Chapter 3: Summer at the Dursley’s

Privet Drive was dry, again, Harry noted absentmindedly as he toiled in the gardens for the fourth day straight. The lawns were brown and lifeless in all of the properties within sight of #4, and the gardens were withering away. The little fact that there was a drought in progress didn’t register enough with the Dursley’s for them to understand that Harry’s efforts in the garden would not magically (whether using actual magic or otherwise) make the grass healthy.

For once, Harry was grateful for the distraction the manual labour provided. Any moment he wasn’t busy, he was thinking about Sirius. Thinking about how he –

Harry shook his head violently, clearing his mind. He leant forward, into the garden bed. Another weed had emerged since he’d attended to the garden the previous summer. Twenty seconds later, the weed, roots and all, were in a bin, and Harry moved on.

Hours and hours passed in the hot sun. Harry grew tireder and tireder but persisted in the job. It wasn’t so bad. He was in the sun, getting some exercise. The alternative, after all, was sitting in his cramped bedroom day in, day out. At least this way he wouldn’t feel so restless.

Eventually, the sun started to sink beyond the horizon, and dusk fell onto the suburban paradise. Paradise, of course, Harry considered, was entirely a matter of perspective. For him, it had been hell for ten long, painful years, and five summers hence his discovery – he was a wizard, and a famous one.

Footfalls broke the beginning of Harry’s minor bout of reminiscence.

“It’s dinner time.”

His Aunt paused for a moment, as if to she wanted to say something more. Nothing came. Then, “Clean yourself up first, unless you want to wax the floors after dinner.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just like he hadn’t said anything to the Dursley’s since he’d arrived home from the Hogwarts five days ago. There was nothing constructive he could say given his state of mind, in his opinion, so it was best to stay silent. He had no desire to suffer the wrath of Uncle Vernon from mouthing off, and Vernon had no desire to speak to the Boy if there wasn’t any reason to. A sort of odd, silent armistice had developed on its accord. Harry kept quiet, and so did Vernon.

Harry packed up the gardening gear, tied up the garbage bag filled with weeds from the back garden (the front garden had been attended to first, of course) and placed the bag on the curb. Then, he left the gardening equipment in the shed, and turned on the hose. He took off his shirt and shorts and quickly hosed himself down. Petunia had left a towel at the back door for him to use, and he dried himself off. A pair of his cousin’s clothes lay on a chair just inside the house, and he donned them. A new routine.

The Dursley’s were already seated and eating when Harry arrived. That didn’t surprise him, as they hadn’t waited the previous three evenings since he started working in the garden. What had surprised him was that his plate was filled with a generous serving of food, and this time Dudley appeared to have only taken one piece of his roast rather than most.

Harry took his seat and ate steadily and silently. He caught Dudley, his still oversized but not as much cousin, giving him odd looks every other minute. Harry didn’t say anything, and Dudley didn’t volunteer a reason for the looks.

When dinner was over, Harry gathered his plates and cleaned them. Petunia worked on the rest. Neither shared a word while they worked in the kitchen.

Harry showered properly next. The cool water soothed his slightly burnt skin. He didn’t burn easily, but four days straight in the harsh summer sun even with sunscreen was bound to cause burns.

He dressed again and entered his small bedroom. Nothing had changed over his nine months at Hogwarts. It was still small – hell, it was smaller since he’d grown some – and uninviting. It was utterly devoid of any signs of love and caring and consideration for him. But that was a far distant dream for which Harry would now never see with Sirius gone.

“Bloody hell,” cursed Harry. He’d been in here for no more than twenty seconds and he’d thought about Sirius.

He cursed again and sat down on his bed. Underneath his pillow was the entirety of his correspondence with Sirius over the years. It didn’t amount to much – a dozen letters and his now damaged knife. A sad sight, really. Two years he had known Sirius, and this was all he had to speak of it in the way of possessions. The Marauder’s Map was a nice bonus, but it was woefully insufficient to compensate for the loss of Sirius.

Ten times. That was the amount of times he’d reread each letter. It was a little disturbing, but Harry found he didn’t care all that much. Sirius had been a dreadful situation, something that never should have happened in any fair and just world. Unsurprisingly, the world hadn’t been very fair and just in his experience.

Lying down, he began again, from the first letter he’d ever received from his Godfather. It was an hour later when he finished.

Harry closed his eyes, removed his glasses and lay there, quietly, thinking.

“I should stop.” Harry said aloud.

He got up and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and use the facilities. Once done, he closed his bedroom door and got changed into his sleepwear. The heat had forced him to strip down to his underwear and nothing else. A change of pace from Hogwarts, that much was certain.

Sleep came after a time. Dreams came and went – green lights, screams, familiar places and faces doing unfamiliar things, Sirius, more familiar faces and places doing unfamiliar things.

Morning came, and Harry awoke with the sun. His curtains were threadbare and were almost entirely useless. However, they were of no consequence. He was conditioned to wake early at the Dursley’s.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later Harry could hear Petunia walking passed his room and going down the stairs. She would call him in a few minutes to help her in the kitchen.

So began the sixth day.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The tenth day saw something change. The previous nine days had been uniform in its routine – wake up, eat, garden, lunch, garden, dinner, shower, read, bed. What made today different was the Dursley’s.

“We are going out to dinner tonight,” said Petunia at breakfast that morning.

Harry glanced up at his Aunt, searching her face while he waited for what was next.

“You may have what you want from the fridge.” Petunia continued. “But you must clean up after yourself.”

Harry waited a moment more for anything more. Nothing came. He nodded.

That night, after he worked in the garden (there was little to do at this point – without the rain any new plants would simply wither and die with the rest), he made himself hamburgers and sat in the lounge room, watching TV. It was amazing how dull TV was after all he had experienced. But it was fairly mindless, and that was something Harry wanted.

Then the lights and TV flickered and died. The house was plunged into darkness without warning. A blackout.

Harry slowly put down his plate, and stood, listening intently. It could be innocent, as the heat had caused blackouts in previous years, but the blackout may be malevolent, too – a precursor to something more.

Silence. There was nothing. But Harry waited for five minutes before relaxing.

Dumbledore had assuaged his fears about the protections at Privet Drive to an extent. The blood wards in place were magics too complex for him to understand at this point, but he trusted the judgement of the Headmaster on this enough to feel mostly safe here. Certainly, Voldemort and his Death Eaters had yet to find him here. Something had to be said for that.

However, as Harry sat down and polished off his second hamburger, several thoughts crossed his mind. How would he have been able to defend himself had that been a real Death Eater attack? His efforts at the Department of Mysteries had barely been enough to hold off the much older, much more experienced wizards and witches working for Voldemort. Had the Order of the Phoenix not shown up, their stand in the Death Chamber would have been their last.

That led into his second thought. Something had to change. The stakes had been raised. The prophecy meant that Harry and Voldemort would need to fight again, and only one could survive. Tom Riddle had been more than a capable wizard, much more so than Harry at his age. Voldemort was immensely more capable, with years of experience on his side. Harry couldn’t waste time anymore if he expected to live through another conflict. He needed to learn more magic if he was to survive.

The next thought was about the Order of the Phoenix. What was their true purpose? There had been precious little action in Harry’s experience from the tidbits he and his friends had overheard at Grimmauld Place. They seemed more reactionary than anything else. While the Order was a vigilante group that the Ministry would shut down if they drew too much attention, surely Dumbledore had the Order for more than to gather intelligence. Where was the outlet, the endgame? Where did the intelligence go?

The fourth and final thought was regarding exactly how Dumbledore hoped Harry would defeat Voldemort. There was such a massive age and experience difference between the two, and given Harry’s performance at Hogwarts was largely average, his chances were slim. Dumbledore must have a plan. His explanation that he had wished Harry to have a childhood was touching in a way, but somewhat misplaced – the moment Voldemort appeared to be ready to return, his training should’ve started. He wasn’t angry at Dumbledore, but Harry hoped Dumbledore would be more receptive to teaching him this coming year.

Harry cleaned his plate and then the BBQ while pondering these thoughts. He soon dismissed the Order unimportant for the time being. When the Dursley’s returned home shortly after ten, Harry was already in bed, considering how he could improve his skills in magic efficiently. He had a lot of catching up to do if was to defeat Voldemort. He had to make sure that no one else he cared about died.

It was the first night he did not read Sirius’s letters.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Day eleven saw the routine change for good. The garden while free of weeds was essentially a lost cause until the rain arrived. Water restrictions prevented any homes watering their gardens.

“Mrs Number 6 clearly doesn’t care about the law.” Petunia complained one night. Harry suspected Petunia would have watered her own garden had she not believed she been caught by one of their other nosy neighbours.

Consequently, Petunia assigned Harry another task. Harry accepted it without a word. He was less inclined to yell at the Dursley’s if he opened his mouth in their presence, but he had little he wanted to say. Primarily he wanted to know why Dudley kept giving him odd looks, and he caught Petunia glancing at him every now and then, but he just didn’t care enough to ask. He doubted they’d answer, anyway.

The task was cleaning out the garage. If anything, the garage was even hotter than outside, but Harry didn’t mind too much. He was becoming adapted to the heat, and it gave his now heavily tanned skin a breather from the sun. Plus, he didn’t get himself as dirty so cool water was only thirty steps away in the kitchen.

The garage was perhaps the messiest part of the house. While the Dursley’s owned two cars, their double garage only held one, while the rest of the space was packed with boxes filled with Dudley’s old clothes, toys, and other belongings of Petunia and Vernon’s. Petunia wanted Harry to actually clean everything, and organise them properly so she could examine them and sell off what she no longer wished to keep.

One by one, Harry cleaned the boxes and their contents. The majority of the stuff was Dudley’s, many of which were toys from when Dudley was a baby and either broke or grew bored of. Now that Harry owned the second bedroom, there was little space toys of the past outside of the garage. Some of the toys Harry recognised, but many were new sights. Somehow, he didn’t feel particularly saddened to have never received toys from the Dursley’s anymore. Frankly, he didn’t care much about the Dursley’s anymore.

When night fell, he’d completely maybe a quarter of the boxes. Nothing interesting had come of his efforts, but at least he wasn’t burnt.

After dinner, Harry sat in his room pondering Sirius and Voldemort. He missed there was more time to have spoken with Sirius, asked about his parents, asked about Sirius’s parents, his friends, his fondest memories. Hell, he even missed the opportunity to have Sirius give him The Talk. But Sirius had been less on his mind lately. There was still a gaping hole in his chest where Sirius used to reside, but the pain was lessening. There were other concerns, after all. Voldemort was still out there. Now that he’d been revealed to the public, Voldemort would become bolder and much more active.

That line of thinking led Harry to consider again his thoughts from a few nights prior. How could he better himself? Do better at Hogwarts? A Hogwarts education would be insufficient, however, to provide him with the skills necessary to defeat Voldemort. There wasn’t exactly a class catered towards that particular topic, and with Defence Against the Dark Arts’ history, the reliability of the Professor in that role would be suspect. The new Professor could not be relied upon for guidance.

Instead, that left himself. And Hermione. And somewhat Ron, though Harry cringed at the thought of trying to convince Ron to learn more outside of class. That would be a challenge for a later date.

Hermione would help him, Harry was certain. But he didn’t want to pester her too much; she already got that from Ron. He needed to become more independent and stop relying almost entirely on her.

His old textbooks could be a source of knowledge. God knew he hadn’t perused them completely, there could be some useful nuggets he’d missed while playing chess or procrastinating Potions and Divination. At least he would not be continuing Divination. The OWL results would determine if another year of Snape was awaiting him in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Slightly more resolved to work towards something this coming year, Harry fell asleep shortly before midnight. His dreams were less turbulent and chaotic. Sirius still featured often, the veil he was knocked into often accompanied.

It had been four days since Harry read Sirius’s letters.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The fourteenth day of the summer break saw the final boxes in the Dursley’s garage in Harry’s sights.

The most interesting items in the boxes so far had been clothes from what appeared to be Petunia’s childhood. Harry laid them out, refolded them and placed them in a pile with Dudley’s old clothes that were several sizes too small. Harry doubted Dudley would ever be thin enough to use them again, despite his weight loss in the last two years. He was no longer the size a baby whale, at least.

Petunia came in several times throughout the day to begin examining the contents of the boxes Harry had already cleaned and ordered. Harry caught his Aunt glancing at him again, but chose again not to address the reason. It hardly mattered.

After lunch, Harry talked the last three boxes. The first held more relics from Petunia’s childhood, her toys, clothes and what appeared to be a jewellery box. He dusted them off, and placed them in their appropriate areas.

The next box held a photo album. Curious as to why it was here and not with the others inside, Harry opened it. The first picture was of a much younger, much kinder looking Petunia in the arms of a middle-aged woman, with light brown hair, kind eyes and a warming smile. Petunia’s mother.

His grandmother.

For a moment, Harry’s heart fluttered. His family beyond his relatives and a few stories of his parents were a complete mystery. He knew his relatives abhorred magic, but not why. He knew his father had been somewhat of a bully. However, he had grown out of it. His mother he knew the least of. He knew she was smart and adored by the Professor’s at Hogwarts. But that was it. Nothing about their parents or his ancestry. Note it down as another thing he didn’t know.

Harry kept flipping pages and taking in the photos.

Petunia smiled. That was the most interesting and disturbing discovery. Back then, in her childhood, she was happier, visibly so.

And then Harry flipped one more page and saw it. He hadn’t been thinking about it, but there was no way he couldn’t have at least suspected it might be here. A photo of Lily.

His mother was only a few years old. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail, and wore a blue dress. She looked adorable. An innocent snapshot of time, far detracted from her future as a witch.

Harry felt time fly past and his stared at the photo. It wasn’t a magical photograph, but in a way it was magical regardless of whether the occupants were moving or not.

So swept up in the photograph, Harry was, he did not hear footsteps approach him and a surprised gasp. His first indication he was no longer alone was when the photograph was ripped from his fingers.

“Where did you get this?” hissed Petunia.

Harry was speechless. Petunia had not looked this angry at him in a great many years.

The photo album was snatched from him a moment later. Harry was about to protest, but his instincts held him back. Petunia took the photograph and album inside, sending him furious looks and sputtering the entire time. Harry was left standing there alone, hurt and confused.

All this time, there had been photographs of his mother in this very house. He could’ve seen her before Hagrid showed him photographs back in his first year. He could’ve felt connected to his parents even just a little. But they were gone.

As was Sirius.

Harry abandoned his work and stormed out of the garage and then the front door. He needed time to himself, and he needed it now. The hell with the Dursley’s if they were angry at him for leaving before his work was done. Harry couldn’t find it in him to care what they’d do.

For a moment, Harry stood at the end of the drive and wondered what he could do, where he could go. The last time he’d travelled some distance from Privet Drive while staying there, Dementors had attacked him. While, the news often reported on a strange mist expanding across London in the mornings – not a natural mist; it was a mist that signified Dementor breeding – the mist had yet to expand to Privet Drive. He’d be safe from them. Nevertheless...

Some semblance of sensibility overrode his anger and hurt and frustration. Harry decided to stay close, just in case. The park was nearby. He’d head there.

It was probably a mistake. Walking the streets of Little Whinging reminded Harry of seeing Sirius in his Animagus form prior to his third year starting. If only he’d known at the time.

But what would he have done? He wouldn’t have believed Sirius was innocent at the time. It would’ve been too good to be true – a relative finally coming to rescue him. He’d known Sirius Black had escaped from jail, although it had been a Muggle one according to the news.

Harry kept walking.

Sitting on the swing in park a short time later, Harry was wrapped up in contemplation, so much so that he did not notice a figure watching him in the distance. A silent sentinel there on orders from Dumbledore. Do not approach, but watch him.

Night soon fell and Harry continued to sit idle on the swing. Some residents of the area walked past the park on their evening walks. Harry was ignored. That strange kid. The one who attends Saint Brutus. A deviant.

Soon enough, Harry began to feel hungry. Dusk had well and truly fallen. He forced himself to head back to the Dursley’s. It would be safer. He couldn’t risk himself stupidly. Not with the prophecy.

The tension in the Dursley’s household was palpable. Strangely, however, nobody spoke. Perhaps Petunia wished to continue the current norm. Dinner was over; however some leftovers had been saved. Odd.

After his shower, Harry further contemplated on his bed. The biggest question on Harry’s mind was why. Why did Petunia still have this photograph? There were no other photographs Harry had ever seen in the Dursley household of his mother. Had this photograph been accidentally left in the photo album after Petunia’s purge of all traces of her sister? Or was it something else. A link to the past. Something sentimental.

In the end, it mattered not. It had brought up feelings Harry believed he’d been getting passed. Loss. Of his parents and of Sirius.

Harry reread the letters.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Day eighteen dawned to an already awake Harry. After a sleepless night a few days ago, he’d gone out for a walk at dawn. It was something new to do. To keep himself busy.

Little Whinging was quiet and cool. Perhaps today would be the first day to not force people to sweat the moment they stepped outside this summer. A cat meowed as he walked passed Mrs. Figg’s house. The old squib had waved a few times as he passed, but this morning she did not appear to be up.

The sole issue with walking the neighbourhood, Harry felt, was the knowledge that he shouldn’t stray far from the house. That meant walking grew steadily less interesting. It had only taken four days to walk along every footpath, every street in a kilometre radius. Probably a mile, too.

Harry sighed as he approached the park again. This was doing him no favours. Sirius was gone and he had to accept it. There was nothing that could be done, and in all honesty, given the same knowledge and the same circumstances, Harry doubted he’d do anything differently. He’d thoroughly believed Sirius was in danger. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been tricked. Voldemort had expertly played on his emotions, on hit dead on what was precious to him. He’d been bested.

And he couldn’t let that happen again.

Harry took a seat on a park bench and caught his breath.

Wallowing in self-pity was useless. Reading Sirius’s letters over and over, like he had done for the past four nights, was useless. Blaming himself was useless. He lost for the first time against Voldemort, really. He’d come out on top when he was one, during his first and second years. He wasn’t supposed to survive the graveyard and that would’ve hurt Voldemort and his agenda, forced to him to rush his plans. But this year, he’d been bested. It was the first time he’d truly been defeated, and it hurt. And he couldn’t let that happen again.

However, Voldemort had steadily been gaining ground on Harry’s victories with each passing encounter. Voldemort was probably back to full strength, or almost if not. Harry had five years of questionable education in Defence, and a reasonable grasp of the other major fields. His resolutions over a week ago were still valid. He needed to study more, learn more, if he had any hopes of winning the next conflict.

Harry hit the bench in frustration. It hurt.

There was one question that continued to demand an answer. How was he supposed to win? Dumbledore was annoyingly secretive on the subject. Love, he’d said, was the weapon Voldemort knew not. How, Harry did not know. He’d not really experienced that emotion in recent memory. Hell, probably not since he was one a couple months old.

Harry stood and began walking back to the Dursley’s. His job in the garage was over. The Dursley’s had yet to ask him to do anything else, so Harry had been spending his days aimlessly since.

Vernon was leaving for work when Harry arrived home. They ignored each other. Petunia was in the kitchen, making Dudley his breakfast. She looked up when Harry came in.

“We’ve decided against having a garage sale.” Petunia said softly. “I need you to pack the car with what I tell you so I can drop them off at the charity shop.”

Harry nodded, entered the kitchen and began helping making breakfast. This was probably the only task Harry felt he didn’t mind so much that the Dursley’s had forced him to do. At least if he survived, he’d been set to live on his own. Dobby would probably have kittens if he cooked for himself, but when he did it for leisure and not under orders from Petunia, it wasn’t too bad a task.

Dudley gave him odd looks again. Harry was, surprisingly, more curious as to the reason behind the looks. Perhaps eighteen straight days of odd looks incites some level of curiosity no matter how uninterested you are.

Loading the car was a fairly simple task, but arranging it all so it would fit in one trip was a bit of a challenge. In the end, Harry had to stack the back seats and carry a few boxes on his lap as Petunia drove them to the shop.

The trip was silent except for the radio. The news spouted some boring drivel about the usual dramas of modern life. A mother had been murdered in Liverpool, and two teenagers had gone missing after a party in the day before and were yet to be found. The weatherman mentioned the expanding mist, which now covered a fifth of London in the morning. The weatherman attempted to convince the populace that it was entirely a natural phenomenon. Harry wasn’t convinced.

Petunia and Harry unloaded the car in front of a very surprised and grateful volunteer. Petunia had really cleaned house, with probably a third of the belongings from the garage being given away. Some of the items were broken, but the charity volunteer wouldn’t know that for awhile.

The return trip was equally silent until they were about a couple minutes away.

“I would appreciate it if you did not mention that photograph to Vernon,” said Petunia. Harry turned to look at her. She looked almost apologetic. “I had forgotten I even had it.”

Harry said nothing.

“Thank you for helping me with this, and all the other work we’ve given you. Dudley’s growing up and no longer wants or needs any of that junk we gave away. I’ve seen you’ve been growing up, too. Very quickly. You seem different every time you return.”

Harry still said nothing.

“I don’t know what happened to you this year, Harry, but you’ve been acting very strangely,” she continued. “I’ve done my best to keep Vernon from having reason to yell at you.”

Harry resisted the urge to retort sarcastically at that. This was probably the closest he’d ever get to sympathy from her. He should at least hear her out first.

Petunia appeared as if she wanted to say something more, but she hesitated and the moment was lost. They’d arrived back at #4, and Dudley was outside doing exercises, of all things. Harry lost the urge to fight almost immediately. There was nothing to gain from it.

When night fell that evening, Harry was pondering what could’ve happened between his mother and Petunia to cause such a rift. Jealousy was a powerful emotion, as he’d seen among his own friends and classmates. Could Petunia have been jealous of Lily being magical? It was entirely possible, but ultimately unimportant. He had bigger concerns.

He’d come up with no ideas about how to defeat Voldemort, especially on his own. He needed Hermione’s help. Hell, he needed more than that.

And in that thought, he got an idea.

What if he got more help? The DA had been an enormously successful endeavour, and it had initiated some more relationships with students in other houses. What if they could help him?

But... he couldn’t ask that, surely. He couldn’t ask more than Hermione and Ron to come with him, to fight alongside him. He wasn’t even sure he could ask them for that, but Hermione had been most insistent in her assistance in previous years. Ron, most of the time, had a good head on his shoulders and was there by his side.

“Most of the time...” Harry repeated aloud.

That night, Harry did not read Sirius’s letters.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The debate whether to ask people to help him or not continued for another three days. The twenty first day was another free day. Petunia appeared to have petitioned to Vernon to employ Dudley’s services around the house. For the past three weeks, Dudley had alternated between hanging out with his mini-gang, whose relationship was a little strained as far as Harry could tell (but he had no idea why), and spending time in his room and outside practicing “the noble sport”.

So while Dudley was forced to clean his room, a task Harry was immensely grateful to not have been forced upon him, Harry was in his room, thinking further about his dilemma. It was an enormous ask, to put people’s lives in danger, but in the end it was their choice to make. He knew some people would be all for it, and some people would laugh in his face.

There were other problems. Too large a group and they’d been too noticeable. The last thing Harry needed was for the knowledge of his own band of people to become common knowledge. That would end any surprise advantage and just put them in direct danger.

There were other issues, too. Trust. Too large a group and he could have difficultly trusting everyone. That also depended on the people he chose. Some people were immediate no’s, like Dean and Seamus. He couldn’t trust them to take things seriously, and he couldn’t trust them to be there by his side given the history between them – both believing he was the Heir of Slytherin, and Seamus not believing him about Voldemort all year. He could spend awhile sorting out whom later.

That night, Harry received a letter from Fawkes. It said that Dumbledore would be picking Harry up soon and taking him to the Burrow, which was under new protections. Harry felt a little stirring of excitement within him at the news. But it also reminded him of Hermione and Ron and their lack of correspondence. Was the same thing happening again? Dumbledore keeping him secluded in the Muggle world for his protection?

This time, however, Harry realised there was little he wanted to say to them at the moment. His responses, had there even been correspondence, wouldn’t have contained much substance. He didn’t want to talk about Sirius. Besides, he was getting better on his own. Sirius was still on his mind, but the guilt and pain were greatly reduced from a month ago.

Moreover, he had too much on his mind that he was not yet ready to disclose. The new DA, which was what Harry had currently coined it, needed more thought first. He probably needed to wait and be back at Hogwarts and seeing everyone before he could decide on whom. Hermione could help there.

The next step, however, left Harry struggling for answers. He could form a group, and they could learn together. But what would be next? There was little he could accomplish at Hogwarts, that’s for sure. Dumbledore would not let him leave the castle and return on his own accord, and if the Ministry tried anything this year, there was even less chance of that happening. Did that mean his time at Hogwarts was limited? That he could not stay there for the entire year? It did, Harry thought, and that thought was scary.

By leaving the protections of Hogwarts, Harry would be open to every Death Eater and every other dangerous aspect the world had to offer. Sure, he had dealt with a considerable amount of “evil” in his time, much more so than his classmates, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for the world at large in the middle of a war. He’d have to find somewhere safe to stay. Somewhere besides Grimmauld Place.

Harry fell asleep that night wondering how he could solve that problem.

Sirius’s letters were now packed in the bottom of his trunk.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Two days before Dumbledore was to pick Harry up, Dudley finally spoke to Harry.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Ever eloquent was Dudley. Harry raised an eyebrow in response.

“That,” he continued. “The not talking. It’s weird. Weirder than usual.”

Harry spoke to the Dursley’s for the first time since he arrived, “I’ve not had much to say to any of you, and even less desire to fight because I opened my mouth.”

Dudley blinked, possibly in surprise that Harry had actually responded verbally. “I see. Right, well, I just wanted to say...” he trailed off.

Harry didn’t say anything this time, waiting. Say what?

“Uh... just...” began Dudley. He was not looking Harry in the face anymore. “Thanks, okay. For last summer.”

Harry swore he misheard that. Dudley? Apologising to him? He was under the Imperius, or Polyjuiced, surely.

“Back in second grade, you were chasing me through the back oval,” began Harry, narrowing his eyes. Dudley looked up at Harry again, confused. “I ran around the back of the toilets and disappeared. Where did the teachers find me?”

Dudley took a long moment to think, but that was hardly new. “The roof of our classroom? Why ask that? ...Was that...” he looked around, to see if anyone was nearby, and then whispered, “Magic?”

Harry released a breath. It was Dudley. However, that meant he’d actually apologised. Wow. What should he say? That it’s okay? That after ten straight years of bullying and a couple of summers, he’d saved his life because he was a nice guy? What could anyone say to that in this situation?

He shrugged.

Dudley went back to not looking at Harry. “It’s okay. I just wanted to tell you. So, yeah...”

With that, he left Harry alone.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The morning of Dumbledore’s arrival finally came. Harry had warned his relatives two days prior after he received a second letter confirming time and date.

Harry was downstairs in the sitting room, packed and waiting patiently. He was ready. He knew he was. Well, as ready as he could hope to be.

Sirius was dead. Bellatrix had murdered him. Sirius had died protecting Harry. Harry had made a mistake, and that was crap. It just was. But it wasn’t the end. No, he wasn’t defeated yet.

He needed help. That much was certain. He could only survive an encounter with Voldemort due to their wands being brother wands, an extremely rare phenomenon, which was just another thing that linked the pair together.

Marked as an equal.

But this year, things would change. He’d ask for help, from Hermione, from Ron, from other people. He’d branch out his friendships, talk to other people in other houses. Hell, depending on how things turned out, he’d ask help from the Professors and Dumbledore himself. Harry wasn’t sure how their relationship would be after the last time they met, when he’d destroyed the man’s’ office in a fit of, he believed justified, anger.

In the back of Harry’s mind was the knowledge that this would be his last year at Hogwarts. He couldn’t sit still for another two years while people were out there, fighting and dying, while he was sitting around in the castle. Once he believed himself ready, he would leave. Find somewhere to stay. Maybe buy his own house, and learn how to protect it himself if necessary. But that was still some time off yet.

There were a few minutes left before Dumbledore arrived.

Harry turned to face the Dursley’s, who were nervously waiting in the kitchen, fiddling about while anticipating something terrible to happen. Petunia was the first to notice Harry watching them. The shared a long look.

“Thanks for taking me in.”

He didn’t know why he said it, really. They hadn’t been nice people. They’d treated him like a slave. He’d been hurt, damaged, by them. But Dumbledore was right in some sense. They hadn’t needed to take him in. They hadn’t treated him well, but he was probably far better off than he would’ve been had he been forced into an orphanage. He didn’t love the Dursley’s, he didn’t respect them or care for them, but still. He could be a bigger person than they were.

This was it. Harry turned back to the sitting room. The beginning of the next chapter. The start. He had taken the first steps towards the end.

He still had a lot left to sort out. He had to tell Hermione and Ron the prophecy, and he would try and do it soon. He had a lot left to plan, too, towards the new DA. But he was much more positive about the future than he had been a month ago.

He could do this. It wasn’t going to be easy – he wasn’t expecting it to be – but he could do this.

Not because he had to. Not because he was forced to. Not because of the prophecy.

But because he believed he could. He’d defied Voldemort more times than any living person sans Dumbledore and generally come out on top.

Harry smiled. He’d see Hermione and Ron soon. And he’d tell them soon. Once he had things a bit more sorted in his head. He’d tell them what he believed.

That he could do this.

-x-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Not beta’d. Not the most original “beginning”, I know, but given how much Harry had “planned”, I felt I should explore how Harry became the Harry at the start of Sixth Year. I tried to avoid some of the blatant clichés with these beginnings (raining, Harry excessively blaming himself, letters – in general and from Gringotts), but I no doubt used a few (Dursley’s making Harry work). Hope it was a reasonably interesting read despite the overused scenario.

I don’t think I overdid the reaction, but that’s your call. I also wanted him to get over Sirius on his own – something personal, which ended up consisting of little dialogue – and not because of Hermione, Ginny or whoever was the love interest. I’ve never lost anyone, note, so I could be all wrong in the process and reactions, but it’s what I gather occurs and what I’ve gleaned from the thousands of Post-OotP stories that start this way  (which is why I didn’t start with it).

Note I am aware it probably doesn’t match exactly with SY. I did write it pretty quickly (in six-seven or so hours over three days) and mainly from memory of what had and hadn’t been accomplished from the main story – Harry talking about it with someone. As long as it was enjoyable, I’m cool with that.

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