Chapter 234
Seven days had passed since the end of the school year, and since Albert had said goodbye to his friends at Hogwarts. When he finally returned home, he felt utterly exhausted—not only physically, but mentally as well.
But the moment he crossed the doorway, there was no time to rest.
"ALBERT!!"
The voice of his father, Sirius Black, echoed through the house as he rushed toward him.
"Boy, what the hell happened to you?!"
Sirius was not alone. Kreacher the house-elf was there too. Despite his general hatred toward humans, he looked at Albert with obvious concern, his large eyes wandering over the wounds and bandages covering his body.
"Young Master Albert returned injured… Kreacher knew that school would hurt him! This is what happens when noble children go there!"
But Albert barely heard what the elf was saying. His father hugged him tightly, and for a brief moment, he felt a sense of safety he had not felt in a long time.
"I'm fine, Dad…" he muttered quietly, but Sirius clearly did not believe him.
"Fine?! You're covered in wounds from head to toe!" he shouted angrily before turning toward Kreacher. "Bring healing ointment immediately!"
Kreacher vanished at once, while Sirius sat beside his son, holding his shoulders and examining him with eyes full of worry.
"I heard about what happened during the tournament… Dumbledore told me things got out of control, but I never expected you to come back in this condition!"
Albert knew his father would not calm down easily, but he was not in the mood to explain everything yet.
"I'll tell you everything later, Dad…" he said calmly. "But believe me, I'm here now, and I'm alive. That's what matters."
Sirius stared at him for a moment, then let out a deep sigh and ran a hand through his long black hair.
"Fine… fine. I'll wait. But don't think you're getting out of this without telling me everything later."
Albert smiled slightly, though pain shot through him the moment he did.
…
At the same time, Harry Potter was facing a completely different fate.
After the tournament ended and everyone returned to their homes, Harry had no choice but to go back to the Dursleys'.
Even though he wanted to stay with Sirius, even though he longed to spend the summer far away from that horrible house, Dumbledore had told him the harsh truth.
"Harry, the protective charm your mother left behind only remains effective because you live in your aunt's house. This is the safest place for you now, especially after Voldemort's return."
Harry did not want to accept that reality.
"But—"
"There is no 'but,' Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "I know this isn't what you want, but you must endure it. It won't last forever."
Sirius had been furious, but there was nothing he could do.
"This is ridiculous! Why should he return to that damned place when he can stay here with me?!"
But Dumbledore did not waver.
"Because Voldemort has returned, Sirius," he said seriously. "And that means every precaution must be taken. This is not merely an opinion—it is a necessity."
Harry had no choice. In the end, he returned with Dumbledore to the Dursleys' house.
When he stood before the front door, he felt a suffocating tightness in his chest.
Painful memories flooded his mind, yet he had no choice but to move forward.
This summer was different from all the others.
The war had already begun.
Two months after Albert arrived at the Dursleys' house, the hottest days of summer were nearing their end amid the sleepy stillness hanging over the large square houses of Privet Drive.
The cars, which usually gleamed with cleanliness, now stood dusty inside their garages, while the gardens that had once been emerald green had turned yellow because the use of water hoses had been banned due to drought.
The residents of Privet Drive, deprived of washing their cars and trimming their lawns, had retreated into their cool shadowy homes, leaving their windows wide open in hopes of attracting a passing breeze—even though none existed.
The only person still outside was a teenage boy lying on his back in the flowerbed outside Number Four.
He was thin, black-haired, and wore glasses. He looked as though he had grown too quickly. His jeans were ripped and dirty, his shirt loose and faded, and the soles of his shoes worn nearly smooth. Harry Potter's appearance was not appreciated by his neighbors, who believed shabby clothing ought to be punishable by law.
Yet this evening he was hidden behind a large bush, completely out of sight from passersby. In fact, the only way anyone could see him was if Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia leaned out of the living-room window and looked directly down into the flowerbed below.
Harry considered his hiding place brilliant. True, the hard, hot dirt was uncomfortable, but on the other hand, nobody was staring at him while he ground his teeth loudly enough to drown out the evening news, nor asking him endless irritating questions—the sort of thing that always happened whenever he tried sitting in the living room with the Dursleys watching television.
As if the thought had drifted through the open window, Vernon Dursley suddenly said:
"I'd be delighted if that boy stopped sitting with us during the news. Where is he anyway?"
"Don't know," said Aunt Petunia carelessly. "Not in the house."
"What strange fascination he has with the news!" Vernon grumbled. "I don't know what he's thinking. Normal boys aren't interested in the news… Dudley, for example, hasn't got a clue what's going on. I doubt he even knows the Prime Minister's name. But that boy—he keeps waiting for news about his freakish lot…"
"Quiet, Vernon, the window's open," hissed Petunia.
"Oh… right… sorry, dear."
Both fell silent.
Harry listened to an advertisement for a new type of food while watching Mrs. Figg—the bat-like old cat-loving woman—slowly pass the corner of Wisteria Walk, frowning deeply. Harry was extremely pleased he was hidden behind the bushes; otherwise she would probably invite him in for tea.
She disappeared from sight, and Vernon's voice sounded again through the window.
"Has little Dudders gone out for tea?"
"He's at the Polkisses'," said Petunia fondly. "He has so many little friends there… they all adore him."
Harry struggled not to laugh aloud.
The Dursleys were unbelievably foolish when it came to Dudley. They actually believed his ridiculous lies about drinking tea with different members of his gang every evening of the summer holidays.
Harry knew perfectly well Dudley wasn't drinking tea. He and his gang spent their evenings terrorizing younger kids in the park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them during his walks around Little Whinging. He had spent most of his summer wandering the streets, searching trash bins for discarded newspapers and reading them.
He heard the opening music of the seven o'clock news and felt his stomach tighten.
Maybe tonight…
After a month of waiting…
Maybe tonight would finally be the night.
"The strike by airport baggage handlers has now entered its second week, causing delays for Spanish tourists arriving at terminals…"
"Idiotic workers," Vernon muttered. "Fire them all."
Outside in the flowerbed, Harry sighed with relief. The news he both feared and awaited would surely have come first in the broadcast. Death and destruction were obviously more important than strikes.
He breathed slowly and deeply, staring up at the glowing blue sky.
Every day of this summer had been the same: tension, anticipation, temporary relief, then tension again—worse each time.
And still nothing had happened.
He continued listening carefully, hoping for some small clue—perhaps a mysterious disappearance or unexplained event. But the strike report was followed by news about the drought in southeast England.
"I hope our stupid neighbors hear that," Vernon barked. "They turned on their sprinklers at three in the morning!"
Then came a story about a helicopter almost crashing in a field in Surrey, followed by a report about a famous actress divorcing her famous husband.
"What do we care about their disgusting relationship?" Petunia snapped, despite following the story obsessively in every magazine she could get her hands on.
Harry closed his eyes against the glowing sunset sky while the newsreader announced:
"And finally, Bungy Budge from Barnsley has discovered an inventive way to beat the summer heat. Bungy has taken up water skiing, and our reporter Mary Dorkins went to investigate…"
Harry opened his eyes.
If they had reached the water-skiing segment, then there was no important news tonight.
He carefully rolled over in the flowerbed and pushed himself onto his knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from beneath the window.
He had moved only two inches when several things happened in rapid succession.
A loud cracking sound split the sleepy silence, like a gunshot.
A cat shot out from beneath a parked car and vanished from sight.
Someone screamed.
A china plate shattered inside the Dursleys' living room.
And as though that had been the signal Harry had been waiting for, he leapt to his feet while pulling a thin wooden wand from his jeans like a sword from its sheath.
But before he fully emerged from the flowerbed, his head slammed against the open window, causing Aunt Petunia's scream to rise even higher.
Harry felt as though his skull had split in two.
Staggering and blinking back tears, he tried to focus on the source of the noise.
Before he could straighten up, two large hands shot out of the window and clamped tightly around his neck.
"Put it away… hide it before anyone sees… now!" Vernon hissed furiously.
"Get off me!" Harry gasped, trying to pry Vernon's sausage-like fingers away with his left hand while gripping his wand tightly in his right.
Then a sharp stab of pain shot through Harry's head.
Vernon howled and released him as though shocked by electricity.
It seemed some invisible force had burst from Harry's body, making it impossible to hold onto him.
Harry stumbled forward into the bush, panting, then looked around.
Several faces were peering from nearby windows.
He quickly shoved his wand back into his jeans and tried to look innocent.
"What a lovely evening!" Vernon shouted cheerfully, waving at the woman spying from Number Seven across the street. "Did you hear that car backfire? Ha ha! It nearly scared poor Petunia and me to death!"
He kept grinning horribly until all the neighbors disappeared from their windows.
Then the smile vanished instantly, replaced by a murderous glare directed at Harry.
"Come here, boy."
Harry walked forward cautiously, making sure to stop well outside Vernon's grabbing distance.
"What the devil do you think you're doing?" Vernon growled, trembling with rage.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked coolly, glancing up and down the street behind him.
"I mean that noise outside my house!"
"That wasn't me," Harry replied firmly.
At that moment Aunt Petunia's thin horse-like face appeared beside Vernon's broad red one. She looked pale.
"Why were you hiding under our window?"
"Yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?!"
"Listening to the news," Harry answered calmly.
The Dursleys exchanged scandalized looks.
"Listening to the news? Again?"
"What's wrong with that?" Harry replied. "It changes every day, doesn't it?"
"Don't get smart with me, boy! I want to know what you're planning. And don't say you were 'listening to the news,' because I know perfectly well your sort don't—"
"Careful, Vernon…" Petunia whispered sharply.
Vernon lowered his voice until Harry could barely hear him.
"—your sort don't appear on our news!"
"That's what you think," Harry shot back.
The Dursleys stared at him.
"You wicked little liar," Petunia hissed. "Then why do all those…?"
She lowered her voice even further, forcing Harry to read her lips.
"…owls keep bringing you things?"
"Aha!" Vernon whispered triumphantly. "Caught you, boy! Did you think we didn't know those savage birds bring you messages?"
Harry hesitated.
Telling them the truth would cost him more than he cared to admit.
"Owls?" he said coldly. "They don't bring me any news."
"I don't believe you," Petunia said immediately.
"Neither do I," Vernon growled.
"We know you're up to something strange," Petunia added.
"We're not as stupid as you think," Vernon snapped.
"Really?" Harry said, his temper rising. "That's news to me."
Before the Dursleys could shout again, he turned, crossed the front garden, jumped over the low wall, and strode down the street.
He knew he was in trouble and would eventually have to face them again for his insolence, but he did not care much at that moment.
Far more important things occupied his mind.
Harry was certain the cracking sound had been caused by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It sounded exactly like Dobby the house-elf vanishing.
Could Dobby be here in Privet Drive?
Could he be following Harry at this very moment?
At the thought, Harry spun around and stared down the empty street.
He was certain Dobby would never be able to stay hidden for long.
He walked on, barely aware of where he was going. He had wandered these streets so often that his feet carried him automatically toward his favorite places.
Every few steps he stopped and looked behind him.
Someone from the wizarding world had been nearby while he lay in Aunt Petunia's dying flowerbed.
He was certain of it.
Why hadn't that person spoken to him?
Why hadn't they contacted him?
Why were they hiding?
Then, as his frustration and confusion reached their peak, his confidence deserted him.
Maybe it hadn't been magic at all.
Maybe he was so desperate for any sign from the world he belonged to that he had overreacted to an ordinary noise.
Maybe it had simply been something breaking inside a neighbor's house.
A dull heavy feeling settled over Harry's chest once more.
The despair that had haunted him all summer returned again.
Tomorrow morning the alarm would wake him at five so he could pay the owl delivering the Daily Prophet…
But was there even any point in taking it anymore?
Harry barely glanced at the front page before tossing the paper aside for days at a time.
When would those idiotic wizarding journalists finally realize Voldemort had returned and begin placing the truth on the front page?
That was the only news Harry cared about anymore.
If he were lucky, perhaps owls would bring letters from his best friends Albert, Ron, and Hermione, though his hope of receiving real information from them had long since faded.
Ron had written:
"We can't say much about You-Know-Who… they ordered us not to mention anything important in letters, in case they fall into enemy hands. We're very busy, but I can't explain why in writing… there's loads going on, and we'll tell you everything when we see you."
Albert had written:
"I can tell you, Harry, that we are holding meetings with certain people to solve this matter. Even though I still can't walk without a cane, thank God I've fully recovered otherwise. Anyway, when we meet again, you'll know everything!!"
But when would he see them again?
No one seemed interested in giving him an exact date.
Hermione had written briefly in his birthday card:
"I expect we'll see you very soon."
But when exactly was "very soon"?
As far as Harry could gather from their mysterious hints and vague letters, Hermione, Ron, and Albert were all staying together in the same place—most likely Albert's house.
Harry could barely stand the thought of the three of them enjoying themselves together while he remained trapped at Privet Drive.
He had been so angry with them that he had thrown away two unopened birthday packages they sent him, both filled with Honeydukes chocolates.
He regretted it later that evening while eating Aunt Petunia's horrible salad for dinner.
To be continued…