Unfortunately, nothing more will be coming out for a month or so. You see, I'll be in China. My official hiatus. :-P Sorry. *runs for her life*
A general A/N: This is a sequel to Harry Potter and the Affair of the American. If you've any desire to understand this story at all, I -strongly- suggest that you read its prequel. http://www.fanfiction.ws/read.php?storyid=475193
Enjoy!
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Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass panes of his window. The neat and tidy scene of Privet Drive was streaked with the receding rain of a summer thunderstorm. A final rumble sounded in the distance. Harry closed his eyes and shifted to a new area of cool glass.
Listening to the water running down the roof was a comfort. It was a soft, murmuring sound, and for the next few minutes, it could become a constant in his world. For a moment, Harry considered padding downstairs, picking the lock of the cupboard beneath the stairs, and taking his Firebolt out to fly in the cool, rich air that came in the wake of a storm. A smile tugged his lips. It was a new kind of smile, one that had been developing ever since the outcome of the Triwizard Tournament, but he had never become fully aware of it until now. It was a sardonic, self-deprecating expression, the kind that came from knowing things that the rest of the world didn't. Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew what kind of information was in the packet of papers that Rysk had given him (how to pick almost every kind of lock without magic, for instance), or indeed, if he knew that Rysk had given him the packet at all.
Even a year ago, Harry would have believed that he did. Now he was sure that the Headmaster did not. Albus Dumbledore was very powerful and very, very old, but not infallible nor omniscient. He knew now that there was a fine distinction.
Harry drew back from the window and looked at the clock on his wall. He had retrieved it from the garbage after Dudley had thrown it out, making a scene worthy of a two-year-old and yelling at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia for getting him a broken clock. Harry had to give him credit: Dudley had actually tried changing the batteries before throwing a fit. It was a welcome moment of laughter when (secretly in his room, of course) Harry had simply put the positives and negatives at their proper ends and the second hand had started ticking. It had been running smoothly for a week, and now read one in the morning.
Harry shifted his shoulders, fancying that he could feel something weighing down upon them. He stared ahead through the rain to the house across the street, where Mrs. Figg, the crazy old bat who always showed him albums upon albums' worth of her cats, usually lived. This summer she was away on vacation to nurse her arthritis. Harry knew this because he had heard Aunt Petunia complaining loudly that there would be no getting rid of "that boy".
He sighed. It would have been a comfort to have the old lady still occupying that house across the street. It would have even been a comfort to know that she truly was on vacation to nurse her arthritis. Instead, as far as Harry knew, Arabella Figg was still with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix in Ireland, tersely waiting for Voldemort to make a move. Harry felt completely cut off from the magical world, and it was nerve-wracking, as everyone he cared for was still trapped in it and everything that would shape his life this summer was entangled in it.
"Hm." Even though he didn't turn to look at it, Harry was again aware of the presence of the clock. "It's Sunday," he murmured to himself. Nine more hours to go.
A loud disturbance, as though a jet engine had been turned on to full blast, ripped through the hallways and into Harry's thoughts. He flinched before shooting the doorway of his room a glare and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Dudley was snoring again.
Deciding that he had better leave the house before he broke and sent two spitwads up his cousin's nostrils, Harry pulled on a set of warmer clothes and crept downstairs. His eardrums were sore by the time he reached the foyer. As he knelt down in front of the cupboard beneath the stairs and felt for the doorknob, he silently wished that Professor 'Harrison's' packet had included a way to use magic over summer vacation and escape detection from the Ministry. I'm sure she knows how to do that, too, thought Harry sourly.
Harry had practiced picking the lock to the cupboard almost every night since arriving at the Dursleys'. It had been difficult at first, and even now still required a measure of patience and concentration. It took him a good three minutes to succeed, partially because half his mind was occupied with thoughts of Rysk. He wondered if she would still be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts next year. Even though he had no real reason to think so, Harry suspected that she would not be. For some reason, he was vaguely disappointed.
Then he thought of Severus Snape. Before he could put the guilt out of his mind in time, his hand slipped and the pins of the lock fell back into place with several soft clicks. Harry swore under his breath and began jiggling Aunt Petunia's hairpin in the keyhole again.
At length Harry finally heard the lock give. He opened the cupboard with a cautionary glance up the stairs. Dudley was still snoring like a volcano, but neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia had awakened. No doubt they had cotton stuffed in their ears. Harry smirked and ducked inside.
His Firebolt and invisibility cloak were the only things he kept stowed away. Uncle Vernon had long ago decided that keeping Harry from his homework over the summer would not please Harry's godfather. Harry needn't have dropped the hints that if Sirius was not pleased, no one in this household would be very pleased. He only locked up his broom and cloak so that Dudley wouldn't get his fat pudgy hands on them.
Harry eagerly groped in the dark for his broom. Flying for an hour or so would clear his head, and he was willing to have bags under his eyes in the morning in exchange for that. Even Uncle Vernon had made (barked, more like) a brief comment about how Harry always looked exhausted at breakfast. He supposed it was true, but he wasn't about to tell the Dursleys that he could never sleep, plagued by thoughts of the Weasley family and Percy's upcoming trial. When he did doze off...there would be the dreams.
Sometimes, he would sit bolt upright, staring wildly about his room and damp with cold sweat. He would have no memory of his nightmare. But his scar would be burning.
"Ow." He had grown taller than he realized. Harry brought his hand up to rub at the top of his head, where he had bumped against the cupboard's ceiling. He paid for it with a sharper cry and a hiss of pain when something ripped into the back of his hand. Harry turned around and peered upwards, confused, as he stuck the wound into his mouth and sucked at the rising blood. He felt around gingerly with the fingers of his left hand and found a small metal tab sticking out of the edge where the ceiling and wall met. It was directly above the door of the little room. Harry's brow furrowed. This had served as his bedroom for eleven years, and he had never noticed it.
He adjusted his glasses, tilting his head, and gently flicked the tab. It bent easily before snapping back into place, vibrating. Then he took a hold of it and tugged.
A crack appeared in the edge where the ceiling and wall met.
Harry's eyes widened. He pulled again, and this time, a small panel in the wood slid all the way back to reveal a hole he could easily fit his head through. He reached up into it and felt about. The first thing his hands found was a smooth, dusty surface, perhaps a small box. He slid it back towards the hole and brought it down. It was indeed a box, with a curved lid on hinges. Harry peered. There was something written across the top.
He backed out of the cupboard, late night flying forgotten, and moved to a window in the living room. When moonlight fell across the red lettering, his breath caught. He blew the dust off of the lid, incredulous.
There was the name, painted in neat script.
Lily Evans