Harry Potter and the Crystal of the Founders

Previously: Harry goes to Sirius's funeral in Hogsmeade, discovers an old secret, and takes the first step towards emotional recovery and eventual acceptance.

Chapter Four:

Grimmauld Place Again

Harry wasn't quite sure how he got home, how he got back to his room, or how he got changed, but he supposed he must have, because the next morning, he woke up in his room, in only his boxers and nothing else.

Harry quickly pulled on some clothes, hopping about his room in his haste. Finally, he ended up tripping over the legs of his jeans, and fell face first onto the floor in front of his wardrobe mirror.

The very first thing he noticed, as he stood up, was that his hair was very unmanageable, messier than ever, and it was longer than it had been at the beginning of the summer. I ought to do something about that, Harry thought.

And then it hit him. He could do something about it!

Hastily, Harry dug in his trunk for the bit of Muggle money he knew he had there, having had Mrs.Weasley exchange a bit of his wizard gold into Muggle money for him.

When Harry came up with a handful of bills, he hastily counted them, then shoved them in his pocket and yanked on a jacket from the closet. He knew he looked absolutely dreadful, in too-large jeans that were at least four inches too long for him, a baggy sweater that had the sleeves rolled up three times, and a jacket with ragged cuffs that hung down to his fingertips.

In an effort to look at least a little bit respectable, Harry rolled up the cuffs of his jacket to hide the frayed ends, and he rolled up the jeans even more, but somehow, he couldn't hide the fact that he was, without a doubt, wearing Dudley's cast-offs.

With a sigh, Harry scribbled a note to his aunt, telling her simply, that he had gone out for a while and would be home that afternoon, and left the note on his desk. Harry slipped out his window, dropped to the ground, hurried across the parched lawn, and quickly stepped over the low garden wall, walking down the street and trying to shake his hair out of his eyes.

The walk downtown was quite short, but Harry took his time once he had gotten onto the busy streets, and out of Privet Drive. Here, in the business area of Little Whinging, he did not look at all out of place, because he did not have to look perfect. Instead, Harry merely looked like a normal teenage boy, walking to the mall, or someplace else, perhaps to meet with his friends.

Having never been downtown before, Harry wandered around for a few minutes, until he found the place he was looking for: Salon Rideau.

A little bell tinkled when Harry pushed the door open, and the girl at the desk looked up. She must have been working there for a summer job. Politely, she asked Harry if she could help him, and he replied that he wanted to make his hair lie flat, but he explained that he did not want to cut it.

She seemed to think that making his hair lie flat would be easy, for some reason, but then, she did not know about the Potter hair.

Half an hour later, she had become slightly frustrated. She had used nearly an entire bottle of gel on his hair so far, but it hadn't worked at all. No matter how much she put on Harry's hair, only moments later, the automatic spring mechanisim would kick in, and it would all stand up again. Daunted, but determined, she tried again. And again.

But nothing seemed to work. The girl washed his hair, dried it and gelled it again, washed it, put the gel in when Harry's hair was damp, blow-dried it, put more gel on it, and even tried putting a hat on Harry, to hold his hair down, but she went through two bottles of gel, and almost an hour later, she had not found a way to make Harry's jet-black hair lie down, or even flatten it a bit.

Finally, she put down the empty bottle of gel, chewing her lip nervously. "Still not working?" asked Harry, looking in the mirror. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but it- won't- lie- down. I just can't get it to..." she trailed off, defeated.

Harry smiled at her in the mirror. "S'all right," he said, "I've been trying to get it to stay flat for sixteen years. I didn't really expect you to get it to lie down, but I figured it was worth a try."

She smiled apologetically. When Harry paid her, she tried to refuse, saying that she hadn't been able to do what he wanted, but Harry gave her fifty pounds, insisting that gel cost money to buy, and that she had at least tried.

"Well," she called after him, as he left the store, "I suggest growing it out; maybe the weight of the hair will hold it down. And come back, if you need anything else."

In the end, Harry left the salon with fifty pounds less, and his hair still as messy and untidy as ever. He was a bit dispirited, but he told himself that perhaps he would grow it out, as she had suggested.

As Harry was walking back to Privet Drive, he had to cross a number of busy streets. His mind was detached, thinking of other things, when for no reason at all, Harry had a sense of foreboding, an unexplainable feeling of unease. He snapped back to reality, and looked around.

Suddenly, Harry stopped dead. He heard a female scream, a squeal of tires,then a flash of blurred lights and metal, and a grinding crunch. Harry blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it of the images that had jumped before his eyes so abrubtly. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was different than normal, but his feeling of unease increased.

Harry remained frozen on the corner, staring around intently. The streetlights were red, and the last few people stepped onto the curb. All around him, people walked by, jostling him in their haste to get where they were going.

Suddenly, from behind Harry, a little girl pulled out of her mother's grip and dashed into the road. Harry's heart began pounding, his breath caught in his throat; he glanced up at the lamps -still red- and then at the road- a car was speeding down the road, its stereos all the way up, windows down.

The little girl was standing stock still in front of it, eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights, and everyone else seemed to be watching, frozen. Someone yelled, but nobody could move. The scene seemed to attract the gazes of everybody who was near enough to see.

Harry did the first thing that came into his head; before he had considered his actions, before he had even registered what he was going to do, he had done it.

He dashed forward, then dived, scooping the little girl up in his arms and rolling, so that Harry was hugging her to his chest, and he landed hard on his back, knocking the breath out of him.

Harry yanked his legs up, closer to him, and the tires sped past, inches from the tips of his toes, right where the little girl had been standing only seconds before.

All around them, cars screeched to a stop, people jumped out of their own vehicles, people ran toward them, shouting in concern. Still hugging the girl to his chest Harry pulled himself up, hushing her quietly. She was sobbing into his shirt, arms around his neck, terrified at the suddeness of what had just happened. Her mother hurried towards Harry, white-faced.

Sniffling, the little girl stopped crying, rubbing her eyes on the back of her hand. Harry gently handed the girl back to her mother, who hugged her daughter tightly.

"You OK?" asked someone behind Harry. Harry spun around to see one of the other by-standers watching him in concern. Harry nodded. The woman smiled at him. "Sure?" she asked, and when Harry nodded again, she grabbed his hand and shook it. "That," she declared, "was the bravest thing I have ever seen, in all my life. You ought to be very proud of yourself. You saved her life, you know."

Harry shrugged, feeling himself turn red. "S'nothing," he muttered. "It's not the first time I've saved someone. Probably won't be the last. Not that big a deal."

But Harry found people shaking his hands and congratulating him for a few minutes; the traffic was stopped on the street, but nobody seemed to mind. Most of the people seemed to be rather in awe of him, which was the last thing he wanted.

Eventually, he managed to slip away, hurrying away down the streets. Harry had felt completely calm right after he had saved the girl, a bit confused and disconnected after that, but right after he slipped back through his bedroom window, he suddenly began trembling badly. His teeth chattered together as his legs gave out and Harry slumped onto the bed. He was hit with the realization that he had been only inches from death. Harry was completely shaken, his calm shattered.

When Harry looked back on it, it almost seemed funny, how complex and devious life was. One person could kill someone easily, but just as easily, one person could save a life, in split seconds. A person could die from a tiny mistake or slip, but they could also be saved by a small accident or lucky break. Life really was a delicate treasure.

The thing that puzzled Harry most was the fact that he had seen the accident before it had happened, or rather, he had seen what would have happened. How had he heard and seen what was to come only seconds later? He searched his brain until it ached, but he still could not find a reasonable answer.

The next few days until Harry would go to Grimmauld Place passed in a startling blur. He found himself sitting on the edge of his packed trunk, in the living room with a mixed feeling of dread and excitement on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Harry was wearing a pair of jeans that actually fit, and a new red long-sleeved T-shirt with gold cuffs, one of the results of the 200 dollar paycheck Stephan had given him. He knew that next summer, he would definitely be working at Noah's Ark.

All of Dudley's old clothes had been thrown out, and Harry had bought a pair of shoes, several pairs of jeans and sweat pants, half a dozen new T-shirts, and three new sweaters the day before.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Harry jumped, and ran to open it. He found himself facing Fred and George, both of which had enormous smiles plastered all over their faces.

"It's our first mission," said George, by way of greeting, marching into the house as he did so. Fred followed him, saying, "So don't mess it up for us, Harry."

"Not that there's much to do," continued George thoughtfully, leading Harry back into the living room.

"We reckon they gave us a bad job," added Fred, pulling a Butterbeer cork from his pocket.

"Oh, but wait, Fred!" George said to his twin. Then he pulled out his wand and pointed it at Harry, who watched him nervously, wondering if they were going to try one of their new products on him. "Lupin told us to do this to you," he added. "Lealhan!" George muttered, and the pain vanished from Harry's body.

It was true that he had been feeling achy, and stiff. Harry had surmised that he had, in fact, broken some ribs, and though some of the smaller bruises had vanished, he still had many darker ones speckling his chest, back, arms, and legs. Harry sincerely hoped that Fred and George didn't know what the spell did, and had only performed it on him because Remus had told them to.

"Touch your trunk and the Portkey, Harry. Activate! Three... two... one..."

Harry felt a familiar jerk behind his navel, then he thought to resist a moment too late. His hand scrabbled wildly, trying to grab onto something else to anchor himself at Privet Drive, but his other hand remained glued to the cork, dragging him to somewhere else. Why was I fooled? he thought miserably. Didn't I learn my lesson from the Tri-Wizard Cup?

Then everything melted into a multi-coloured haze; the wind was howling in his ears, and he landed with a jarring thump in a dark room. While Fred and George managed to stay standing, Harry's legs buckled under him, and he fell.

Heart pounding wildly, he felt someone grab his arm and drag him up. He felt a stab of fear, but then he saw it was Ron. His heart slowed. Not a Death Eater after all. Suddenly, Harry felt ashamed of his moment of panic.

Ron stood back nervously. Harry looked around the darkened room. They had landed in the kitchen. The high ceiling was concealed in shadows, and the fire was the only source of light. Neville, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna were sitting at the table; Luna had her nose buried in the Quibbler, but the others were looking at him like Ron was. Harry took one surly glance around the dingy kitchen, then said, "I hate this place."

Everyone looked relieved; apparently they had been expecting something worse. Then Harry greeted the one person he wanted to talk to just then. "Hi, Neville."

Ron and Hermione looked disappointed and surprised, but Neville stood up and returned the greeting. "Hi, Harry. Here, I'll help you take your trunk upstairs."

He reached down for a corner, but dropped it on his fingers before he had lifted it three inches. Neville jumped back, waving his hands in the air. "No, it's OK, Neville, I got it," Harry said, grinning. He grabbed the trunk by the handle and hefted the end of it. "Come upstairs though, Neville," Harry continued, "I want to talk to you."

So both he and Neville went upstairs, leaving Ron, Hermione, and Ginny sitting at the kitchen table, feeling confused.

Neville lead Harry down the hall, past the shrunken house-elf heads, and into the fifth bedroom on the left.

As he passed, Harry saw that someone had put little bronze name plates on the first five left-hand side doors. All five were engraved in spidery writing that glinted in the dim light coming from the candles on the wall. The first read 'Luna', the second plaque read 'Ginny', the third one said 'Hermione', the fourth one read 'Ron', and the fifth one had two names engraved on it: 'Neville and Harry'.

Harry smiled weakly as Neville pushed open the door. Two beds had been placed in the far corners of the room. The one on the left was obviously Neville's bed, for the blankets were rumpled, and his trunk stood at the foot of the bed, but the one on the right was neatly made, waiting for Harry. The brass bedsteads were still scuffed and dull, but someone (Harry suspected Mrs. Weasley) had made the beds with blankets of Gryffindor red and gold. The single window between the beds also had curtains in Gryffindor colors.

"Home, sweet home," said Neville sarcastically.

Harry grunted as he set his trunk down on the floor. "It's better than Privet Drive," he replied. "Anywhere is better." And then he remembered where he was, and changed his mind.

"Feeling OK?" asked Neville, after a moment of silence. Harry sat on his bed and ruffled his hair absently, staring out the dirty window at the sunny street below.

"I really don't know. Actually, yes, I do. No, I'm don't feel OK. I hate this place, and that's all there is to it."

Neville didn't reply to this, but laid down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, and changed the subject. "You feel like it's your fault, don't you," he said.

Harry felt completely winded and thrown by this statement. Before he could say, 'Yes, it is my fault,' like he wanted to, Neville continued.

"When Professor Dumbledore explained what had happened to my parents to me, right before my first year, I felt like that too. Because I was the one who wasn't insane, because I hadn't even been harmed, I felt like I was to blame." Neville sighed.

"Gran told me I used to be really happy and outgoing before that. She said that I used to get up to all kinds of mischief before I went to Hogwarts, and she said that she had wanted to keep the truth from me even longer. I guess I just lost all my confidence, when I found out that my parents weren't just sick, they were crazy. I started being afraid of everything."

Harry remained silent, having never seen Neville like this before.

"Eventually I got it through my head that it wasn't my fault. I really tried to start doing better, tried to be more confident and a bit more brave, but I couldn't, because that just wasn't in me anymore."

Neville rubbed a hand over his eyes, then said, "In the Department of Mysteries, the one little bit of anger and bravery I had left came out, and it stayed out. Sure, I've been more quiet, but only because I don't really know how to deal with it. Strangest thing is, I've stopped misplacing Trevor. I've stopped losing my books. I haven't lost a single quill or shoe since then. My handwriting got neater, and I actually started to understand some of the more complex spells in my text book."

Neville took a deep breath, and a small smile crept over his face. "Snape came out of the meeting last night, when I was in the hall, looking around, and I stared him in the eye, until he looked away. I stared him down, and I didn't feel the least little bit afraid. Ron and the twins were amazed, but I just kind of did it, well, almost naturally, like I'd never been afraid of him in the first place."

Neville sat up and looked Harry straight in the eye, all traces of a grin gone now.

"You don't ever want to have to re-model yourself completely, like I had to, Harry. You aren't going to blame yourself. You aren't going to close yourself up and become silent. It won't work."

Harry stared at him for a moment, then broke out smiling. "All right then, Neville. I'll try not to let it get to me. Maybe not right at first, but I'll try. Now are you done being all solomn and grim?"

Neville also cracked a grin. "Yup, I'm done. Now you can go and greet Ron and Hermione properly, because you weren't very friendly the first time."

Grinning, the two boys went back downstairs to the basement kitchen. "Hi, Ron, Hermione," Harry said, as he walked through the door. They looked very surprised, clearly wondering why he was so cheerful, but Ginny crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat menacingly. "Hello to you, too, Ginny. I didn't forget you, don't worry." Ginny uncrossed her arms and smiled, satisfied. "And hi, Luna."

Luna did not look up, but a vague, "Vampires are going to be competing in the next Quidditch World Cup," came from behind the upside-down magazine, by way of greeting. Ginny stifled a giggle, and, Hermione, Neville and Harry exchanged silent looks, also fighting back laughter.

"Um, Harry, Neville, could I talk to you upstairs?" asked Ron, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

With another glance at each other, Neville and Harry nodded, and followed him, wondering what Ron was so nervous about. When they were upstairs, Ron motioned them into his room, then closed the door. Turning to them, a panic-stricken expression of his face, he blurted out, in a voice that was much higher than usual, "Hermione'sbirthday isnextweek Iaskedher andIhaven't gotaclue what toget her helpme outhereguys orI'mdead!"

Harry and Neville stared at him. "Ron," said Neville cautiously, "are you feeling OK?"

Ron took big gulps of air, nodding furiously. "Yes, yes, I'm fine- No I'm not! I'm dead! Hermione's birthday is in exactly nine days, and I haven't the faintest clue what do get her!"

Harry almost laughed at the expression on Ron's face; it was equal parts panic, desperation, and pleading. Neville seemed to find Ron's predicament amusing. "So you fancy her do you, Ron?" he asked, grinning wickedly.

Ron nodded more, and gasped, "Come on, help me here, Neville, Harry! I really need to get her something."

Neville put his hands up, and said, "Why are you asking me, Ron? I haven't got the faintest clue about girls. Ask Harry."

Harry stepped back, shaking his head. "What, are you thinking about Cho? That was a complete mess, I haven't got any experience at all, except it's not good to laugh at them when their crying."

Ron sat down on his bed, looking at them in desperation. "Really, try to think, I need to get something for her."

For a moment there was silence, then Harry remembered what Hermione had written to him in her letter. It almost seems like an insult, because it's just so... dark and dirty. "Well, Ron, there is the library..." he said slowly.

Ron looked at him oddly, then said, "Harry, I said help me think of a present for her, not become her!"

Harry shook his head. "Ron, she wrote to me about the library. She thinks it's an insult, like something sacred being defiled. She hates that place, because it's so dirty, but if you got it cleaned for her, maybe she'd like it."

Ron jumped up from the bed, grinning. Neville nodded. "That'll be perfect!" they said at the same time. Both smiled sheepishly, then all three exited the bedroom, thinking.

Ron lead them down the corridor, past all the bedrooms, past a door with a brass plate that read, 'Infirmary,' and to the very end of the hall, where there was just one door facing them. It had a large, tarnished, silver doorknob, and no name plate. It was not a plain door, but a very dusty door, with ornate carving around the edge and in the middle, painted black. Ron grabbed a matching silver key from a hook beside the door, (being the tallest, he was the only one that could reach it) and unlocked the library door.

A rush of dust met them, causing Neville to sneeze. They all grabbed candles from a table beside the door, then walkedcautiously into the dusty, darkened, room.

Harry could see footprints in the thick dust, where people had been recently, but there weren't many. Every time one of them took a step, a stifling cloud of grey, gritty dust rose from the hardwood floor. It seemed that dust was everywhere, covering the bookshelves to the floor, the candle brackets to the high, arched windows. It lay thick upon every page and board in the room, and it was a dry, annoying reminder of exactly how much time had passed since someone had used this library.

They made their way to the back corner of the library, looking around, holding their candles aloft to see into the darker corners. In the farthest corner from the door, they found a fireplace, with an ornately carved marble mantle. The enormous hearth was also pearly white and grey marble, made of one solid, unmarred sheet of stone. A large table stood in front of the fireplace, with several armchairs grouped around it. It was curved in an arc, the smaller side toward the grate. A few stacks of ancient writing supplies were piled on the table.

The library roof was high and vaulted, curving upwards like the roof of a cathedral. The arched windows set high in the walls were so dusty that they let barely any light in, but Harry could see that the were stained glass. The wall was paneled wood about three feet up, then there was a strip of intricate molding, then the rest upward was a sheet of dust. Neville ran his finger across the upper wall, then said, "I think it used to be white."

All the wood in the library was painted black; dull, unappealing black. The House of Black is black, thought Harry.

All three of them looked around the library together before coming back to the fireplace. Neville sank into an armchair, but sprang up immediately as a cloud of dust whooshed out of the cushions.

"So," said Harry, leaning against the table, "I think this'll work."

Ron was fanning the air to clear it of dust, but he nodded, and said, "I think it will, but it looks like a big task."

Neville picked up a bottle of red ink, an old but serviceable quill, and a piece of parchment off the table. "Let's make a list then," he said, sitting down on the floor with his back against the wall. Harry and Ron were listing off ideas the moment he put the quill to the parchment.

"Clean the dust away."

"Wash everything."

"Paint the upper walls."

"Get new armchairs."

"Clean the fireplace."

"Scrape the black paint off everything."

"Wash the windows."

"Restock the shelves."

Neville wrote for a few minutes, then put down the quill and handed the paper to Harry. Neville had added a few ideas of his own. Harry read the list out loud.

1. Draw designs of library (i.e. Walls, windows, shelves, overall layout) so that we can study them and decide on paint colour, theme, etc., outside the library

2. Enlist the help of Ginny and Luna

3. Find a way to get Hermione out of Grimmauld Place

4. Buy supplies (Ask Remus)

-Magic sponges (Self-scrubbing)

-Dusting cloths

-Brooms

-Paint

-Paint brushes and rollers

-Paint remover

5. Use cloths and brooms to clean library

6. Use sponges to wash windows

7. Use sponges with paint remover to get paint off woodwork

8. Paint walls

9. Buy new armchairs/reupholster old armchairs

10. Clean fireplace

11. Organize shelves (Also put previous text books on shelves, as well as some fictional books.)

Harry handed the list back to Neville. "You make it sound so easy," he accused.

"It will be easy," said Neville, "all we have to do is start."

So they did. After five minutes, all three left the library, much dustier than they had been before, Neville holding a drawing and the list in one hand.