone, and with them gone, he could leave his cell for a little while. Maybe watch some TV and catch up on the news. An hour later, he heard the front door slam shut and the car start.
After he heard the sound of the car fade, he opened his door and ventured downstairs; his first stop was the kitchen.