Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters, places or situations that are J.K. Rowling's original and wonderful creations. I just live in my little Potterland, borrow them and put them through their paces.
The Time of the Turning
By DracoNunquamDormiens
Chapter One: A Safe Haven
Privet Drive looked much like it ever had, a quiet little street lined with near-identical houses, well-tended gardens and flashy new cars parked in the drives. The owners of the cars – well-to-do men who looked nearly as identical to each other as their houses did – were enjoying what seemed to be the beginning of a better summer than the last in the company of their families; their gardens had recovered from the previous year's draught, the play park had been repaired, and the rest of the world was shut out of their self-imposed borders, with the sole exception of all those tiny, most trivial of matters that were the subject of gossip amongst the inhabitants of this and the surrounding streets.
One could safely venture to describe Privet Drive as a homely sort of street, where respectable citizens lived and raised their equally respectable children, in a peaceful, familiar atmosphere. If one were to take a stroll along this stretch of pavement, the smell of roses and recently cut grass would waft one's way; the laughter of young children as they splashed in their paddling pools, or rode their bicycles racing each other for ice-cream would fill one's ears, and – if one was well-to-do enough to look at – the neighbours would wave and inquire about one's well-being and destination, offering their knowledgeable advice as to which direction would be most suitably taken.
This description of said street in the outskirts of Little Whinging, Surrey, could most effectively be summed up in one word: Predictable. And yet, this encompassing word did by no means wholly define Privet Drive, for at least in one house it did not apply, much to the chagrin of its inhabitants and hidden glee of their inwardly bored neighbours.
Of course, if one just happened to stroll by, unknowing of all strange doings in this particular place, and were to attempt to find it, one would most certainly be stumped. For, as all other things in Privet Drive, it played its part perfectly, outwardly blending in with the scenery so seamlessly, that no stranger would be able to correctly pinpoint its location. Nor did the inhabitants of the house show any outward signs of abnormality.
Mr. Vernon Dursley was the director of a drill-making company called Grunnings; his wife Petunia and son Dudley were no different from the rest of the inhabitants of the street. To the untrained eyes, they were a perfectly respectable, happy, loving, and predictable family.
The sole manner of knowing there was something amiss at Number Four Privet Drive was through the whispered information the neighbours were only too eager to share, or even the Dursley family's comments, for rarely was the one responsible for such strangeness seen openly about:
He was fifteen now, the more knowledgeable neighbours would say, looking around their shoulders as if afraid someone would overhear them.
He is a hardened hooligan, who has spent the last five years mostly at St. Brutus' Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, they would add without hesitation. What his crimes were, nobody knew for sure – although they would be strangely forthcoming with their own, albeit untested, theories.
This youngster had been the centre of many a conversation over the years, and consequently, everyone avoided him. It was him who besmirched the otherwise near-perfect street in the eyes of its inhabitants, particularly during the summers, as he returned every year for the holidays, much to the general discontentment. Everything about the little rascal was despicable, from his oversized, generally torn and dirty clothing, up to his jet-black, unkempt hair which stuck out at odd angles, not to mention the perpetual, intimidating scowl on his bespectacled face. He was a breathing embarrassment – as well as, by what Mrs. Dursley herself had said, a walking menace to everybody.
And today, the summer holidays would begin, which meant the Potter boy – which was the name by which he was generally known around Little Whinging – would return to make the lives of the respectable families difficult. And to provide for hours of gossip at his expense, but nobody had ever really thanked him for that.
Presently, the Walking Menace of Little Whinging was leaving King's Cross Station in the back of the car his uncle, Vernon Dursley, had purchased in December for a ridiculously high price, and was fighting the urge to give his balloon-like cousin a good shove in the ribs to get him to scoot over further away from him.
He decided against it, considering that; a) Dudley would probably poke him back, which meant the risk of a broken rib or three, and b) that it was a pointless thing to do anyways – incurring in the Dursleys' wrath was not his priority this summer, unavoidable as it might be; his mere existence daunted them, and they would waste no time in making it as miserable as possible, however his friends Mad-Eye, Tonks and Lupin had threatened them not ten minutes earlier. He'd rather enjoy a quiet ride to the place he was forced to call home.
The stillness, however, added to long minutes of watching the streets flick past from his window behind the passenger seat, led his eyes to droop with that sort of long-endured weariness he had experienced ever since Lord Voldemort regained his body, a little over a year earlier. His eyes closed, and he rested his forehead against the window, its coolness soothing the dull pain on the jagged scar that stood out clearly right above his right eyebrow…
He was jolted back to his senses quite painfully by a sharp tap on his head, followed by a loud screech. Harry Potter sat bolt upright at once, only remembering where he was when his eyes flashed at his blond cousin, who sneered back, a walking stick in his podgy hand.
Apparently Dudley still carried his useless Smelting Stick with him. Well, not so useless, was it? Harry's hand, which had instinctively taken a firm hold on his wand, stopped halfway in the process to pull it out and returned to rest on his knobbly knee, while he hastily soothed Hedwig, his owl, into silence.
"Don't smear the window with your filthy hair. And shut that stupid bird up."
Dudley's piggy, watery blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. He'd done it. His father would start telling Harry off, and that, in Dudley's mind, was an excellent way to while away the two-hour long ride back home.
Harry heaved a noncommittal sigh that held no anger, only tiredness, and returned to staring out the window in silence. Dudley waited for his father's booming voice to start complaining about his cousin, but nothing happened. Vernon Dursley merely glanced at the young wizard through the rear-view mirror with clearly suppressed anger and drove on.
Dudley furrowed his brow, thinking hard.
This was completely unusual. Never before had he been denied the simple treat of having Harry bullied by his parents, and yet, he'd loudly pointed out a major offence from Harry and received no reaction from either party.
Dudley scowled and glared at his cousin, who ignored him completely. Harry looked sleepy, he noticed. Probably he would get the chance to bang his head against the window. A slow smirk made its way to his pink face.
Yes, that was a good idea. It was not like his lot could see them while they were driving around in the car, now was it? So he did something he had never done before in his almost sixteen years of life: he waited patiently for Harry to doze off.
Harry resisted the urge to rub his head where the Smelting Stick had landed. He could feel the bump rising even now, adding to the throbbing of his scar and his general discomfort at being crammed in the backseat with his porky cousin, who, despite all his diets and exercise, still managed to fill three-quarters of the backseat by himself. Harry wondered idly whether Uncle Vernon had the car reinforced so as to hold Dudley's weight.
Maybe he would have to buy a loading truck next year, just to manage to fit Dudley in. That way, I might get the chance to ride in the back...
He absently stroked Hedwig's feathers while he gazed at the streets and houses flicking past with unseeing eyes, ignoring the all-too frequent, uneasy glances his relatives – his only living blood-relatives, at that – shot his way.
Harry hated Privet Drive with all his might. Ever since he could remember, life there had been all but light and careless. He'd slept in a spider-filled cupboard for the better part of ten years, endured the abuse of his foster-family without any apparent reason, and this fact had not changed one jot after he started at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The fact he now knew the underlying reasons for him to have been forced to stay at his Aunt's most of his life when virtually any wizarding family would have gladly raised him instead did not make it any easier to return and endure, quite the contrary.
Baggy and torn clothes, poor meals and the absolute lack of personal property he could shrug off easily, unjustified hatred, vengefulness and utter disrespect he could not, no matter how hard he willed himself not to care.
His eyes were starting to water now, both out of the throbbing pain on the back of his head and scar, as well as out of tiredness; he blinked once or twice, in order to stay alert. They were out of London now, and Uncle Vernon went faster once on the motorway. Harry glanced at his watch, in a half-hearted attempt to shake his sleepiness off. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dudley watching him intently. He turned to face him, an inquiring look on his face.
Dudley's eyes glinted back at him, but he said nothing, the intense look still on his porky features. Harry raised an eyebrow at him. Dudley averted his gaze, blushing slightly. Harry noticed absently his cousin's blush was every bit as blotchy as Uncle Vernon's, as he turned back to watching the roadside, trying not to fall asleep and ignoring the dull aches in his skull.
They continued in near-absolute silence for a long while, Uncle Vernon occasionally muttering about one thing or other, Aunt Petunia sniffling in response, and Dudley watching Harry, still waiting for him to drift off.
The problem with quiet and uncomfortable – not to mention long – road trips has always been the issue of one's mind wandering on its own and starting to ponder about those subjects that bother us most, and in this particular aspect, Harry Potter, although a wizard, was no exception.
Before long he was struggling to keep his thoughts at bay. He had parted with his friends a mere forty-five minutes ago, and the wave of loneliness, frustration and grief was already threatening to overwhelm him, hovering overhead like a fat, black rain cloud that was waiting for him to waver but a little to pour its contents mercilessly upon him.
He frowned, willing those thoughts back in the corner of his mind where they belonged, locked away from even himself. But they seemed to have a mind of their own, flicking images before his eyes, images he did not want to face;
Hermione falling to the ground, unconscious –
I thought she was dead… Don't think about it –
The sick crunching sound of Neville's nose breaking; Ron, summoning a brain in the Memory Room; Bellatrix' mocking baby-voice –
Stop it, Potter! he told himself sternly, willing to steer his thoughts to something else, anything else, before he invariably thought of Sir – I said STOP it Potter, you idiot!
Dudley had been watching Harry for the better part of the last quarter of an hour. At first, he did it because he was waiting for the chance to deliver another cracking blow to his cousin's head, but he was now mesmerised by the wide variety of expressions displayed on Harry's face.
His eyes were darting left and right, as if he were seeing something that was not really there – Are all those weirdoes as loony as he is? – But what really caught his attention was the pained frown that settled on his cousin's face. Harry gritted his teeth as if in anger, then blinked and shook his head a bit, half-muttering something to himself. His heart was beating faster – Dudley could see the racing pulse on his throat – and a nearly imperceptible shudder shook him; Harry frowned deeply and released a breath, quietly, closed his eyes for a bit, and returned to stare out of the window with an expression of forced calm.
What was that all about? Dudley surprised himself wondering. Harry's expression was usually guarded, carefully blank, and in short, impenetrable. Forgetting the fact he was supposed to hate Harry and that he'd been waiting to thwack him on the head as soon as he drifted off once more, unwittingly, Dudley himself was absorbed in a series of memories that came to his mind.
Those Demeanors, he remembered full well. He'd almost died, he'd felt it. He shuddered at the memory of the alley leading to Magnolia Crescent. Harry must have felt them too, maybe even seen them. That must have been...
A twitch at his side startled him from his reverie. Dudley turned at him to see Harry'd fallen asleep, his right hand clenching and unclenching, as if trying to grab something. He looked uncomfortable.
Dudley watched him for a moment, before poking him hard in the ribs with his Smelting Stick.
For the second time in less than an hour, Harry was brought to the waking world by the Smelting Stick. He woke with a low hissing intake of breath and shot the grinning Dudley a withering glare, his hand automatically reaching for his wand. Dudley's grin faltered at once, his eyes following Harry's hand and spotting the terrifying bit of wood. Harry actually smirked for a second, then returned to stroking Hedwig between the bars of her cage, again ignoring the now fearful Dudley.
The remainder of the trip, Harry remained awake, a sharp pain in his side adding to his present woes, forcing himself to think of Quidditch manoeuvres. It didn't help. His mind was drawn to a certain Quidditch match in his third year a huge, bear-like dog by the name of Padfoot had attended, so he forced himself to make a mental list of all defensive curses, jinxes and hexes he had learned, anything to keep a tight grip on himself while the journey lasted.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had apparently recovered from the shock they received as a courtesy of the intimidating Ex-Auror Mad-Eye Moody at the train station, and were soon talking amongst themselves, pointedly ignoring their nephew. Soon their talk turned to Dudley's boxing exploits, and Harry found a bearable distraction listening to their conversation and trying not to snigger at their excessive stupidity regarding their fat lump of a son for the rest of the trip.
Finally, Uncle Vernon parked the car in the drive of Number Four, Privet Drive and Harry got out of the car, covering Hedwig's cage with his jacket. After opening the trunk of the car, all three Dursleys entered the house, leaving Harry to deal with his luggage on his own.
The sun had set shortly after they left London, and crickets were chirping around him as he dragged his trunk into the house and deposited it in the lounge.
He took a deep breath. The house smelled like it always had, a sickly mixture of potpourri and Aunt Petunia's cleaning agents. As he carried Hedwig's cage to his small room, the words spoken by Dumbledore merely a week ago came to his mind again.
"My priority was to keep you alive…You would be protected by an ancient magic of which Voldemort knows, which he despises …I put my trust in your mother's blood… While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."
Privet Drive, the last place he'd ever want to stay at again, was his best protection, the only place where Voldemort could not harm him at all.
Whatever did I do to deserve this? Harry thought miserably as he wrestled the door to his bedroom open.
Would you like me to make a list for you, Potter? the little caustic voice in his head immediately quipped. Harry frowned at himself, trying to open the door again.
He succeeded this time, apparently the doorknob needed replacement - Better get used to having it broken – and stepped into the small room. A bare light bulb flickered weakly on as he turned the switch, but he squinted at the brightness of the electric light source anyway; candles were so much better in his opinion. He placed Hedwig's cage on the rickety desk and hurried downstairs to grab his heavy trunk. In the meantime, the Dursleys were having dinner in the living room, while watching what sounded like an action movie – there was a lot of shooting and screaming in it.
Once he had heaved all of his belongings upstairs, Harry opened his trunk, took out parchment and quill, and scribbled a note to the Order informing them of his safe arrival. He sent Hedwig away, whispering urgently to her she should be really, really careful.
He stood for a long while by the window, gazing at the overcast sky in the direction Hedwig had taken, trying to control the anxiety that had surfaced with the need of having her leave.
That's all I need. Hedwig to be killed by them too.
With a heavy sigh, he flopped down on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling, his mind oddly devoid of coherent thoughts, the feeling of confinement seeping into him and settling like a dead weight in his stomach. He did not fight it, nor did he feel up to fighting the tears of regret and grief and anger and frustration that began to well up in his eyes. A muffled sob escaped him, soon to be followed by another. He buried his head in his arms and let the feeling of misery engulf him at last.
As he was halfway through curling himself into a little tight ball of wretchedness and woe, a sharp stab of pain made him utter a choked gasp. One hand went to the tender spot, while he wiped his face dry with the other.
The distraction in the form of a string of colourful imprecations (many of which were part of Sirius' legacy) against one greasy bloater who, to Harry's luck, was still downstairs taking in his due dosage of ready-made entertainment and couldn't hear him, took his mind off his suffering.
Still clutching his side, Harry sat upright on his bed until he ran out of expletives and waited for the pain to lessen. Once it did, however, he had lost the inspiration to wallow in self-pity. He looked at the time, realising it was still early and that Hedwig would probably not return in a few hours.
He began to unpack his trunk, for lack of a better form of entertainment, mulling Dumbledore's words over. He had to stay here, in this oppressive place, so that he could be safe. Shouldn't he feel relieved, especially after what had happened at the Department of Mysteries?
Privet Drive was a safe haven for him, at least from the likes of Voldemort and his Death Eaters – Harry would never go as far as to describe the Dursleys as particularly harmless – it was a place where he could not be touched.
Really a great plan, headmaster, he mentally added, the more bitter part of him speaking up. You send me to bloody captivity so I can be safe until I get to kill the censored like the bleeding weapon I am. Really good job, Dumbledore.
Suddenly, something clicked into place. He stopped straightening out the pages of Quidditch Through The Ages and returned to sit on his bed as the realisation hit him.
Not only was he untouchable here, he was also free, in an odd, rather puzzling way: Nobody was going to bug him to tell them how he felt, because no one here cared. Nobody was going to interrupt his brooding, trying vainly to cheer him up, questioning him about his latest nightmares, because they could not reach him – unless he went ahead and shared his thoughts with them. He was free and safe to think and put his jumbled thoughts and mixed feelings in order without fearing an attack.
He was well aware, if only subconsciously, that he needed time to come to terms with the Prophecy, with the Order, Dumbledore – himself, in short, with everything. He still felt alternately vindictive and stupid for yelling so much at his two best friends, whom he had, he reminded himself angrily, nearly gotten killed a week earlier. This mere thought cowed his rising anger into submission.
His face was still damp from his sudden tearful outburst; he swiped at the wetness in frustration. He'd shown weakness again. He had sworn to himself he would not show any weakness.
Not anymore.
I owe Sirius at least as much, he reminded himself furiously, don't I?
Weakness, he had decided while still at Hogwarts, would belong to the past. A past to which his parents, Cedric, and now Sirius belonged, along with the old Harry, the one who was just Harry, no strings attached. This Harry had died the same minute Sirius had, to be replaced by... He didn't really know who or what, and a part of him didn't want to find out.
Weakness led you to fall into that trap. Weakness and stubbornness and your saving-people thing. Not a good mix, mate. That greasy git was right again, wasn't he?
He knew that while at Hogwarts, he was usually so burdened with all the goings-on that he could not really find the time to brood and straighten things out. But time was what he had now, and he had to think.
And think he did.
A lot.
He thought, with no particular order, about Sirius, about every single minute he had spent with him, reread every single letter he had received, remembered every letter he had sent his godfather. He forced himself to think about the Triwizard Tournament, about Pettigrew's repeated treason, about the Third Task. About Voldemort. Dementors. Umbridge. The Quidditch Ban. Dumbledore's mistrust. The Department of Mysteries all over again. The Prophecy. Ron, being attacked by the brains. Hermione, lying unconscious after being hit by the curse. The baby-headed Death Eater. Bellatrix Lestrange, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville. Sirius, falling through the veil. The Prophecy that linked him to Voldemort. The one that said his fate was to be a weapon. How it could have been Neville. His mother's screams as she died to save him. Voldemort, rising from the cauldron. Padfoot escorting him to Kings Cross. Sirius' barking laugh. Sirius, pushing him aside from a spell.
Once he started, he could not stop.
It was like having a hundred Dementors inside his head, showing him all his worst memories, pinpointing all his mistakes, all his blunders, so that even the smallest slip-up grew to the size of the graver ones.
Some time later – he could not tell how long, even if he had tried – he heard the Dursleys go to bed. Heard angry mutters about "the ungrateful brat wasting electricity like he owns the place," courtesy of Uncle Vernon, Dudley's grunting laugh in response.
Hedwig returned, and he absently fed her owl treats and refilled her water-tray, whilst ignoring the reply she had brought completely.
He remained locked in his dinghy little room around the clock; as he had guessed, nobody even bothered him. Later that evening,little amounts of food (often day-old or worse) were shoved through the cat flap Vernon had installed before his second year. He hardly moved to drink a little water, forced himself to eat, if only a bit, but he felt full of restless energy all the same.
This energy came from his pain, his grief, his anger at himself, at his foolishness and stupidity. His friends were in danger because of his stupidity. Sirius had died because of it. And there was nothing he could do to undo what he had done. Hermione could have died, and Ron wasn't fully healed yet, either.
He had always seen them as his friends, the Weasleys, Hermione, Neville even. They had always been there for him. Yet what had he ever done for them?
He got them in danger, because he was the weapon needed to take on Voldemort. The fact that he hadn't known before now did not excuse him at all. What good would it do if he said he wasn't going to do that again?
It wouldn't bring Sirius back.
Nothing would.
Nothing would change what had happened.
Nothing he did could atone for what he had caused.
Ever.
But there was something he could do - not for Sirius, and most certainly not for himself. Like he deserved anything after what he'd done.
He would take on Voldemort (how, he didn't have a clue), just like the Prophecy said. Alone, because he couldn't bear losing anyone else. He'd have to be strong, and brave perhaps – he'd do it for his friends.
"I'm a weapon, I'm a weapon, I'm a weapon," he repeated over and over, trying to let go of the empty feeling that surfaced.
It was a reaction triggered by the forced acceptance of his condition: He wasn't only a regular wizard, that had become clear from day one, but he was a being created solely for the purpose of ridding the wizarding world from the rampaging menace of Voldemort. What he felt, his opinions on the matter, his fears and wishes, all were irrelevant. He had to kill Voldemort or die trying, and he'd damn well better become accustomed to the idea, because there was no way around it.
It still did not ease the feeling of rebellion rising up in his chest; it did not prevent him from wishing for somebody to soothe him, to utter the words he needed to hear most: not to lose faith, that he would not be alone in this, that everything would be all right, because that someone would be there until the end.
He had ensured, through the very weakness he now so hated, that the only person in the whole world who could have said those words without lying died. He had ensured his loneliness, until he himself was dead.
It made him wish for death, for the first time ever, instead of life, if only to see Sirius again.
But you can't die yet, The voice in his head reminded him. You have stuff to do first, mate.
Outside the dimly-lit room, on a street graced with the blessings of ignorance, the Sun began to rise; birds sang their songs, still playing their part perfectly, as predictable as all inhabitants of Privet Drive. However, this predictability, this routine that had gone on for who knows how long, was lying upon the shoulders of the single being it felt endangered by.
Talk about irony.
TBC.
Revised May 2004