Chapter 1: O.W.L.s and Offerings
A light rain fell softly as dawn broke upon the quiet houses on Privet Drive. The upper stories of numbers one, two, and three were dark and quiet, but a faint glimmer of light shone from the upper bedroom window of number four.
The small bedroom did not look like a normal teenager's. For one thing, there were several shelves bolted to the wall that held an assortment of old, dusty, and broken toys, games, and other gadgets, as well as grimy books that had never been opened. The rest of the bedroom's contents were not old and dusty, but rather odd for the typical Little Whinging resident – but that was because the inhabitant of the room was not a typical Little Whinging resident.
In one corner, there was a large wire cage where a snow-white owl, just returned from a night's hunting, slept with her head under her wing. A large trunk, emblazoned with the initials HP, stood in the opposite corner. Black robes and assorted books were tossed haphazardly inside. A nearby desk was littered with crumpled bits of parchment, quills, and an ink bottle. The bed, a rather lumpy, uncomfortable affair, was in the centre of the room and currently occupied by a thin teenager, a bit short for his age, who had his nose buried in a book.
Harry Potter, just barely sixteen, was sprawled on a bed, reading a battered, worn copy of Quidditch Through the Ages with the aid of a flashlight. He had a head of untidy coal-black hair, jade-green eyes behind a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses, and a scar shaped like a lightening bolt on his forehead.
With a yawn, he closed his book, turned off his flashlight, and squinted at the clock on top of the battered dresser. It was 6:05 on the morning of his birthday. He was sixteen years old on this cold, wet, gloomy day.
Not that anyone here will notice, he thought resignedly. He knew the day would pass without comment from the Dursleys, unlike their own son's birthday. Dudley's sixteenth birthday had occurred at the beginning of the summer, soon after Harry's return to Privet Drive, and Harry had been forced to stay up in his room listening to the sounds of the party below. Not that he would have wanted to attend any party for Dudley – the only thing worse than having to interact with Dudley was having to interact with Dudley's friends. Harry would say that Dudley's friends had the collective I.Q. of a broomstick, but that statement would be a gross insult to his Firebolt (I hope it's still okay at Hogwarts, Harry thought with longing; for all he knew, Umbridge had ordered it destroyed, though he was hopeful he'd get it back once he returned to Hogwarts in September). However, he didn't enjoy being cooped up any more than he had to be.
4 Privet Drive seemed more oppressive and stifling than usual this summer. It wasn't the Dursleys – while they weren't treating him with anything approaching respect, they at least seemed to tolerate his presence in their house. Harry liked to think that it was the threats from Mad-Eye Moody that had effected this change, but strangely enough the catalyst for this odd behaviour seemed to be, of all people, Aunt Petunia.
It had started on the day they had picked him up from the London station when he'd gotten off the Hogwarts Express. The car ride to 4 Privet Drive had been oddly silent, with none of Uncle Vernon's usual sneers at the wizarding world or Dudley's surreptitious punches.
Harry had not spoken to any of them either; he was thankful to be left alone with his own thoughts, dreary as they were. Upon arriving at the house he'd hauled his trunk upstairs and collapsed on his bed, staring moodily out the window.
About fifteen minutes later, there'd been a timid knock at his door. "Er – come in?" Harry said, surprised. None of the Dursleys had ever knocked politely before; usually they pounded angrily on the door or just barged in.
To his greater surprise, Aunt Petunia had stepped inside. He'd been too astonished to speak, so he'd just stared at her. She had looked at the floor, the ceiling, the window – anywhere but at him.
After a few minutes of silence, she'd cleared her throat. "I was just wondering if you were hungry," she'd muttered, her gaze fixed on her shoes.
His jaw had dropped. "W-what?" he stammered.
She'd shifted uncomfortably, glancing nervously over her shoulder. As far as Harry had known, no one else was home; Uncle Vernon had gone on to a golf date with some of his co-workers from Grunnings and Dudley had allegedly gone to tea at the Polkiss house. "I know it's a long train ride from H – that school of yours. If you're hungry, I – I can make you something."
Harry had just blinked; he'd been sure that this was a trick or a colossal practical joke. "I ate on the train," he'd said. "Er – thanks for offering, though."
She'd nodded once, quickly, and then scuttled out of the room. Harry had pinched himself to make sure he wasn't hallucinating or dreaming. To his knowledge, this was the first time Aunt Petunia had ever offered to do anything for him. As for offering food, the Dursleys had always reminded him in no uncertain terms that the food he put in his ungrateful stomach was provided out of the goodness of their hearts. And they'd expected him to live on carrot sticks and grapefruit wedges – with no complaint – in the summer after his third year. So why had Aunt Petunia had this sudden change of heart?
It wasn't with Uncle Vernon's knowledge, he was sure. And somehow he doubted it was due to Mad-Eye Moody or any of the other Order of the Phoenix wizards who had instructed the Dursleys to treat Harry well that summer. If this sudden offer had been the result of their threats, Aunt Petunia would have offered the food with a bitter, resentful air, but that hadn't been the case. She'd seemed nervous, but not angry or sulky, as she would likely be had the offer not been genuine.
Similar events had taken place during the ensuing weeks. Aunt Petunia no longer fussed at him because of his hair, or because he tracked in mud, or any of the other myriad complaints she'd usually directed at Harry in the summers. During mealtimes she never "forgot" to serve him as she often had before, and didn't make a peep if he dared to take seconds. Uncle Vernon still turned purple, but he didn't say a word except to occasionally mutter, "That crazy-eyed bloke can't say you're not well fed, at least."
Dudley also seemed subdued this summer, perhaps because he remembered the consequences of the last time he'd baited Harry. Harry still wondered what Dudley had relived in the presence of the Dementors – the prat had been spoiled rotten his entire life; surely he couldn't have many bad memories. Yet Dudley had been white and shaking after the Dementor attack and had said he'd heard "terrible things." At the time, Harry had thought he was merely reliving the trauma of opening the jelly doughnut box only to find it empty.
Uncle Vernon was his usual unpleasant self, but for the most part he left Harry alone. And Harry was only too happy to be left alone.
It had been a difficult summer, knowing that Sirius was gone (Harry couldn't bring himself to say or even think the world dead) because of his, Harry's, reckless actions. He remembered with longing the days when he could sleep peacefully through the night, with no vivid nightmares to interrupt his sleep or wake him in the early morning hours with sweat on his brow and terror in his throat. All of his nightmares centered on the same scene – Sirius being hit with Bellatrix Lestrage's Cruciatus Curse and falling through the veil. Harry running after Bellatrix, firing his own Cruciatus Curse at her. Her mocking laughter, the appearance of Voldemort, the invasion of his body as Voldemort possessed him and taunted Dumbledore.
His scar throbbed every morning due to his nightmares, giving him a headache that took a few hours to go away. Harry found that the headache receded faster if he found something to occupy him, which is why he was up so early reading Quidditch Through the Ages. The nightmare hadn't given him a birthday reprieve, as he'd awakened at 5:00am with an aching head.
Harry walked over to his window and pushed it up, breathing in the cool, misty morning air. The clouds hung low over the sleepy Little Whinging neighborhood, bringing rain that was a welcome respite from the blistering heat of the day before. His stuffy little bedroom was actually cool and comfortable for a change. He leaned his still-aching head against the cool windowpane, allowing the cold rain to splash against his face. He thought of his last birthday, and the letter he'd gotten from Sirius, and soon the droplets on his face were intermingled with his silent tears of grief.
He was still wracked with grief and sorrow about Sirius' death, but he'd finally stopped blaming himself after getting letter upon letter from Order members, urging him to not feel guilty. "I am sure that Voldemort, devious and cunning as he is, would have found another way to lure you to the Ministry of Magic even if you had been practicing Occlumency," Dumbledore had written. "As I said to you at Hogwarts that night, I regret the part I played in this tragedy. Had I been truthful with you from the first, Sirius would not be dead.
However, when all is said and done, Bellatrix Lestrage and, subsequently, Voldemort are to blame. They, not you or me, are ultimately responsible for Sirius' death."
Remus Lupin, Tonks, and Arthur Weasley had also written, assuring him that Sirius himself would not have blamed Harry. "He knew the danger he was going into, Harry," Lupin wrote. "He knew there was a chance he might not return and he chose to take that risk. He died bravely, and in the manner he would have chosen.
Something else to think about – he's with James and Lily now, and I'm sure that Prongs and Padfoot are causing as much trouble up there as they ever did on Earth. Sirius, I think, is finally at peace."
Harry doubted that the pain of losing Sirius would ever fully go away, but he knew that agonizing over what had happened in the Department of Mysteries was what Voldemort wanted. He wanted Harry to be blindly grief-stricken, wanted Harry to forget himself and go looking for Voldemort. Harry refused to play into another of Voldemort's traps – he would learn Occlumency, he would learn to control his emotions, and someday he would avenge Sirius and his parents. That was his all-encompassing goal.
As he stared into the distance, he became aware of three black dots against the distant grey sky. They looked vaguely familiar, and as they came closer he recognized the distinctive swoop of owls.
Harry backed up as three owls swooped into his bedroom, each dropping an envelope onto his bed, and alighted on top of Hedwig's cage. Hedwig hooted sleepily in welcome. Harry fed them some owl treats and picked up his letters.
The first envelope bore the untidy scrawl of Harry's best mate, Ron. The second had the precise, neat handwriting of his other best friend, Hermione. And the third – Harry recognized the heavy cream stationary and distinctive green ink of an official Hogwarts letter. Sure enough, the letter was sealed with the Hogwarts crest.
The Hogwarts letter seemed much thicker than usual – with a start, Harry remembered what McGonagall had told the class – they'd be sent O.W.L. results in July, and it looked like they'd finally arrived. Eagerly, he ripped the letter open.
***
Harry Potter
The Smallest Bedroom
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
Dear Mr. Potter,
Enclosed please find the results of your Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L.s) as reported to Hogwarts by the Wizarding Examination Authority. Also enclosed is a sign-up sheet for N.E.W.T. level courses; you need to fill out the enclosed form and return it to Hogwarts no later than August 15th. Please note that N.E.W.T. courses have the prerequisite of an "A" O.W.L. or higher.
Please owl Griselda Marchbanks of the Wizarding Examination Authority, Ministry of Magic, with any questions regarding O.W.L. scores; owl Professor Minerva McGonagall with any questions regarding N.E.W.T. courses.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
O.W.L. Results for Potter, Harry James
Passing Scores
O = Outstanding
E = Exceeds Expectations
A = Acceptable
Failing Scores
P = Poor
D = Dreadful
T = Terrible (Troll)
Ancient Runes – N/A
Arithmancy – N/A
Astronomy
Theory: E
Practical: P
Overall: A*
Care of Magical Creatures
Practical: O
Overall: O
Charms
Theory: E
Practical: E
Overall: E
Defense Against the Dark Arts
Theory: O
Practical: O
Overall: O (P.O.S.T. Mark) **
Divination
Practical Only—Overall: P
Herbology
Practical: E
Overall: E
History of Magic
Theory Only—Overall: P
Muggle Studies – N/A
Potions
Theory: E
Practical: O
Overall: O
Transfiguration
Theory: E
Practical: O
Overall: O
Total Exams: = 9
Total O.W.L.s = 7
*Overall scores have been adjusted by O.W.L. examiners due to the outrageous disturbance during the practical Astronomy exam.
**P.O.S.T. Mark: Perfectly Outstanding Score for Test
***
Harry felt a warm glow inside as he gazed at his O.W.L. results. Seven O.W.L.s – he'd gotten the O.W.L.s he needed to take his Auror N.E.W.T. classes, even Potions! And he'd even passed D.A.D.A. with distinction, thanks to his experience with the Defense Association. He'd never heard of a P.O.S.T. Mark before, though he was sure Hermione had received as many P.O.S.T.s as she had O.W.L.s.
Grinning, he reached for Ron's letter.
Harry,
Did you get your O.W.L. scores, mate? I got 8 O.W.L.s – not as many as Percy or Bill, but more than Fred and George combined! (Charlie got 8, too.) Mum and Dad are pretty proud. I passed everything but Divination (big surprise there). Dunno how I got an A in History of Magic – pure luck, I guess. I got Es in everything else except for Potions (an O – the exam was a picnic without Snape breathing down my neck) and DADA (no thanks to Umbridge, and loads of thanks to you, mate).
Not bad, eh? I'm signing up for all the Auror N.E.W.T. classes, of course. Too bad they couldn't get someone who's not a great ugly git to teach potions, but I can put up with Snape for two more years if it means getting accepted into Auror training.
Have you heard from Dumbledore this summer? Will he let you come and stay? Mum hasn't said anything except for "We'll have to see what Dumbledore says." I'm sure the Dursleys are driving you bonkers by now.
You won't get your birthday present 'til I can give it to you in person – it's too big to send with Errol; he'd die of exhaustion before he flew out of the kitchen.
Let me know, and hope to see you soon –
Ron
Harry smiled. Good for Ron – he was smarter than he gave himself credit for. They'd be able to take all their Auror classes together, too. He laid down Ron's letter and picked up Hermione's.
Dear Harry,
Did you get your O.W.L. scores? (Harry had to grin at this; it was rare that Ron sounded exactly like Hermione – and vice versa.) I did pretty well, all things considered --twelve O.W.L.s. I'm amazed I got an E in Astronomy; I wasn't hoping for more than an A after what happened that night. There was a note saying that the scores had been adjusted, though, so I'm glad the examiners took the circumstances into account when calculating the scores.
I got Os in everything else (including DADA, thanks to you and the DA). I also got P.O.S.T. (Perfectly Outstanding Score for Test) Marks in Charms and Transfiguration. I still haven't decided about a career path; I'm leaning towards Auror but I'm not sure yet. I think I'll sign up for the Auror classes just to be safe; after all, the required Auror classes are also base classes for many other professions. I can always change my mind.
I haven't heard from Ron about you going to the Burrow; I really hope you'll be able to leave the Dursley's house soon. Well, if you can't go, maybe we can meet in Diagon Alley again to get our school supplies? Let me know.
Love from
Hermione
P.S. I didn't forget your birthday; I'm waiting with your gift until I see you in person. Here's hoping it'll be soon, and happy birthday in the meantime!
Harry propped Ron and Hermione's letters on his dresser and investigated the contents of his Hogwarts letter. Besides the N.E.W.T. sign-up sheet, he found his booklist and a letter from Professor Dumbledore.
Harry,
Molly Weasley, Mr. (Ron) Weasley and Miss Granger have pelted me with owls the last few weeks, wondering if you will be paying a visit to the Burrow this summer.
I wish I could give them, and you, an affirmative response. However, I think it is best that you remain at 4 Privet Drive this summer for the reasons we discussed before you left Hogwarts. You are safer there than anywhere else (excepting Hogwarts), and it's best that you remain there while the Order of the Phoenix finds new headquarters. 12 Grimmauld Place has, unfortunately, been passed to Narcissa Malfoy, Sirius' closest relative. (Harry felt a pang of grim resignation at this; he'd been previously told that the house would go to Narcissa per wizarding law, but the Order had hoped Dumbledore could find a loophole in the law.)
If the Order finds new headquarters before the beginning of the school year or should other circumstances arise (such as another Dementor attack), I shall certainly send for you.
Once again, I apologize that you must remain in your current unsympathetic environment. Please set an old man's mind at ease by remaining where you'll be safest.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
P.S. I must extend my congratulations on your remarkable O.W.L. scores. You are the first Hogwarts student to receive an O.W.L. P.O.S.T. mark in Defense Against the Dark Arts since Tom Riddle (I received one as well when I was your age – ah, memories!). The O.W.L. examiners were very much impressed with your performance. Congratulations once again on a job well done.
P.P.S. A very happy birthday to you. Remus Lupin and the other Order members send along wishes for a happy birthday as well.
Harry's happy mood dissolved instantly. Though the Dursleys weren't as unbearable this summer, he'd been looking forward to getting out of here. It was frustrating, knowing Voldemort was on the loose but unable to do anything to help in the fight against him. He sighed, knowing that he would respect Dumbledore's wishes. He didn't dare complain or try to escape, not after the events of last June. Dumbledore was right; he was safest with the Dursleys.
He flopped onto his bed with a pad of parchment, scribbling replies to Ron and Hermione with his own O.W.L. scores. He gave them to Hedwig and said, "You can wait until it stops raining to deliver these, if you want." She hooted appreciatively and he stroked her snowy-white head, glad that one friend was with him on his birthday.
***
As soon as he heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's voices in the kitchen (a high, nasal voice and a low, booming voice, respectively), he went downstairs for breakfast.
"Morning," he said to the Uncle Vernon and Dudley, who were sitting at the table. Uncle Vernon grunted noncommittally and Dudley glared at him, but neither said a word.
As Harry sat down, Aunt Petunia rummaged in a kitchen cupboard and withdrew a wrapped package. She came to the table, the frying pan in one hand and the package in the other. "There," she said briskly, unceremoniously dumping the package on Harry's plate. She immediately started dishing bacon onto her husband's plate as Vernon turned purple and Dudley's fat, piggy eyes narrowed.
"Er – what's this?" Harry asked, staring at the package. It was wrapped in plain white paper with no tag or other markings on it. Was he supposed to deliver this somewhere?
"Birthday gift. For you," Aunt Petunia said curtly, returning to the stove to dish scrambled eggs into a white serving bowl.
Harry's hands gripped the sides of his chair. His mind raced as he wondered if he could make a dash upstairs and grab his wand. Obviously, something had happened to the Dursleys. Perhaps they were all Death Eaters, polyjuiced – or maybe they were under the Imperious Curse. The package had to be a bomb or something that would explode when he opened it. After all, the Dursleys had never taken any notice of his birthday before – he sometimes wondered if they even knew when it was.
Uncle Vernon was muttering under his breath as he shoveled bacon into his mouth. "Rubbish… birthday gift, indeed… ungrateful boy… what nonsense…" Dudley was watching him suspiciously. Aunt Petunia seemed to be ignoring him, but Harry could see she was watching out of the corner of her eye.
Harry tentatively reached for the package, his mind and body on the alert as he carefully tore the paper. He opened the box and stared at the contents inside. His mind reeled as his mouth struggled to form words.
"These… are… for… me?" he finally managed, touching the Muggle clothes in awe. In the box were a pair of black jeans and a dark green T-shirt – and astonishingly enough, they looked like they were his size. Not hand-me-downs from Dudley, but clothes that would actually fit. Not only that, they were new – they still had the tags. And how on earth had Aunt Petunia known his size?
"Yes, they're for you," Aunt Petunia snapped, setting the bowl of eggs on the table with a loud *thump*.
"I, uh… thanks," Harry said weakly. He had not been this stunned since last summer when Aunt Petunia had spoken up about the Azkaban Dementors. "I'll, er… I'll just go try these on, then."
"Eat your breakfast first," she ordered tersely.
Mouth agape, Harry spooned some eggs and bacon onto his plate. The rest of the meal passed in silence, with both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia ignoring him and Dudley sulking.
As soon as he'd finished eating, Harry took his birthday gift and went upstairs. He changed out of his baggy jeans and too-large sweatshirt and into the new jeans and T-shirt. The jeans were a bit long, but that was just as well; he'd grown several inches during the past year and would likely grow a few more this year. The t-shirt fit perfectly. His once skinny frame had filled out over the years (mostly due to Hogwarts meals and Mrs. Weasley's cooking), and the t-shirt skimmed his chest and accentuated his muscles nicely. Harry flexed his arm and grinned; he wasn't a body builder by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was he a ninety-eight pound weakling.
Hedwig was still in her cage, getting ready to leave, so Harry grabbed a spare bit of parchment and scribbled a quick note to Dumbledore.
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
Thank you for your letter. I know you're right about staying with the Dursleys, so you don't have to worry about me. Thanks about my O.W.L. scores too; I did better than I thought I would.
A strange thing happened this morning that you might want to check into. Aunt Petunia gave me a birthday gift, a nice one, too -- some Muggle clothes that actually fit. Do you think she's under the Imperious Curse or something? Come to think of it, she's been treating me halfway decently this summer, but that's probably because of Moody's threats at the train station. Uncle Vernon keeps muttering about the "crazy one-eyed bloke" and what he'd think of my summer so far.
Maybe the she's just trying to put on a good front for Moody and the others, but something seems weird. Just thought I'd let you know.
Thanks again, and hope to see you soon.
Harry
As the rain had stopped, Hedwig was just about to set out. Harry tied the third parchment scroll to her leg – she had Hermione's in her beak and Ron's tied to her other leg – and said, "Thanks, Hedwig; you can take that to Dumbledore. No rush." She hooted in acknowledgement and flew out the window.
When Harry went back downstairs, the three Dursleys stared at him. Uncle Vernon grunted and Dudley sniggered. Harry's face reddened as he self-consciously took his seat at the table. "They fit really well. Thanks again," Harry said, directing his comment to Aunt Petunia.
Uncle Vernon and Dudley ignored him, but Aunt Petunia nodded in acknowledgement. Her pursed lips softened just a bit, and her pale blue eyes, usually hostile or angry, seemed almost… kind. Harry's breath caught in his throat. For the barest sliver of an instant, Aunt Petunia slightly resembled the pictures of his mother in Hagrid's photo album.
Last summer, after the Dementor attack, Harry had come to a realization that he'd never really contemplated before: Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister. It was so easy to forget; Aunt Petunia was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and horse-faced, with her face usually twisted in a scowl or a simper. His mother had been shorter, red-haired, and green-eyed; in all of the pictures he had, she was smiling a beautiful smile, her lovely face rosy with happiness or laughter. There was no family resemblance between the two sisters that he could find until just now, when something in Aunt Petunia's face had reminded Harry of Lily Potter. It was an astonishing occurrence, and one he wasn't sure what to do about.
The phone rang loudly, jolting him from his musings. Uncle Vernon, who had risen from his chair, gathering his briefcase and car keys, answered. "Hello, Dursley residence… Oh, Mrs. Figg, how are you?" Harry's ears perked up – for years he'd thought that Mrs. Figg was a batty old woman with too many cats, but just last summer he'd discovered that she was a Squib and an honourary member of the Order of the Phoenix. If the Dursleys ever found out – he was hoping that they never would – they would forbid him from seeing Mrs. Figg, and she was his only link to the wizarding world in Little Whinging.
"Yes… your attic? I see… well, I don't see why not, it would keep him off the streets and out of trouble… yes, St. Brutus'… home on holiday… should be perfectly safe. I'll send him over straightaway…two o'clock? All right, then. Goodbye, Mrs. Figg."
Uncle Vernon hung up the phone triumphantly and turned to Harry. "Well, boy," he boomed, "you have a job."
"I do?" Harry asked warily.
"Mrs. Figg needs an able-bodied boy to help her clean out her attic." Uncle Vernon grinned evilly. "I told her you'd be more than happy to help."
Harry thought fast. He definitely wanted to go – he was sure that he wasn't really going to be cleaning out the attic; that was probably just an excuse on Mrs. Figg's part to get him over there – but if Uncle Vernon realized that Harry wanted to go, he'd get suspicious.
"Do I have to?" he said, dulling his voice so he'd appear reluctant.
"Yes, you do!" Uncle Vernon barked. His eyes narrowed. "Surely your – friends – won't object if I ask you to help a neighbour in need. It's the responsible thing to do. Builds character. Keeps you out of trouble."
Harry kept his voice low and disappointed. "All right, then," he muttered, struggling to conceal his inner glee.
"You're to be at her house at two o'clock sharp – no excuses and no lollygagging!" Uncle Vernon commanded, suddenly in a much more jovial mood than he'd been in all morning. "Well, Petunia, I'm off." He kissed Aunt Petunia on the cheek, clapped a beefy hand on Dudley's shoulder, and whistled as he went out the door.
Harry rose from the table, careful to keep a disappointed expression on his face until he was safely in his own room. He smiled, punching one fist in the air in delight. Hedwig, who had already returned – she'd made a remarkably quick delivery, even for her – eyed him calmly. A birthday with no Dursleys around – it was one of the best gifts he could have gotten, short of leaving Privet Drive for good.