What Might Be Done

Chapter 13: Other Roads
In which our Hero and Harry pursue that bright elusive butterfly.


Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
“Ha,” he said,
“I see that none has passed here
In a long time.”
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
“Well,” he mumbled at last,
“Doubtless there are other roads.
–Stephen Crane: The Wayfarer


Part 1; Harry


The grounds of Hogwarts were once again shrouded in a fog almost heavy enough to be called rain. Fat drops of water fell from every tree, splattering the ground without noise. Everything was shadowed, appearing unreal, except for the Dementors gliding silently across the great expanse of lawn, sometimes disappearing completely in the fog, but never for very long. Harry clenched his wand tightly, trying desperately to think of a way out, some way that didn’t involve the use of magic, because even though he was at Hogwarts, it was still summer and he wasn’t supposed to use his wand. He was frantic at the thought of expulsion, almost inevitable with Dumbledore too sick to stand up for him at the ministry.

He darted quickly from the shelter of one tree to the next, knowing that this game of hide-and-seek couldn’t last very long. He was helpless to outrun the Dementors and it was certain they knew he was there. In his head he shouted Expecto Patronum! over and over again but he didn’t dare say it aloud. Angry at himself for his lack of a plan he strained to think of something, anything that would help.

It was too late. As he slipped out from behind his current tree he was captured by a spectral grey form. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look the disgusting creature in the face. He thought of not being able to say good-bye to Hermione and Ron. He thought of Sirius and his parents and the prophecy coming true in the most terrible way because he was too stupid to do as he’d been told. At that thought, something fierce lit up inside him. Raising his wand, knowing it was hopeless but unwilling to go down without a fight, he opened his eyes and gasped. The face leering down over his was Snape’s, not a Dementor’s! Snape’s laughing face and in its way it was almost as scary as the Dementors.

Harry jerked, smashing his head hard against the headboard. Dreaming! He’d been dreaming. No Dementors. No Snape. Just the darkness inside his room on Privet Drive. He sat up, still shaking in the aftermath of the dream. Sweat poured down his face and trickled down his back, making his shirt cling to his skin. As he turned to look at the illuminated numbers on his clock he became aware that his shirt wasn’t the only article of damp, sticky clothing. He could feel a flush burn his cheeks. He’d had a dream about Dementors and Snape and he’d come in his jeans! Fuck! Sixteen had to be the most ridiculous of all possible ages. All his previous nightmares of Voldemort had been terrifying, but at least they hadn’t been embarrassing.

Realising the pointlessness of trying to get back to sleep, Harry rose and stripped off his clothes, throwing them in the general direction of the heap of dirty laundry by his closet. Naked, he walked over to his window, carefully prying out the nails holding the board his uncle had hammered up over his window. Stupid fuck. Too fat to get up a ladder, he had nailed the window shut from the inside. A couple of days of careful work and Harry had been rewarded with the wood coming away from the sill, nails straight and easy to slot quickly back in if anyone entered his room.

It was still dark outside, only the barest hint of light. Not a big surprise; Harry’s clock had shown it not quite five o’clock yet. He opened the window and, nudging Hedwig gently, he said, “Fly, girl. Better go while the going is good.” Hedwig gave a soft hoot, stretched her wings and sailed out the window. “Don’t come back until tonight after dark,” Harry called softly after her. He watched her soar away until she was nothing but a tiny white speck in the distance. “And bring me some mail,” he said, although she was much too far away to hear him.

He closed the window and looked at his reflection mirrored in the dark glass, admiring the few curly hairs around his nipples, rubbing his hand across his chin to see if there was any sign of whiskers and sighed. Not yet; a bit of hair on his chest, a lot more on his groin, but no sign yet of needing to shave; something he was looking forward to. He eased the wood back over the window, working slowly to keep the nails from squealing as he pushed them home.

Turning on the light, Harry looked around his room and sighed again. It was a disaster area. Really, he should clean it up a bit. If Aunt Petunia came in and saw dirty laundry, wads of paper, books with their spines flattened, and bits of uneaten or half-eaten food strewn over every available surface, she’d have a fit. And then Dudley would have to get his digs in. And Uncle Vernon would huff and puff up the stairs and threaten to nail Harry’s door closed, telling him he could pee in a bucket. He’d do it, too, the rat bastard. Harry rummaged in his trunk and was disgusted to discover he was entirely out of clean clothes. Well, how was he supposed to do wash his clothes when he was locked up? It was all his uncle’s fault. Let him do the bloody wash for a change! He dug through his laundry, finding his cleanest dirty jeans and a tee shirt that didn’t smell too badly. He sniffed his underarms and grimaced. He could do with a bath, but there wasn’t much hope of that until everyone else was out of bed and downstairs. Harry wasn’t about to wait, it would be a couple of hours yet before anyone stirred.

Tip-toeing over to his door, Harry put his hand to the knob and was relieved when the door opened; either Uncle Vernon had forgotten to slide the bolt affixed to the outside of his door, or he’d remembered to unlock it after Harry’d fallen asleep. In another month he’d be allowed to use Alohamora but until then, he had to count on his uncle’s forgetfulness, or lack of it.

He gathered up an armful of dirty clothes on the off chance Aunt Petunia got up early. He’d need an excuse for being out of his room, and doing his laundry was one of the few excuses she found acceptable, although she didn’t really trust him with her brand-new, extremely expensive, state-of-the-art washer and dryer. Harry wasn’t sure how she thought he could accidentally damage them, short of using a sledgehammer. With a little luck, she wouldn’t wake up soon and he could just mix his clothes in with Dudley’s and she’d wash them. He’d done it before and Aunt Petunia never seemed the wiser. Since all his clothes were Dudley’s castoffs and he had such a large wardrobe, Aunt Petunia couldn’t possibly remember what had been given to Harry and what Dudley still wore and while it seemed she would notice the size difference, she never seemed to – Harry figured she was still in denial about Dudley’s gargantuan proportions. It would be a simple thing to rummage through Dud’s clothes later and find his own, clean and folded.

Holding his breath, Harry went downstairs, still on tip-toe, careful to avoid the third step from the top which squealed like a cat being skinned. The downstairs was completely dark, no light in the kitchen, which meant Aunt Petunia was definitely not up yet. He made his way to the laundry, stuffed his clothes into the hamper standing beside them, and then hurried to the front door, soundlessly opening it and slipping outside.

He’d never considered himself a morning person, preferring, when allowed, to have a nice lie-in, but lately he’d found himself enamoured of the early dawn hours when all of Surrey seemed to be asleep and the world belonged solely to him. He walked along Privet Drive, his hand trailing along low fences, pebbled walls and immaculately trimmed shrubbery. He paused occasionally to peer at flowers illuminated by the rising sun, to listen to birds twittering in the trees, half-hoping to hear Hedwig’s soft hoot. He stopped once to speak to a monstrously battle-scarred one-eyed cat which immediately flopped onto his back to have his belly rubbed. “Some warrior,” Harry said with amusement as he stooped to scratch the cat’s soft undercoat, “you’re nothing but a big baby. I should take you to Mrs Figg, she’d fix you right up.” The cat gave a short sniff and jumped back to its feet, limping off down the street favouring a crippled leg, with its tail straight up in the air. Harry wondered if Mad-eye Moody was an animagus.

He turned onto Wisteria Walk, glad that no one was awake. Anyone seeing him walking around before full light would be sure that the boy who attended St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys was up to no good. Hearing the sound of someone moving about, he quickly ducked into the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent. The alley made him a bit nervous ever since the Dementors had attacked Dudley and him but there was probably no reason to avoid it; even though he couldn’t see anybody it was probable Dumbledore had people looking out for him again, maybe even that cat.

There was really no place to go except the park. The shops in Little Whinging’s High street wouldn’t be open yet, and, even if it hadn’t been the crack of dawn, Harry had no Muggle friends to visit. The few boys he’d tried to play with before he’d gone to Hogwarts had all been scared off by Dudley. Still, it was glorious being outside rather than locked in his room. A car passed him as he turned onto Magnolia Road, a businessman on an early start for London probably. The chill morning air felt good on his face, energised him and made him feel almost clean until he pushed his hair back from his face and grimaced at the greasy feel of it. God, how did Snape stand it? Harry’s head itched. He longed to cast a cleaning spell but really didn’t want to get hauled in front of the Ministry once more and threatened with expulsion. It occurred to him again that Dumbledore was probably too ill to save his arse if the Ministry discovered him using magic.

There were a few lights on in the neighbourhood, clearly a few early risers but there was no one on the street but Harry. He turned through the gate to the park and wandered over to his favourite spot by the swings and sat on a bench. There was still a little mist lingering, which reminded Harry of his dream. Harry heaved another exaggerated sigh, the heartfelt gasping of a boy with too many burdens. Dementors, Voldemort, his imprisonment at Number 4 Privet Drive, Snape, Dumbledore’s illness and the fear he wouldn’t live long enough to help Harry fulfill the terms of the prophecy. He closed his eyes, the better to think.

“Hi Harry.”

Harry snarled and blew his fringe up off his forehead in exasperation. He knew who it was without turning around. Piers Polkiss. Dudley’s best friend and seventh on the list of people Harry hated most. Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Uncle Vernon, Dudley, Aunt Petunia. Piers came after all of them but before Greg Goyle and Vincent Crabbe. Which was a pretty good indication of what kind of wretch that made Piers. Harry turned and looked at him; the same big mouth and rat-like face, but bigger (although nowhere near Dud’s size) and maybe a little less ugly than he used to be.

“What do you want, Polkiss?”

“Just saying hello. Saw you walk by from my bedroom window.”

“What are you up to? Spying for Big D?”

“No, honestly Harry, this has nothing to do with Dudley. I just, I dunno, thought maybe you could use some company.” Piers sat down on the bench, gauged the space between them and scooted over just a little.

“You’re up to something,” Harry said.

“I’m not up to anything. Look, I know I’ve helped Dudley be rotten to you–“

“You didn’t just help!”

“Okay. Okay. I know I’ve been rotten to you and I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Harry said flatly. “You are definitely up to something.”

“Aw, Harry, I–“ Piers moved suddenly, an awkward lunging motion that Harry was entirely unprepared for. The next thing Harry knew, Piers was mashing their mouths together and he seemed to have at least six hands. His tongue came out and tried to batter its way through Harry’s lips. Stunned, Harry opened his mouth, and then he was kissing Piers back. This was nothing like the kiss from Snape, no finesse here. Harry wondered if he could change it at all, make it better, and without otherwise thinking, he was coaxing Piers’s mouth open in turn, groaning softly when his cock sprang to attention. Fuck! Not now, not now, not now!

Harry pulled back abruptly, pressing a hand against Piers’s chest, trying to push him away.
“This is not a good idea, Piers,” he said a little breathlessly, two spots of red high on his cheekbones.

“Sure it is, Harry. It’s a great idea. It feels great.” Piers tone was wheedling, his rat-like face cunning as he grabbed Harry’s hand, pushing it down into his own crotch. Harry jerked it away.

“No, I don’t want to. I don’t like it.” Harry said through clenched teeth. He wished he dared use his wand.

“Yes you do. You’re as hard as I am,” Piers insisted, looking pointedly at Harry’s lap.

“No! Back off!” Harry felt slightly hysterical.

“Why? What’s the harm? There’s no one here.”

“Never mind. Just drop it. It’s just not a good idea,” Harry sighed, taking a deep breath and trying to push the other boy away again. “You should go. Or maybe I should.”

“Not until you tell me why. You were enjoying that kiss. So was I.” Piers was obviously getting irritated.

“I was not enjoying it! And what will you do if I don’t tell you why? Run to Big D?” Harry was twice as irritated and sneering.

“Just tell me why and I’ll let it go.”

You asked for it, Harry thought. “Well, it isn’t very hygienic, is it? Kissing you, I mean.”

Piers looked wary.

“The entire time I’ve known you, you’ve constantly been kissing Duddykins’s arse. Hate to think what’s on your lips and tongue.”

“You’re a real jerk, Potter,” Piers said, standing up and walking away.

Harry looked after him in shock. Piers Polkiss, the boy who had repeatedly held Harry’s arm twisted behind his back while Dudley punched him, thought he was a jerk. That would have been funny if it wasn’t so annoying.

***