Chapter 3: Correspondences
Honey-coloured light poured through the single window in the tower room. In this morning glow, Harry's shadow cast long against the old, wood floor, creeping and bending across the lonely bed and the face of the sleeping woman. There were dust particles in the air - floating lazily - and the air was cool and moist. It was very high up, this tower room, and it seemed to Harry that he could see the whole of England spread out beneath him like a great, green tapestry framed in the old, stone window.
How at home he felt here! How familiar it all was! From the abandoned wooden desk that faced the closed door to the shelves of books and silver trinkets... and she, the apparition in her bed. Her face was obscured... a trick of the light... but her hands were pale with the thin, papery skin of someone very old. Beside her on the crooked bedstand were potions and cauldrons and complicated glass distillers... the detritus of the sick and dying.
A young woman wearing aged, white robes of a shapeless style opened the door behind him and crossed the room to take hold of the sleeping woman's wrist. She placed it beneath the covers for warmth and then left… quietly... solemnly... and never did Harry's presence arouse her notice.
A voice was speaking in his ear... or was it a chorus of voices, all with the same sound? "At last," it seemed to say, but the words were dull and indistinct. Harry listened fervently and moved closer towards the bed. He only wished that he could see the sleeping woman's face...
"I'll come closer," he whispered and began his measured steps-
"…Wake up, boy! Wake up!"
Harry gasped and sat up in his bed, nearly knocking foreheads with his aunt who was leaning over him with her hands on his shoulders. She looked rather displeased at the near collision.
"What do you think you're doing? I've been trying to rouse you for ages!" she screeched at him.
Harry stared at her uncomprehending while forcing his ragged breathing to slow. Reaching up to his scar, he waited for the familiar searing pain to kick in, but he felt nothing. He rubbed at it absently in puzzlement. Was that one of those dreams, he wondered. Why didn't his scar hurt?
"Aunt Petunia?" Harry mumbled, still feeling sleepy and unsettled. "What are you doing in here?"
She frowned at his question and stood up. "In case you've forgotten, this is my house you're staying in. Come downstairs now. I need to speak to you."
Harry grabbed his spectacles off the nightstand and put them on. He stared at her expectantly.
"Well? Why aren't you getting up? You'll come downstairs this instant!" Aunt Petunia groused impatiently.
"I'm not dressed!" Harry retorted acerbically. "Unless you want me to have this conversation with you wearing only my pants, you'll just have to give me a minute."
Aunt Petunia raised an eyebrow before making an unhappy noise and striding from the room. Once she was gone, Harry leapt from his bed - knocking over his desk chair - and shut the door behind her. He leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. Even now, he felt the familiar desire… the swell of curiosity. He wanted to know more about the tower room, about the voice that had seemed to be speaking to him, and, most of all, about the old woman, alone in her bed with only a matron to check on her. It seemed like a lonely end to a life, and Harry could not help but pity her.
But Harry was not as foolish as he once was. After the terrors of last year, he knew better than to trust his dreams… and he knew better than to keep them to himself.
Righting his desk chair, Harry sat down and began a letter. Carefully, he described what he could remember of the room and its occupant, relating all the details in his memory. Once satisfied, he folded the parchment and addressed it to Dumbledore. He stood and presented it Hedwig, who looked quite grumpy to be woken up this early. After a little begging and cajoling, she took it into her beak and flew out the window.
Knowing his aunt was waiting for him, Harry pushed the dream from his mind and began to dress, tugging on a pair of his too-short school trousers and one of Dudley's tent-sized t-shirts. He paused for a moment in front of his mirror and frowned. He looked like he was wearing high-waters and a tablecloth. Sighing, Harry pulled open the door and made his way downstairs.
He found his aunt standing in front of the stove, cooking eggs. Harry sat down at the table and helped himself to a glass of milk. He wasn't looking forward to the upcoming conversation.
Hearing his chair scrape, Aunt Petunia turned from her cooking and peered at him in distaste. "You look like a hooligan."
"In case you haven't realised it yet, Dudley and I are, in fact, not the same size," Harry growled. "If I had clothes that fit me, I assure you, I'd wear them."
His aunt sniffed and turned back to the stove. "Don't take that tone with me, boy."
Harry rolled his eyes and gulped down the rest of his milk. His aunt walked over with the pan and pushed some eggs onto his plate. Again, the portions were surprisingly generous. Harry imagined that Moody must have threatened to transfigure her into a stick insect to inspire this sort of charity. "Thank you," he said automatically.
She sniffed again and served herself before sitting down across from him. She stared at him shrewdly while he ate. "So?"
"So?" Harry parroted, unsure what she was getting at.
"So is it true?" she hissed. "And don't lie! I'll know if you're lying!"
"What? Is what true? I don't understand what you're talking about."
"Last night, when they were here," she whispered harshly. "They said some of them were trying to rob us. Is it true?"
Harry wasn't sure he wanted to answer that question. The Dursleys already hated magic with a terrible fanaticism. Admitting that two wizards had broken into their house and tried to make off with their belongings would not help endear them to it. He sighed. "Yes, it's true."
"And you were the one who put the hole in my floor? Using your-" Aunt Petunia trailed off and waved her hands vaguely.
"With magic, yes," Harry stated, feeling annoyed that she was going to be upset with him about it. He had been hoping that the floor had been repaired before the Dursleys had made it downstairs. "It's not like your floor is ruined or anything. It looks better than it did before, even."
She didn't seem to be listening to him. "And you put the hole in the floor to stop the one from coming upstairs?"
Harry was suddenly unsure where this was going. "Yes. He was coming into the entry way," he explained slowly.
"And if more of them ever… come into the house, you'll use your… that… against them?" she asked in a very serious tone of voice. Her face looked grave.
Harry was shocked at this unexpected turn in the conversation. In all of his years of living here, his aunt and uncle had gone out of their way to avoid the topic of magic. They never thought about it or talked about it, except to mention how unnatural it was. His aunt had surprised him last year with her knowledge of the Dementors. Harry suddenly wondered if perhaps she had been harboring fears of wizards or witches coming to do them harm… coming to finish what was started so long ago with her sister's death.
"I'll fight them if they ever come here," Harry assured in a level voice. "I wouldn't just let them come in."
Aunt Petunia considered him and seemed to be carefully weighing her words. "I know you are strange even among your kind. I know there is something different about you. If they come here, you'll do whatever it takes to stop them from hurting my son, my family. After all I have done for you… if they ever come… you had better make yourself useful."
Harry seethed at this, and despite himself, felt stung at her deliberate choice of words: my son… my family… one that didn't include him. He stood up and clenched his fists. "I've been making myself useful for nearly 15 years now! Making myself useful washing your clothes, cooking your food, cleaning your bathrooms and taking care of your lawn since I was old enough to walk. I've done all the menial, degrading work you've ever asked of me to make myself useful," he snarled through his burning throat. A coffee mug began to shake and tremble on the table and Aunt Petunia swept it into her hand without comment. "And yes, I'll make myself useful if they ever come here."
She stared at him without expression for a moment before turning to gaze out the window. "Go finish the attic," she said.
Harry's arms and legs felt terribly heavy and all the air seemed to have left the room. His eyes felt hot. "Fine."
He watched his aunt set the mug back on the table wordlessly before he turned and left the room.
~: --------------------------- :~
By the time he had made it back up to the attic, Harry's thoughts were a churning mess. Besides his lingering
disquiet from the conversation downstairs, he felt a fissure of anger curl inside his chest at the time and effort he
had been forced to put into cleaning a room that would likely never see use. It seemed that the Dursleys would never
fail to find some way to utterly incense him.
Harry fought to subdue his temper. If he had to stay here at Privet Drive, he would just keep his head down until his birthday. He would not be goaded by Uncle Vernon's snide remarks or his aunt's cattiness. He would complete his work and then quietly do the things he wanted to do. If nothing else, living in this house had taught him considerable self-discipline.
Resigned, Harry sighed and observed the room stoically. The attic was as he had left it last night. As he walked across the room to his bucket, he was surprised by the crunching of broken bits of glass beneath his trainers. He was unsure where it came from until he saw the filament and screw contact hanging from the empty light socket. He looked at it curiously, unable to recall how the bulb had broken.
Grabbing the bucket which was still mostly filled with the dirty water from last night, Harry hefted it and carried it downstairs and outside. Striding across the street, he poured it into the drain and looked up to see the same orange and white cat from yesterday watching him closely.
Harry straightened and stared right back. Now that he considered it, Harry could vaguely recall seeing this cat around the neighbourhood at various times in his life but he could not remember anyone ever saying whom it belonged to.
Harry glanced down the street self-consciously, checking that no one was looking at him. Mrs. Cravers, who lived two homes down in an ugly, yellow house, was watering her lawn lavishly in blatant contempt of the hosepipe ban. Other than her, the street was empty.
Setting down his bucket, Harry took a tentative step towards the cat. "Hullo, cat," he said, feeling exceedingly stupid. He glanced quickly back over his shoulder to be sure no one was sneaking up on him with a camera. "You wouldn't happen to be Mr. Tibbies, would you?"
The cat stood up and arched its back before sitting on its haunches and purring proudly. Harry glanced around one more time before walking forward and leaning against the short wall where the cat was observing him imperiously.
Harry smirked and held his hand out in offering. "Sorry for all the glancing about. I'm afraid the neighbours will think I'm a bit frothy if they catch me talking to a cat. Or a kneazle, I should say. So you are Mr. Tibbies, then?"
The kneazle pushed its head against Harry's hand and let loose a stream of blissful purring. Harry threaded his long fingers through its fur and scratched him gently. The kneazle promptly flopped onto his back, exposing his soft, white belly. Harry laughed and rubbed it graciously. "You're a friendly one. And I hear you're dead clever, too. I reckon I owe you for looking out for me all this time."
Mr. Tibbies tilted his head up and looked at him lazily through heavy-lidded eyes. He continued purring and his legs bicycled in the air for a moment, causing Harry to smirk again.
Harry took his hand away and lifted himself onto the wall before returning to his rubbing. The kneazle's striped tail was swishing against his forearm and it tickled a little. "I suppose you must be able to understand everything people are saying," Harry guessed, pausing to scratch under the kneazle's chin. It looked up at him and favoured him with a long look before purring loudly and tilting its head to give him better access. "I wonder how you communicate with Mrs. Figg? Can she understand what you're saying, too? I can talk to snakes, but most people think that's dodgy. I imagine speaking to kneazles is a bit more acceptable."
Harry provided Mr. Tibbies with a thorough rubdown before reluctantly dropping down from the wall. The kneazle straightened up immediately and watched him critically as he picked up his bucket. "I've got to finish this now. Thanks again for all your help," Harry said, checking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers once last time. "I mean it. If Mrs. Figg hadn't been able to testify for me after the whole Dementor episode last year, I might've had my wand snapped."
Harry turned and headed back to the house to refill his bucket. Along the way, he stopped at the garage and picked up a broom and a dustpan. He figured he would need them for the glass. Supplies in hand, he made his way back up the stairs, being extra careful not to jam the handle of the broom into any walls.
With his final bucket of water, Harry made short work of the skirting board. Once he was finished, he dropped the sponge in the bucket and used the broom to clean up the broken glass. He would have to replace the light bulb later.
With his work complete, Harry pushed his things aside and surveyed the room. The old, wood floor looked like new and he couldn't help the twinge of pride he felt at a job well done. He may not enjoy catering to his relatives every whim like an overgrown house elf, but he could appreciate his own hard work.
Now that it was clean, the attic appeared spacious and welcoming and Harry imagined himself sneaking up into this room with his textbooks to enjoy the solitude. As long as he never mentioned this to the Dursleys, he was certain he could get away with it. His relatives were far too concerned with propriety to be caught dead lounging in an attic, of all places.
After a few more minutes of admiring the room, Harry strode downstairs and returned the bucket, dustpan, and broom to the garage. His aunt had obviously assumed cleaning the attic would take longer than it had, and Harry had no other chores assigned for the time being. He raced up to his room and shut the door before she noticed.
Once he was inside, he pulled up short at the veritable flock of owls decorating his bedroom. He wondered why he suddenly had so much post. Sighing, Harry untied one of the letters and scanned its contents. He paled when he realised it was an official notice from the Improper Use of Magic Office.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have detected the use of magic(s) within your residence at thirty-seven minutes past one in the morning on the 25th of June, 1996. The spell or spells used have been identified as: an unauthorised use of the Reductor Curse, an unauthorised conjuration of an unidentified object.
Additionally, we have received intelligence that you have performed an unidentified cushioning charm in a Muggle-inhabited area at fifty-six minutes past one in the morning on the 25th of June, 1996.
As you are aware, these spells are in breach of the Reasonable Restriction of Underaged Sorcery Decree. However, a petition has been filed indicating the magic in question was used in defense of one's home and property and in defense of one's person.
This petition has been authorized and has been placed in your permanent file. No further action is required.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry read through the letter three times before feeling reasonably secure that the Ministry of Magic wasn't going to be expelling him or destroying his wand anytime soon. Obviously, someone had smoothed the whole thing over just as Dumbledore had hinted at last night. He wondered why the same government who had worked so hard to try to get him thrown in Azkaban last year was suddenly brushing aside his offences like an indulgent grandparent.
Harry set the letter down and grabbed an empty cereal bowl from his desk. He walked into the bathroom to fill it with water before setting it on his bed for the grateful Ministry owl to sip from before flying out the window.
A tiny owl - who looked more like a ball of fluff than an actual bird - leapt up from its hiding place beside Hedwig's cage and flitted crazily around the room before careening into the side of Harry's skull and flopping onto the bed in a daze. "Pig!" Harry groaned. He rubbed the side of his head in annoyance and snatched the bird in his fist to retrieve his letter before setting it free. Pigwidgeon still seemed disoriented from the impact and flew into the wall next to the window before drunkenly making his way outside.
Turning over the parchment, Harry quickly identified the sloppy handwriting as belonging to Ron. He stretched out on his bed and read:
Harry -
Are you all right, mate? We got a floo call last night saying you were being attacked or something and my parents went barmy and disappeared for two hours. Life at your house is never dull, I guess! They said you were fine, but I figured I should check to make sure you haven't snuffed it or anything. So you haven't, right?
My mum said to leave it alone, but you've got to tell me what happened! Was it Death Eaters? If it was, I hope had a good hex waiting.
How has your summer been? Mine's been awful. It's so boring here.
Your friend,
Ron
Harry couldn't help but grin at his friend's rambling letter. Only Ron would write him to check that he ‘hadn't snuffed it'. He set the parchment down.
Another owl presented itself by alighting on his night table and stretching out its leg. This one had a small package wrapped in brown paper and Harry untied it gently. There was a short note attached to the package and Harry read through it to discover that this was the salve Mrs. Weasley had promised to send over. Harry set it aside, sure that the mystery goop was made of troll toenails or something equally disgusting, since all wizarding remedies appeared to be made of such things.
Harry grabbed the last letter from a fairly nondescript owl and found his name written out neatly in Hermione's flowing script.
Dear Harry,
I heard from Ron that there was some sort of attack on your house last night! Oh Harry, I do hope you are all right! Please let me know how you are doing as soon as possible.
I really wish you would write to me more often. I know you don't want to talk about Sirius or what happened at the Department of Mysteries and I've tried to be sensitive and avoid the subject, but Harry, you really must. If you don't, it will only eat you up inside.
You have to know that what happened wasn't your fault. You aren't to blame for Sirius's death. I'm sure you've heard this a thousand times by now, but that's only because it's true.
I wish so badly that you didn't have to stay with those dreadful relatives of yours. It makes me so sad to think of you alone in that house with no one to talk to or ask how you're doing. And now you've been attacked! Please, you must write me or I'll simply go out of my mind with worry.
With love from,
Hermione
P.S. I've told the owl to stay with you and wait for your reply, just in case Hedwig is busy with other letters.
Sure enough, the owl who had delivered her letter was sitting patiently on the windowsill.
Harry read through the letter once more and felt a strange mixture of guilt, gratitude, and annoyance. He realised that his brief and infrequent letters to his friend were complete rubbish, but he hoped she would take the hint and stop asking about Sirius. He could not see what there was to gain from talking about it. Harry knew he had made the worst mistake of his life going to the Ministry - now he was paying for it. What else was there to say?
Worse still, Hermione herself had seemingly known that the situation was a trap and had tried her best to talk him out of going. But he had not listened to reason - his blood was up and he had found himself ruled by it just as always did. He had led her to the Ministry despite her misgivings and had nearly ended up getting her killed in the process. He wondered privately what she honestly must think of him now and he found his mood souring.
Taking a fresh sheet of parchment, Harry dashed off a half-hearted response despite the uncomfortable, guilty feeling welling in his chest. Reading through his own clipped sentences, Harry shook his head and hesitantly added a couple lines asking after her health. Was she doing better? Had she healed all right? Something squirmed inside him and he ended the letter abruptly.
Harry carefully folded the parchment and presented it to the waiting owl, which did not spare a moment before swooping out the open window. Still feeling somewhat unsettled, Harry moved to his trunk and began to dig out his textbooks. Thinking of Hermione had reminded him that he had a stack of summer assignments to complete. Harry figured he ought to start early... he would have to do better this year than he had in the past.
He placed a few of his fifth year books on the corner of his bed and was reaching for another one when a bright flash of light filled the room, startling him. Harry ducked behind his bed and drew his wand only to see Fawkes sitting on the back of his desk chair and observing him in amusement. The phoenix tilted its head back and trilled at Harry, displaying its beautiful red plumage.
Harry felt instantly calmed and wondered whether the effect was a sort of phoenix magic.
A folded piece of parchment appeared suddenly in the magical bird's beak and Fawkes held up it for Harry to take. Stashing his wand again, Harry retrieved the letter, assuming this was the message Dumbledore had mentioned last night. He thanked the phoenix politely and watched in amazement as it trilled once more before disappearing in a flash of flame. He couldn't deny that it was an impressive display.
Sitting back down on his bed, Harry broke the wax crest on the parchment and began to read:
Dear Harry,
Thank you for your prompt message this morning concerning your dream. It did sound rather mysterious, but I do not think that it was connected to Voldemort. The room you described was not immediately familiar to me, but something about it has tugged at my memory. I will say that you should trust your judgment, but be wary of things you do not understand. You are capable now of recognizing that dreams and visions can be dangerous in a way that the waking world cannot.
Despite this, I'm afraid that it is of absolute necessity that you return to the study of Occlumency as soon as possible. Now that you have been made aware of the full contents of the Prophecy, it is more crucial than ever that you learn to guard your mind from external penetration.
I will explain in more detail when we have our first meeting. I believe tomorrow morning at nine o'clock will be an excellent time to convene. If this is acceptable to you, please arrive at Arabella Figg's house at said time. We will use her floo connection to travel to my office, where we will be free to discuss important matters securely.
I hope you are well and I look forward to our discussion with the utmost enthusiasm.
Yours sincerely,
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
Headmaster of HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards
Harry couldn't help but sigh at the thought of continuing his Occlumency study. He knew it was necessary - especially now that he had witnessed firsthand the terrible results of having Voldemort running around in his head and sending him subliminal messages - but he wasn't looking forward to it. Harry had made a promise to himself, though, and he would do whatever was necessary to keep from making the same mistakes again… even continuing his tutelage in Occlumency. However, he would not allow himself to be taught by Snape. If Dumbledore suggested it, he would refuse until another tutor was recommended. The Potions Professor might be a master of Occlumency, but Harry would not subject himself to any more nights of reliving all of his worst humiliations with his most hated teacher mocking him gleefully at every opportunity.
With that settled in his mind, Harry piled all of his letters on his desk and stretched out on his bed to review his textbooks, but despite his best efforts, his mind kept drifting back to the old woman, alone in her bed. He could only hope that Dumbledore's faith in his ability to manage his dreams was not misplaced…