Harry Potter and PureBlooded Truths

Harry Potter and Pure Blooded Truths







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Chapter 3





Hope Restored







The first summer that Harry had been given Dudley’s spare bedroom, vacating the cupboard, came as quite the surprise to Harry when he had returned home to Privet Drive after his first year at Hogwarts. He had been especially pleased that the room had had an eastern exposure. Years of the windowless, dark cupboard gave rise to Harry’s love of watching the sunrise from his, albeit nice but temporary bedroom window.



A few weeks after Harry had returned to Privet Drive for the summer, he woke early, much to his chagrin. Sunlight was filtering in through the window, bathing the room in the early morning light. Harry grimaced as the rays had finally reached the hour that they were now directed onto his face. The novelty of his having a window in a proper bedroom had worn off, as the early announced start to the day served as an annoyance to the raven haired boy these days.



In an act that ‘some’ would classify as foolishly Gryffindor-ish, Harry had abruptly opened his eyes and groaned as the bright light attacked his dilated pupils. In an involuntary reaction, he slammed his eye lids shut, only to view a multitude of white spots dancing before his eyes. He didn’t even want to think about how stupid he’d been; knowing that the sun’s rays were beating down on him because of the patch of warmth on his body, he had foolishly opened his eyes without precaution.



Resistant to moving too much, he draped his forearm across the bridge of his nose, shielding his eyes from the ever persistent sunlight that threatened another attack. He was now wishing that he hadn’t awakened and could just roll over and not start the day yet. After procrastinating several minutes, he finally came to a decision, he yawned, and then rolled on his side, using the backside of his body to block the offending light source and cracked his eyes open.



Feeling in no particular mood to ‘greet’ the day, he lay there on his side for several more minutes. It was then that he heard something tapping at the window. Suffering the effects of still being groggy, he slowly rolled off the bed, and made his way to the window. While this particular window of the house got more action than others, it would still stick quite often, especially after a rain.



Beating on the middle section of the window with the palm of his hand to un-stick the window, he heard his uncle’s booming voice coming from his bedroom down the hall.



“What’s that infernal racket in there, boy?” began the rant.



Not keen on listening to his uncle at this time, Harry tried his best to ignore the loud voice. Fully awake now, Harry adjusted his stance to gain better leverage to open up the perpetually warped window more quietly.



Successfully opening the window after a few more carefully and quietly applied thrusts, Hedwig flew in and hooted at her owner in an excited manner, proclaiming, in owl speak, “Lookie, lookie, I have a message for you.”



With Hedwig safely in the room, Harry closed the window, only to realize that his uncle was still spouting off insults directed at him from down the hallway.



“And if I find that you’ve damaged anything in there, boy, don’t think that I won’t make you pay. I don’t care what those freak friends of yours say, you need to learn to be responsible for your actions and I’ll not be inconvenienced by your actions any more than I already have been.”



Harry had heard similar such speeches from his uncle that he could nearly predict his next sentence, or the content well enough as it rarely wavered from his being a no good freak, that his parents were irresponsible to have gotten themselves killed off leaving a child to be raised by others, and so forth and so on.



Knowing that his uncle was on a roll, Harry, in typical teenaged fashion tuned him out.



Sitting on the edge of his bed quietly, Harry waited to see if his uncle would roll over and go back to sleep or barge into his room with a list of chores to be completed by the end of the day. After a few tense minutes of waiting for the storm to descend upon him, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. He was in luck, all was quiet in the small framed house, his uncle had opted to roll over and go back to sleep. This of course did not mean that Harry had slipped by the ire of his uncle; the temporary stay of execution would just happen later, as his uncle rarely let an opportunity pass by when he could heap misery on his nephew.



Several minutes had lapsed while Harry had been waiting for the outcome, during which time he had forgotten all about Hedwig, that was, until he felt searing pain emanating from his finger. Feeling offended that her owner had neglected to acknowledge her for bringing him his mail, Hedwig had firmly nipped the nearest finger available. Hedwig was, for the most part even tempered but, she felt that her owner needed reminding that he had ignored her for far too long, making her feel insulted.



“Owww, girl,” came the garbled complaint from the boy, the offended appendage quickly finding a home in his mouth. This left Harry with the use of only one hand, making it awkward for him to untie the letter from her outstretched leg. Having finished with his fumbling, Harry left the letter on his bed, walked over to his dresser and grabbed an owl treat, a peace offering. Never one to turn down a treat, she greedily and gingerly snatched it from his palm. Harry then offered her another treat, along with a running dialogue of heart felt affection and a sincere apology.



Feeling less annoyed with her owner, Hedwig contentedly cooed and gave him a head butt, letting him know how she felt. Smiling, Harry stroked her head again, and quietly spoke to her, telling her how smart and beautiful she was. After having been pacified by the affectionate attentions of her owner, Hedwig eagerly climbed into her cage when the door was opened, and settled in for a much needed nap.



Walking back over to his bed he picked up the mail that Hedwig had just brought him. In no real hurry, Harry unceremoniously opened the creamy envelope and pulled out the contents, four pages in all. The first page was a generic form type letter addressed to him. Stating that taking into consideration his O.W.L. scores, he was qualified to take the following courses...



Looking up from the parchment, Harry creased his brow in confusion, O.W.L. scores? What O.W.L. scores? There must be a mistake, I never received my scores, were the first string of thoughts that raced through his head. Then, he remembered that an owl had arrived several days earlier, a generic school owl that he hadn’t paid much attention to.



Walking back over to his dresser he spotted an official looking envelope with the school’s seal on it that had not been opened. Tearing open the envelope, he quickly scanned the letter and saw that his scores were indeed listed. Torn between reading old news and new, he opted to read the newest letter that Hedwig had brought, putting the contents of the first letter aside.



The first page listed the classes he was eligible to sign up for; Potions, Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Advanced Transfiguration, Advanced Charms, Divination, and Care of Magical Creatures. The Second page was a listing of the summer assignments the professors assigned and expected to have completed by the first day of term. And the third page was a comprehensive listing of school supplies, including clothing requirements for entering 6th year students and, the 4th page was a hand written note, specifically addressed to him.





Dear Mr. Potter,



As your head of house, I’m writing to let you know that a very special course is being taught this coming school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is a unique opportunity for Hogwarts that Professors Catori and Hehewuti have agreed to teach The Art of Magical Meditation Techniques to advanced 6th and 7th year students. Only those students with their Head of House’s expressed permission will be allowed to sign up for this class.



Should you desire to take this class please owl me so that your name can be added to the list. At this time, there is no textbook requirement or summer work assignment.



Yours sincerely,



Professor McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts





Staring at the parchment in mild disinterest, Harry noticed another person’s handwriting at the bottom of the page:





I took the liberty of signing you up for this class. It may come in handy.



Albus Dumbledore



After blankly staring at Dumbledore’s missive at the bottom of the letter for several minutes, Harry started to smile. It was the first smile, or real reaction he’d had to anything since he had returned to Privet Drive for the summer. It was as if the short passage from the headmaster was charmed, as it’s simple message woke Harry up from his self induced cave of emptiness. Harry finally had some hope, a reason to go on.



The fact that Harry hadn’t qualified for Advanced Potions was lost to him at this time. His brain was still processing the personal message from Professor Dumbledore.



Lowering his hands to rest on his knees, he absently clutched the parchment in white knuckled fists. With his head slightly up turned, he began to stare at the far wall in the small room. Dumbledore wants me to take the class. He’s already signed me up.



Losing interest in the boring white wall, Harry’s eyes drifted towards his lap, where he noticed the crumpled mess he had been strangling. In shocked reaction, he splayed his fingers apart, and the letter fell to the floor. Retrieving the note, Harry began smoothing the parchment out the best he could, rubbing and stretching it against his thigh. Once it was reasonably smooth, he brought the note closer to his face and reread it.



Magical Meditation Techniques, were the three words in the letter Harry focused on. As if a switch had been flipped in Harry’s head, the realization struck him as to why Dumbledore might have signed him up for the course, maybe these teachers can teach me Occlumency. Then Harry’s euphoric feelings welled up inside him as his thoughts raced on, It’s got to be easier to learn from somebody who doesn’t hate me. His thoughts continued to race ahead, Yea, with somebody actually willing to help me, I’ll be sure to learn it this time.



Although Harry would rather not admit it to the Headmaster and never to Professor Snape, he had been feeling discomforted by the fact that he hadn’t worked harder at his Occlumency lessons the previous year. While still recuperating in the hospital wing at school, Harry had conveniently convinced himself that everything had been Snape’s fault. That had Snape not been so hateful, he might have learned Occlumency and successfully blocked out the false visions Voldemort planted in his head on the night his godfather died.



But now, the feelings of resentment for Snape’s failure in teaching Harry to block his mind eroded, as deep down, Harry knew that he hadn’t put forth the effort. And the more he thought about it, the more he could see that it had been his fault.



With little reluctance and a heavy heart, Harry concluded that he was the primary person responsible for his godfather’s death. It was clear to him now. He had been so starved for information that he hadn’t wanted to block out his only source. At the expense of losing his godfather, Harry now fully understood why Dumbledore had thought it a bad idea to allow the visions to continue.



Harry decided that it was time he grew up and took responsibility for the role he had played in his godfather’s death. That placing blame on others, Snape, Dumbledore, Bellatrix and even on Sirius was childish, and that he no longer had the luxury or time to indulge himself in the blame game any longer.



With a deranged maniac out for his blood, it was imperative that he became more observant and not accept everything at face value. He knew that he needed to not only be aware of his surroundings, but to take it a step further, to become more calculating in his actions. In essence, to embrace his Slytherin attributes and not deny them any longer, which would also entail reigning in some of his brash Gryffindor traits.



Clenching his left hand into a fist, a look of determination shuttered behind Harry’s eyes, I will not give Voldemort an opportunity to set another trap for me or my friends.



Absently rubbing his scar in a nervous gesture, Harry began to set definitive goals for himself. He was determined that the link that he shared with Voldemort would no longer rule his life. That living in fear and self loathing was counterproductive and that it benefited no one other than Voldemort. It was time for Harry to come out of his cave of self depravation, because to be afraid of feeling hurt was being afraid to live and it was time to deny Voldemort his momentary victory.



Harry got up and started pacing back and forth in his small room. His pacing was erratic, he would stop mid-stride, make a declaration to himself and then resume pacing, only to stop and make another declaration when the inspiration hit him.



I won’t live like this any more.



I won’t let him control me any longer.



I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s hurt me.



And then the pacing abruptly stopped altogether as Harry declared his final epiphanies.



I will accept my destiny.



It’s either me or Voldemort — me or Voldemort — only one of us can live —





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The Daily Prophet had been prominently running articles about reported sightings of dementors throughout England which was sending waves of panic throughout the wizarding communities. While wizarding children grow up hearing horror stories about dementors, few grown wizards have actually ever seen one, but that had all changed recently. Upon the Minster’s desk sat a stack of reported sightings next to his morning cup of tea.



Since mid-June, reported dementor sightings had been filtering into the Ministry, eventually finding their way onto the Minister’s desk. Confirmed sightings had been scattered throughout Northumbria, Cornwall, Hampshire, Berkshire, Surrey as well as East Anglia. The enormity of the area had aurors working long hours and had Minister Scrimgeour worried.



Reaching over, picking up his cup, Rufus took a sip of his tea while he continued to stare at an enlarged, colorful map of England hanging on the wall of his office. The map, his constant companion for the past several days, occupied his thoughts even though he had other office duties that were demanding his attention.



His eyes were locked on the map, daring a pattern to reveal itself. The map was highlighted with color coded dots, depicting dates and times of a specific sighting. Waving his wand, the map morphed into a second version, a version that frightened the Minister more. The second version while not as colorful, displayed masses of dots in concentrated areas. Each dot represented an individual dementor sighted.



The two maps, one depicting times and dates of sightings and the other displaying sheer numbers, revealed little to the Minister, other than the fact that something was happening. That something unnatural was drawing them out into the open.



All Ministry employees that had worked on the project had insisted that there was no pattern, that the Minister was looking for something that just didn’t exist.



Grimacing at his cup as it’s contents had grown cold, Minister Scrimgeour set it down on the corner of his desk. Clasping his hands behind his back, he went back to staring at the map, willing a plausible explanation to materialize.



What’s the pattern? What’s calling them? Are these dementors doing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s bidding or is there something else out there commanding them?



There has to be a reason.



Dementors don’t show up or congregate on a whim.



What’s the connection?



What’s the common denominator?



These same questions plagued Minister Scrimgeour for weeks, being played over and over in his head with nary an answer being provided.



Feeling frustrated for the lack of answers that have plagued him and the whole of the Ministry since the beginning of the sightings, the middle aged wizard decided to go for a walk, to try and clear his head. It was early morning, and with dawn a few hours away, few Ministry employees would be roaming about to interrupt his highly prized nightly stroll of solitude. A slight uneven shuffle could be heard echoing from the empty corridors as the Minister limped. The shuffle, slap noise of his boots were a welcome sound to his ears, and he began to relax by their uninterrupted rhythmic sounds.



Having no need for possessions or status, dementors were unique beings; driven purely by greed is what made them dangerous and impossible to control. While utilized at Azkaban under Ministry rule, dementors could not be considered loyal; tenuously serving only those who could supply them with souls to feed on.



These servants of death were not revered yet feared. A necessary evil the Ministry utilized as both deterrent and punishment for the darkest of crimes committed by witches and wizards.



Being a wizard professed to the Light, Scrimgeour was repulsed that the Ministry embraced creatures of the dark for their unique services. Yet, he had not been able to provide an alternative to their usefulness and effective deterrent as guards of Azkaban prison. Begrudgingly, he could admit that the arrangement was a win-win scenario, but that didn’t mean that he had embraced the arrangement. So, like any good politician, he never brought this conundrum to the attention of his constituents, preferring to ignore the ugly step-sister, as his predecessors had.



Left to their own devices, Dementors preferred to live reclusively, however, there were times that they worked collectively. When Ministry aurors were unable to apprehend a criminal, and their potential harm to the community was deemed high, dementors were sent out in packs as a means to restore relative calm to the community. Ironic as it was, the public would tolerate the government’s usage of the creatures if they were convinced that the hunt was for the greater good of the community, the removal of a dangerous wizard or witch at large. Such was the highly publicized hunt for Serius Black after his escape from Azkaban.



Dementors hunting, feeding in packs was something the Ministry attained through means of bribery. The more powerful the wizard, the more delectable their soul was to the dementor. And the opportunity to consume a powerful soul was something few dementors could resist, and for such a feast, they could be coaxed to temporarily work collectively.



Since taking office, Scrimgeour had not had the misfortune to order such a hunt, but while an Auror, he had personally witnessed such orders carried out.



It was because of their known solitary nature, that when group sightings of rogue dementors were first reported, the Ministry didn’t take action. But when these claims continued, eventually supported by aurors that were dispatched to investigate, Minister Scrimgeour sobered and issued a plea to residents for them to not engage the dementors.



The Daily Prophet sent over a reporter the day before requesting the Minister issue a statement to the community at large.



“As of this date, we have no explanation why dementors are congregating. It is imperative that citizens witnessing a gathering of dementors contact the Ministry immediately. Do not, I repeat, do not engage them. Aggressive action is not warranted at this time against the rogue dementors as they are not inflicting harm on humans in the areas of sightings, and they peacefully leave when confronted by trained aurors.”



It was not the most eloquent statement he’d ever made, but it did get the point across. He did not want panic induced citizens to foolishly engage or harass a dementor. In this particular case, they were best left alone, ignored if you will.



It was imperative to Scrimgeour that citizens not engage in a battle with the dementors. He shivered at the thought of untrained witches or wizards confronting them as he has never forgotten his first encounter. An experience best not forgotten nor repeated.



He had just finished his auror training when he was summoned to partner with Bloaty, a large man with a decade of experience in the department. They were dispatched as the dementors had found the escaped convict and were about to approach him. The two aurors were to witness the event as proof that protocol was followed and the escapee permanently restrained.



Apparating into a wooded area, they immediately scattered, one taking cover by a large fallen tree and the other at the base of a large oak tree. It was there, peering over the dead log that Rufus witnessed a pack of Ministry sanctioned dementors hunting, their target sighted. Adrenalin pumping through his veins, the young auror watched, his golden eyes wild with excitement.



The escaped convict was firing hexes at the three dementors nearing him, to no avail. With what appeared to be some difficulty, he produced a patronus, being weak it kept the dementors at bay briefly. It was at that time, when the dementors backed up, giving the patronus passage that Rufus felt the sickening, soul sucking, stomach clenching, all embodied terror overwhelm him.



The dementors had inadvertently entered his safety zone, the distance required to not be overwhelmed by their presence. He immediately fell to the ground clutching at his chest. Filled with so much terror he had forgotten the simplest human function, breathing. Then, as fast as he had fallen to the ground from his horror stricken visions, he was released from their grip.



The dementors were moving towards their prey, the escaped convict. Able to breathe now, Rufus’ tensed body relaxed, a bit too much as he felt his crotch grow warm before it felt cold. Bloaty approached his partner just in time to see this, he discretely cast a cleansing charm on the new recruit before he helped him sit up. Uttering no sound, he reached into his pocket, pulled off the wrapper and offered his new partner some chocolate.



Rufus was horribly embarrassed at his lack of professionalism but Bloaty never brought it up, then or later during their seven year partnership. Rufus had learned a lot from Bloaty and still mourned his loss. Thinking about Bloaty brought Rufus back to the present and his continued concern for untrained citizens encountering dementors.



Aurors continued to come back from the field reporting that the dementors were not acting normally, that they appeared disoriented, confused and easily distracted. Reports were also coming in that the dementors as far away as Azkaban also appeared to be reacting to an unknown stimulus. Their feeding patterns had changed; they patrolled prisoner cells more often, stayed near prisoners longer yet still showed signs of agitation, constantly tilting their heads skyward. Behavior seasoned aurors had not seen them display before.



What ever had the dementors stimulated also had them confused. Veteran aurors instinctively felt that the dementors were searching for something that was as yet still transparent to them. While this explanation lacked substance, it was the best guess scenario that was supplied to the Minister.



Having finished his walk through the Ministry corridors, Minister Scrimgeour succeeded in clearing his thoughts but was no closer to any answer regarding the dementor’s behavior or a course of action. So, he opted for the ‘wait and see’ method that would tip the scales for increased Ministry intervention.



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Having lost his own humanity, Voldemort had an affinity with the dementors no other wizard shared. It was through this connection that he had been feeling their restlessness for the past few months. To the unsuspecting public, their unease was manifested by an increase in dementor sightings near populated areas.



A robed figure entered the dark room, barely illuminated by the low level of light filtering into the room from the hearth, glowing with red embers of a nearly spent fire. Striding quickly to the wing-backed chair positioned optimally in front of the fireplace, the man abruptly stopped, stooped to one knee and began, “My Lord, all my attempts to find out what has the dementors agitated have yielded nothing.”



Fearing another round of anger channeled through his master’s wand, the hooded man closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. After having endured a few tense riddled seconds and suffering no retribution for his failure, the man kept his head bowed yet opened his eyes to see a white, bony hand resting on the arm of the chair, a hand that was not clutching his wand, ready to strike.



“And you’re sure that Dumbledore does not know what has caused the dementors unrest?” came the raspy voice from the one sitting in the chair.



“He does not, my Lord. The Ministry has contacted Dumbledore and alerted him that the dementors at Azkaban are excited about something but the reason has eluded them.”



“The aurors stationed at Azkaban report that the dementors are feeding more often and patrolling the cells more vigorously, in a most agitated state of unfilled need. The human guards have requested Ministry intervention as the dementors are being too aggressive and they fear that many prisoners will not survive if they do not settle down soon.”



While the kneeling wizard felt no real compassion for the Death Eaters held at Azkaban for crimes committed against the wizarding community, he would rather they were treated a bit more humanely; but with some of them near madness before they had even entered Azkaban, other options of housing or rehabilitation of the prisoners would not be possible.



“So like the incompetent Ministry officials, to think they can control creatures of darkness when they do not understand a thing about them,” came the spitting hisses from the one in the chair.



“They fear the dementors and try to placate them with small servings, but this will not last as their hunger has awakened with a vengeance.”



In a voice not as highly pitched as he had last projected, the small, sitting wizard exclaimed, “It is of little consequence that the Ministry does not understand, because they cannot control them anyway.”



Closing his red eyes, tilting his head in a manner that made the kneeling wizard wonder if he was telepathically communicating with the dementors, he then spoke in a quiet, almost revered tone of understanding, “They are feeling the coming of their fabled Returner.”



The wizard knew not to question his master for clarification and waited in silence hoping that some would be provided. And after a pregnant pause, his patience was rewarded.



“The dementors have been feeling listless since the celebration of Walpurgis,” came the quiet comment.



The pale wizard sighed, tilted his head back and closed his eyes, immersing himself in a meditative trance. Walpurgis night, a night that typically embraces wild magic, a night that favors dark magic was pierced by an awakening; by a magic that radiated a depth of purity and an innocent yearning. This is what has them confused. But what does this mean? And what is this Returner? After extensive questioning, I have no better grasp on understanding their longing for this Returner than I did before I heard of his existence. The best I have come up with is that this powerful being has been long prophesized and they have been waiting for his coming.



Getting a bit exacerbated with the lack of answers, only being plied with additional questions and uncertainties, the dark wizard audibly exhaled when he finished his train of thoughts. The putrid smell from his master’s breath accosted the kneeling wizard’s keen sense of smell, yet he moved not an inch. He remained frozen in place, awaiting any instructions or punishments that might still rain upon him.



Vacating the confines of the chair the Dark Lord stood and approached the hearth, stopping a few feet in front of it, he turned and spit out his annoyance, “We must find the magical source that has confused the dementors before the Ministry does. The Ministry cannot be allowed to harness this new source of magical power.”



“It is imperative that we locate this being and negotiate a workable relationship with it before the Ministry coerces it to obey their bidding.”



And with this last pronouncement he dismissed his servant with explicit instructions that he was to immediately report any additional information Dumbledore might enlighten him with.



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The rain had finally let up, leaving the air heavy with fog and the ground soft. A harsh chilling wind was slashing down the path and the ground beneath Harry’s foot made a sucking sound with each step he took. Mud caked shoes made Harry’s trek a bit slower than it would have been otherwise but he didn’t mind as all his senses were on high alert and he wanted to be slow and methodical in his movements.



The fog was extremely thick, obscuring and filtering his vision, making the bare trees look ominous and threatening. Harry kept darting his head from side to side, straining his eyes to discern the shapes surrounding him. Another burst of icy air hit Harry’s face, stinging his lungs as he drew the cold air in.



Not knowing where he was, Harry continued on the path with his shoes getting heavier with each step he took in the wet clay soaked earth. Several times he thought he heard the rustling of a wizard’s cloak but every time he whirled around wand ready to confront the person, he saw nothing. Unnerved, he quickened his pace, which tired him at a faster rate because he had no time to physically recover from each leaded step of mud caked shoes.



All that raced through his mind was that he needed to escape. He needed to get away from this place that oozed evil. As if the evil had manifested itself into the fog, Harry felt squeezed and surrounded by it’s presence. He needed to escape whomever or whatever was haunting his steps.



In an instant, he burst out of the fog filled forest and stumbled into a clearing. With his vision no longer being shrouded by the fog, Harry noticed that the sky was dark gray, providing him no tangible information regarding the time of day. He noticed a hillside a few hundred yards ahead of him. To better access his surroundings and to get some bearings, Harry began trudging forwards. The desire to reach the rise overrode the exhausted muscles in his legs.



The hillside had been cleared of trees and shrubbery growth, leaving knee length grass in it’s wake. Harry made it to the top of the hill and looked around, the poor lighting hampered his long range vision. He noticed several rectangular shaped stones in a small patch nearby, but before he could examine his surroundings further, his vision was assaulted by a flash of light, and then a crack of thunder boomed overhead. This brought Harry’s senses back to high alert, and then, in the dimming residual of the burst of light, he saw a shape not far from where he was standing.



Before he had time to panic or react, the sky was briefly illuminated again, and accentuated with another loud crack of thunder. In the flash of the light, Harry clearly saw that the shape was a person. In an act of self preservation, Harry threw himself to the ground, and rolled behind one of the rectangular objects, providing himself a protective shield from any incoming hex the person might hurl his way.



Carefully peering out from behind the stone, Harry could make out that the person was wearing bright red wizarding robes. The lack of black robes with a white mask was welcomed to Harry but not altogether reassuring. Without additional information, Harry was not about to stand up and announce his presence. Feeling tenuously safe behind his buffer, Harry kept a vigil eye on the intruder.



Harry could not determine if the person was friend or foe because the hood was pulled down, completely obscuring his face. And this uncertainty added to Harry’s building anxiety. Adjusting himself so that he was now crouching on one knee, Harry placed his left hand on the structure to provide better stability for himself while he scanned the horizon to provide him some clues as to where he was and where he could dart to for cover if his current location was compromised.



Being disheartened with his surroundings and the lack of protective cover it could provide him, Harry decided to stay put and monitor the stranger. On adrenalin overdrive, Harry tensed, watching wide eyed as the person raised his arms. Instinctually Harry cast a Protego shield to protect himself from an incoming curse. But rather than the person wielding a wand at Harry, he had moved his arms, towards his hood.



As the fabric cascaded off the unknown wizard’s head, landing in folds on his shoulders another crack sounded while lightening lit up the sky. Fearing what he would see but fearing more what he would not see, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the person 30 feet in front of him. Just then another flash of lighting lit up the sky, illuminating the wizard’s face in the red robes.



Harry gasped.



BANG, BANG, BANG, came the pounding on Harry’s door. “Boy, you be quiet in there or you’ll regret it,” came the angry spittle filled words from his uncle.



Finding himself awake, sprawled on the floor and covered in sweat Harry was gasping for air in quick successions, as if he’d just surfaced from being under water too long.



Scrambling for some semblance of reality, Harry responded to his irate uncle. “I’m sorry sir. Must have had a dream.”



Hearing his uncle’s heavy breathing outside his door, Harry hastily added, “Just, just a one time occurrence. It won’t happen again. I promise.”



Still breathing heavy from shock but in quiet somewhat controlled deep drawls now, Harry sat frozen in place and listened. The reassuring words had worked as he listened to the heavy foot steps traveling down the hallway and then a bedroom door closing.



Dropping his chin to his chest, closing his eyes, Harry wondered, what the heck was that? Then he started to reassure himself, just a bad dream. It had nothing to do with Voldemort. Just a bad dream. Harry kept repeating this in his mind while his breathing evened out.



After a couple minutes, Harry got up off the floor and walked down the hall to the loo. He placed his arms on opposite sides of the sink to stabilize himself when he noticed that he was shaking. Not knowing why that dream should have distressed him to the extent that it did, Harry was content to remain there until he was more composed. And that’s when he felt those reassuring invisible arms embracing him from behind in a full body hug with whispers suddenly sounding in his left ear.



“Harry love, it was just a dream. Nothing to be frightened of, just a dream.” And if it was possible, the whispers were growing quieter in their soothing tones, reminding Harry that he was safe and it was just a dream.



Finally feeling awash in comfort, calm restored in Harry, he turned the tap on and washed his sweaty face, then trotted back to his room and to bed.





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Several days had passed with no additional terror stricken nightmares. During this period of relative calm, Harry made great strides in his recovery process. It wasn’t as arduous a task with the aid of his whispering companion, always ready at the helm to coax Harry forward.



Looking his class assignments over again along with their summer essay requirements, Harry knew an easy if not so pleasant way to lighten the burden of his new resolve, homework.



Mentally calculating the time it would take to complete each assignment along with some owl exchanges obtaining Hermione’s help, Harry began working on his summer lessons in earnest.



I wonder how long I’ve been at it this time, Harry wondered. Even with Hermione’s help, these assignments take a long time.



Harry put his arms over head, making a concerted effort to unkink himself. He stretched his torso, bending it in various directions, straining to stretch his back muscles as much as possible. Unfortunately, it was not working. He was just too stiff and sore. He’d been on the floor hunched over working on a potions assignment, writing an essay about the differences in potion properties when the moly root is used versus the moly foliage. He started this assignment immediately after he’d finished his essay on tyromancy, for Professor Trelawney. Not finding any real information on divination through the use of cheese, Harry made up several unsupported ‘facts’ of his own which he thought outlandish enough to satisfy the bug-eyed divination professor.



Deciding that these stretching exercises were inadequate for just how stiff he felt, he decided to call it a day and started gathering up his supplies scattered about in front of him. Scrolls, quills and books now in hand, he started to get up, upon standing, Harry felt another part of his body was rather sore from sitting on the wooden floor for as long as he had. Quill and parchment on the floor between his spread legs was not the most comfortable way to write the several feet long essays that he was required to have completed by time the new school year began.



Even though Harry’s was the smallest bedroom in the house, it was sparsely decorated with only a twin bed and one chest of drawers. The bed had a thread-bare light blue cotton blanket on it that had seen better days and the chest of drawers was purchased from a junk shop so Harry’s clothing wouldn’t contaminate Mrs. Dursley’s prized antiques. Having never been indulged by the Dursley’s, Harry didn’t mind the lack of things that one finds in most teenager’s rooms, but he would have appreciated a desk and chair so that he could do his summer assignments without hunching over so much.



Another lonely summer at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry sighed as evening finally came and he looked over to the cage that was perched on top of his chest of drawers and started chatting with Hedwig.



“Yes, yes, girl. Ouch.... hey, take it easy on my fingers,” Harry was calmly talking to Hedwig as she nipped his index finger, letting him know her displeasure as he coaxed the door hinge loose.



Harry sighed. Keeping Hedwig cooped up in a cage tugged at Harry’s heartstrings but there wasn’t much he could do about it while he was stuck at the Dursley’s. He just couldn’t allow her to fly about the neighborhood bringing attention to herself. She was such a beautiful snowy owl; the nosey neighbors would surely take notice of her if he let her out more than he did.



Reaching up to her, Harry tried to pacify her with an owl treat while giving her gentle, long, even, slow strokes down her back, all the while telling her in soft tones, “It’s for your own good, girl.”



Reluctant to take the treat at first, she finally forgave Harry and eagerly nibbled the peace offering.



Harry sighed and then the irony of what he had just said to Hedwig hit him. This was precisely the same type of lecture he got from Dumbledore at the end of every school year convincing Harry to go back to the Dursley’s each summer. Rejecting this thought as fast as it had appeared, Harry mentally noted that this was not the same. He really did have Hedwig’s best interests at heart but just couldn’t concede that Dumbledore had Harry’s best interests in mind, sending him here, back here year after year. This was the Dursleys,... the Dursleys... the family despised Harry and all that he represented.



Harry knew the summers were just as hard on Hedwig being cooped up in her cage as it was for Harry being holed up in his bedroom. She enjoyed her time in the Owlery at Hogwarts, surrounded with other owls, having her freedom just as Harry enjoyed his time with his friends and the freedoms he enjoyed at school.



Once the cage was open, Hedwig wasted no time in vacating the cage, perching herself on top with a hoot of defiance. Without words, she made it known to Harry that she was annoyed with her prolonged captivity by her stare. Harry nodded to her and quietly raised his bedroom window allowing her to fly out and enjoy an evening hunt. Fortunately, the Dursleys had never reinstalled the bars on Harry’s window after the one summer that Fred, George and Ron came to pick him up riding their dad’s Ford Angler.



As soon as she was airborne, Harry was sure he saw her turn her head and look at him over her left wing, beckoning him to join her. If Harry had the means, there was no doubt he would join her on his broom as he loved the feeling of flight. The rush of wind on his face with the absolute euphoric rush of freedom was a feeling Harry could never imagine tiring of. But, Harry would have to settle for just going out for a walk as flying on his Firebolt would most likely bring about a visit from the Ministry of Magic people, landing Harry in a lot of hot water as he had already been warned the summer before that another display of magic in the muggle world would not be tolerated and that there would be restitution. The Statute of Secrecy is quite strict and explicit in defining the usage or display of magic in the presence of muggles.



Feeling a bit better for letting Hedwig out of her cage, Harry decided to go out for a walk and stretch his limbs too. He’d decided Hedwig had the right idea. As Harry left the house, he made sure not to let the screen door make a sound behind him, otherwise he would be hearing from his Uncle. As much as he didn’t want a visit from the Ministry of Magic threatening to snap his wand for underage use of magic, he wanted a confrontation with his Uncle even less. Harry had been home three weeks and he’d somehow managed to not upset his Uncle enough for one of his purple-faced, eye-bulging rants. How Harry had managed this so far was a miracle as his Uncle was even more testy than Harry had ever remembered.



With Harry gone most of the year, he wasn’t sure if the Dursleys had gotten more resentful of having Harry home for the summer, or if he was the one having the harder time coping with the forced re-bonding.



After 5 years at Hogwarts, Harry had gotten used to being treated like a worthwhile being. Just then an image of Professor Snape crept into his mind, and Harry involuntarily shuddered. Well, make that worthwhile to most in the wizarding world.



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