The Last Kefsen by Jardyn39
Chapter 2: Another
Harold had asked Harry if they could do the concreting of the base on Friday since he had some things to do on Thursday. So instead, Harry spent the whole of the next day doing chores around the garden at home under Aunt Petunia's watchful eye.
Thankfully, Dudley was out somewhere, so he wasn't tormented.
He also planted the seedlings Harold had given him, finishing late in the evening.
Throughout the day, Harry thought back over his conversations with Harold. It was certainly nice having someone to talk to civilly. Harry was sure he must have a shocking reputation with all of the neighbours, although if Harold had heard of any rumours he certainly hadn't indicated as such.
Harold clearly realised that Harry was troubled, but chose to act like Harry was as incomprehensible to him as any teenager would be. He just seemed happy to accept Harry as himself. Harry was very grateful to Harold for this, especially as he wasn't exactly at his best at the moment.
He still suffered sudden and unexpected moments of pure grief. He just never knew they were coming before they hit him.
Harry remembered with a pang when Harold had been telling him a story concerning a friend's dog. Harry had been fine until Harold described one of the dog's antics that suddenly reminded Harry of Sirius. Harold just let Harry go back to his hammering and nothing more was said.
Harold had made no enquiry about what was troubling him, and Harry was sure he never would.
Harold was someone who was easy to talk to. He was a good listener, and had listened attentively to the little girl from next door as she enthused about the family holiday they would be embarking on in a couple of weeks. Harry had smiled as Harold joked how he wished his sparkly bathing costume still fitted and how she should watch out for toe nibbling crabs in the rock pools.
A while later, Harry emerged from his hammering again to find them engrossed in a more serious discussion. Harry couldn't be sure what was troubling the girl, but he just caught the end of what Harold was saying.
"Well," he said gently, "I can understand that. I know it can be difficult not to lash out when you're upset. I've always tended not to. I suppose that's my nature. I've sometimes wondered what might have happened had I not shown restraint when I was younger. The thing is, decisions like that can't help but affect the person you grow up to be. Sometimes, we all act or say things we regret later. The key is recognising that we've hurt the people we love or care about, and doing something about it. That's hard to do sometimes, and the more often you don't, the harder it gets."
Something about Harold made Harry feel he could trust him. He was a gentle and caring man whose long life clearly included many experiences.
It really didn't matter that they lived in different worlds for most of the time. This had nothing to do with magic but everything to do with life.
After many changes of mind, Harry finally resolved to tell Harold about Sirius.
He would understand. Perhaps he could offer some words of comfort, or at least perhaps tell Harry if these feelings would ever heal.
Having successfully exhausted himself after another long day, Harry showered and then went straight to bed.
Hopefully, he would be tired enough to sleep without having his usual nightmares.
*
On Friday morning, Harry woke to find he had overslept.
He stared at his bedside clock in disbelief. It couldn't be ten o'clock.
Shaking himself awake he rushed into the bathroom to take a hurried shower. At last he tore down the front path saying a hurried, "See you later!" to Aunt Petunia who was gossiping to a neighbour in the front garden. He didn't really register the serious expressions they both wore.
Harry ran down the road but slowly ground to a halt as he took in the scene before him with growing dread.
Outside the front on Harold's house was a clean white car with green markings down the side. As Harry drew level with Harold's house he stopped to see a man holding a doctor's case standing on the front path talking to the next door neighbour he'd seen before. Harry saw that her daughter was standing with her hands clutched around her middle with her face buried in the front of her mother's apron. Her mother was tenderly stroking her back.
"Well, I'd best be off," said the doctor and he returned to his car.
The neighbour turned to Harry and gave a small smile.
She had tears in her eyes.
"Harold died, dear," she said gently. "His meals-on-wheels found him. The doctor said he passed away peacefully in his sleep."
Harry nodded blankly.
He didn't know what to say.
Harry stared down at the pavement, his thoughts haywire.
He felt a hand touch him gently on the shoulder.
Looking up momentarily, Harry saw that it was Aunt Petunia.
*
Harry went straight up to his bedroom when they returned to the house. He lay on his bed over the covers and thought.
Harold had been an old man. Nobody else seemed particularly surprised that he had died due to his great age. Harry had seen that he had been a little weak and had tired quickly. Even so, he didn't exactly look like he was on his death-bed.
He really didn't want to think about the implications of Harold's death being anything other than natural causes. Somehow, though, that wasn't really the thing that bothered Harry the most.
The stark reality facing Harry was that yet another person close to him had died suddenly. He wasn't really ready for that, especially having happened so soon after the loss of Sirius. Harry found his thoughts haunted by the memories of his short time with Harold.
The sensible thing to do would have been to contact the Order.
He knew that.
Unfortunately, the crying little girl from next door seemed to especially affect him.
He just couldn't get the sight and sound of her out of his head.
*
The change that Harold's death brought upon Harry was alarmingly quick.
Even Aunt Petunia tried talking to him. She couldn't understand why Harold's death had affected Harry so badly. She didn't appear to know anything about Sirius and Harry couldn't face telling her. Uncle Vernon eventually insisted that Harry be left to, "stew in his own juices". Harry felt indifferent to them at that point, although he had a faint sense that Aunt Petunia's attitude had changed. She had not scorned him when he stopped doing his chores and her fear of Harry and what he was, seemed less close to the surface. If he had been more himself, he would perhaps have recognised her concern was shifting for him.
Perhaps Dumbledore had assumed the antagonism between them would distract Harry from his other feelings. It didn't. Nothing the Dursleys said or did could have affected Harry in the slightest.
For a short while after, Harry had had kept up his letters to the Order. These had started being short and got shorter with each one. His penultimate note told them he was not going to write every three days and asked them not to visit and make things difficult for him with the Dursleys.
He was fine, he lied.
Harry's depression, which had been stalking him from the moment he had left King's Cross, finally enveloped him to the point where he just stopped. The shock of Harold's death brought everything back tenfold.
In the back of his mind Harry knew he was being irrational. He promised himself he would snap out of this. He would. Just not now though. It was all too much just now.
Harry found a strange kind of solace. He craved silence and solitude. He found he could venture out of his room only when the house was quiet and this was usually during the night. Even when the house was empty, Harry became obsessed with making as little noise as possible. Silence was best. He moved slowly, making no sound, always listening intensely. Silence was calming. Silence was comforting. If he was silent he could pretend not to exist. If he did not exist, he would not feel pain.
Aunt Petunia began leaving out meals for him in the kitchen. Harry ate only when he was sure Dudley hadn't got there first. Once Harry heard Aunt Petunia shouting angrily when she discovered Dudley doing something to the food, presumably he had found out it was for Harry. From then onwards Aunt Petunia brought food to Harry's room and each time made anguished attempts to get him to talk, first making sure Dudley or Uncle Vernon weren't there to interrupt.
Sporadically owls would arrive and drop their deliveries. These letters remained unopened and hidden out of sight. They were not hidden from the Dursleys. If they were out of sight, he might forget them. He was afraid of those letters and dreaded the poisonous accusations that he was sure they contained. It was his fault. As it was, the letters practically screamed at him.
Hedwig disappeared a few days after Harry had stopped writing to the Order. In his stupor he barely missed her. She returned a little later with a letter from Hermione. Harry might have opened it, if it had come sooner, but not now.
It wasn't as if he didn't want to write. He just didn't want to risk the recipients corresponding. He had particularly wanted to write to Albus Dumbledore, to apologise for his behaviour and words. He had wanted to write to Mrs Longbottom to explain about Neville's wand. He had wanted to write to Ron, telling him how much his unwavering friendship meant to him. He had wanted to write to Hermione, to thank her for, well, everything. If only he had listened to her.
The few times he had sat and tried to write, all the painful emotions that were bottled up inside him seemed to boil up. He found he couldn't express himself at all and would eventually give up, always ending up with a screwed up blank piece parchment.
When his mind was actually able to stop dwelling on Sirius, Harry found himself agonising over Hermione's injuries and how she had almost been lost. He then generally felt more guilt that he should also be thinking about the four others he had put at risk too.
After that, his mind would return to Sirius and the cycle of painful thoughts would begin again.
*
When Remus Lupin knocked gently and opened Harry's bedroom door at Privet Drive, Harry had remained hunched up against the wall under the window with his arms wrapping his head. He'd flinched when Lupin spoke but did not look up.
Harry did not register what Lupin had said to him at all.
Lupin had left the room and could be heard giving abrupt orders for whoever else was there outside his room to go. Harry had felt a little relief that he had gone.
In his mind Harry begged for the silence to come back.
When Lupin returned he drew out his wand and with a broad wave he packed Harry's trunk. Everything Harry had left around the room, his clothes, books, parchment and wand including an assortment of broken quills and the entire contents of his waste paper basket.
Lupin said nothing at all until finally he said gently, "We're going now Harry, we have a Portkey."
Harry barely registered the familiar pull of the Portkey but he remained standing when his feet slammed onto the floor.