Dance With Me Harry

DANCE WITH ME HARRY

By Aerie22

CHAPTER 1

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Harry slammed into the marble headstone.

He didn't need to look behind him to know what it read.

TOM RIDDLE

Harry looked to his right. Cedric Diggory lay stunned next to him, the wand, which Cedric had drawn moments before, lying just out of his reach.

Suddenly, the mists rising from the cemetery roiled. A gaunt, hooded figure drifted toward the two prone figures.

Harry felt a cold wave of terror as he looked into the hood. All that could be seen were two glaring red eyes, staring down at him.

"Harry, so pleasant of you to join us, at last," said a cold voice from within the hood. "We have gone through much trouble to arrange your appearance. I hope you will enjoy our little chat."

Harry felt is insides freeze. Wave after wave of panic seized him. But he could not move.

"I see you have brought a friend," Voldemort intoned.

Harry, paralyzed by fear, tried to speak but when his mouth moved, nothing came out.

"Harry, I am afraid we set a place for only one, as that was all the invitation called for," Voldemort continued. "I am afraid that one of you will have to go."

Harry grasped at rational thought. He had to get away, but no plans, no ideas came. All he knew was he had to get away, to run away, to hide.

The hooded spectre leaned closer as the mist swirled around its form. "So Harry, who will it be, you or Cedric?"

Harry's mouth was opening and closing soundlessly. He struggled to move. His eyes darted back and forth seeking escape.

"Harry, we do not have all night. Who is it going to be? You, or Cedric?"

Harry felt like he was being swallowed up by blackness. Got to get out, he thought. Got to run.

"HARRY!" Voldemort cried with a cold humor in his now booming voice. "You, or Cedric?!"

Harry felt the terror welling up from deep within his soul. Suddenly the terror was rising through his body, reaching his throat.

"KILL THE SPARE!" Harry screamed.

A green flash split the mist, lighting the night and casting shadows against the grave markers.

And Cedric was no more.

Harry turned in horror to see the open, lifeless eyes of his competitor, his companion, his friend. The magnitude of the scene caused him to seize up.

Suddenly, he seemed to regain the use of his arms and legs. Grabbing the side of the grave stone, he leaped to his feet and turned to run.

But as he looked up to find a route to escape, he found his path blocked. There was Hermione, looking stunned and sobbing. And Ron, with a look of cold fury directed at him. And between them, an angry Cho, tears of fury running down her cheeks.

Cho stood directly in his path, feet set firmly to block his escape. Her eyes narrowed in righteous fury.

"It WAS you!" she said through gritted teeth. "I knew it was you all along. You killed Cedric!"

* * *

Harry sat bolt upright in the bed, one hand reaching for his glasses, the other for his scar. His brow was soaked in perspiration, his body rigid in tension. But the scar did not pain him beyond the stress of the dream. He took several heaving breaths before any rational thought would return.

A dream, he thought. Only a terrible nightmare.

Harry shook his head to regain his composure before looking around to get his bearings.

He was at Number 4 Privet Drive.

Slowly, it came back to him. Less than 24 hours ago, he had left Hogwarts. Less than 24 hours ago, he'd given Fred and George Weasley his thousand-galleon prize from the Triwizard Tournament. Less than 24 hours ago, he had bid Ron a fond farewell. And less than 24 hours ago, Hermione had kissed him on Platform 9 3/4.

Harry's breathing had returned to normal, but he still was shaken by the dream. He turned to the battered alarm clock that had served Dudley through two years of tantrums and now was enjoying a second life in Harry's bedroom, minus the clear plastic face cover and the internal light to let the sleepless know the time of night in the dark. He could just make out in the false dawn coming through his window that it was 5:18 in the morning.

He lay there debating. He could roll over and try to sleep another hour or so, but he knew that this would be useless. Finally, he climbed out of bed and wearily began going through the motions of living a life at Number 4 Privet Drive.

* * *

"Come on, boy, you should have had that done already," Harry's Uncle Vernon grumped from behind the morning paper.

Harry shifted uncomfortably over the stove, rolling the sausages to make sure they were evenly cooked before putting the eggs on. Aunt Petunia was busily toasting more bread for Dudley, who was lavishing spoons of strawberry jam on the toast before him and grumbling about how he'd reached the bottom of the jar.

Harry noticed how his aunt and uncle kept giving him surreptitious glances throughout the morning, as if to discover he'd grown some new appendage since last summer's end. Dudley, however, was being Dudley, supremely unconcerned with anything except his own immediate interests and appetites and, except for jostling Harry out of the way on his journey to the breakfast table earlier, paid Harry no mind.

Finishing the cooking, Harry distributed the breakfast evenly, only to have Dudley spear his sausages before Harry had a chance to return to the table.

"Hey," Harry cried.

"Oh be quiet," Aunt Petunia said harshly. "You're too small to need more than what you've got on your plate."

Harry sank down in his chair in a sulk. He looked venomously at Dudley, who was muttering about the end of the jam. Harry picked at his egg and a slice of dry toast sullenly. When he arrived home, he had noticed that he was now taller than Dudley, but that, where he had grown taller in the past ten months, his cousin had seemed to have grown wider.

He looked up to catch his uncle peering sourly at him over the morning paper. Uncle Vernon hrmphed and tossed the paper aside, rising from the table.

"Well, now, it's off to work," his uncle said. "There's money to be made out there." Uncle Vernon gave Petunia a quick peck on the cheek and squeezed Dudley's shoulder. Dudley failed to register the act as he was still busy attacking the sausage and eggs.

Then uncle Vernon paused to look directly at Harry. "I'll be wanting no funny business out of you this summer. Do you understand me, boy?"

"Yes," Harry said sullenly.

"Yes, what?" Vernon barked, causing Petunia to jump and Dudley to pause momentarily, a forkful of eggs halfway from the plate to his mouth.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said quietly through clenched teeth.

"That's better," Vernon said and, grabbing his suit coat, strode out the front door.

Harry quickly finished his meager rations, hoping to get away from the table before his aunt came up with a list of chores. But he was too late.

"We are out of jam and are down to a few crusts of bread," Petunia said. "Harry, you will go down to the grocers today and pick up what we need. I will make a list. And make sure you get a receipt. I will not have you stealing the change."

Harry looked at his aunt angrily. "But it's a good four miles to the grocers. Can't this wait until uncle Vernon comes home with the car tonight?"

"You ungrateful, lazy good-for-nothing!" she yelled. "Don't give me any of your lip. You will pick up those groceries. And you better be quick about it if you're expecting any lunch."

Harry got up from the table and mumbled that he would be in his room when she had her shopping list ready.

* * *

Fortunately, it was a beautiful late June day. Harry had sulked about the errand but, in the end, was secretly pleased to be out of the house. He figured that it would take him a little more than an hour each way if he hurried, but today wasn't a day for hurrying. He had to admit that, while he may hate living at Number 4 Privet Drive, the neighborhood was very pleasant and a long walk on this sunny June day had driven thoughts of his nightmare away.

As he turned the first corner on his way to the grocers, he noticed a stocky, balding man in the front yard of one of the houses wrestling with what appeared to be the box spring of a very large bed. The man was struggling and appeared to overbalance, the box spring threatening to tumble right on top of him.

Harry raced down the sidewalk and, with a graceful leap, hurtled the low white picket fence in front of the house. He got there time to grab a corner of the rebellious box spring mattress to keep it from toppling on the man.

"Thanks, mate," the man gasped. "Thought I could handle it. Not as young as I used to be."

Harry smiled at the man and nodded his acknowledgement. He looked to be in his early 60s, with a beefy face. As he eased the box spring down on the steps leading up to the front porch, Harry could see that the man must have been strong, an athlete perhaps, in his youth, but that age was beginning to tell.

The man held out his hand. "Patrick Downey," he said, flashing a smile. "Pat will do. And who might my savior be?"

Harry grinned modestly. "I'm Harry Potter, sir."

"Oh, boy. No need to call me 'sir.' Not had me audience with the Queen yet. And who might Harry Potter be when he's at home?" Downey said grinning.

"I'm the Vernon and Petunia Dursley's nephew. I live over at Number 4 Privet Drive around the corner," Harry said brightly.

Harry saw Downey's face cloud momentarily, then brighten again. "Well, then, Harry Potter of Number 4 Privet Drive, can you lend a man a hand? I think I can make it worth your time."

Harry blushed a little. "I'd be happy to help you, sir. And just being able to help is enough for me."

"Very well," Downey said. "You take the front end and I'll guide you, and I'll take the back end. You know, they wanted twenty quid to deliver this. Now I know why," he said with a smile.

Wedging the front door open, the two managed to wrestle the box spring into the house and up the stairs to the master bedroom. As they were manhandling the top mattress up the stairs, they heard a woman's voice.

"Pat, what on earth are you doing?"

"Up here, Evvie, darlin'," Downey called down as Harry was pulling the mattress onto the landing.

"Patrick Downey, are you trying to break your neck or give yourself an attack?" the exasperated woman called out.

As Downey made it to the landing and Harry began to maneuver the mattress into the master bedroom to join its mate, Downey called down the stairs again. "Not to worry, mum. I've got a strong young fellow here doing most of the work." He peered around the mattress and winked at Harry with a grin.

Harry chuckled at the conspiratorial look on the man's face.

With the bed in place, Downey led Harry down the stairs into the kitchen. Downey walked up to a pleasantly plump, graying woman of medium height with a concerned smile.

"Pat, you should know better than to haul around heavy things like that at your age. You're not on the docks any more," the woman said, crossing her arms with a mock frown on her face.

"Yes, mum," Downey said contritely.

Mrs. Downey then turned with a warm smile to Harry. "And who might this handsome young man be?"

Harry blushed again. "Ah...Harry Potter, mam," he said shyly.

"He's the Dursley's nephew, from around the block," Downey said. "And Harry, this is my bride of some 35 years, Evvie."

"Oh, hush," Evvie said, smiling in reproof. She turned back to Harry questioningly. "I haven't seen you around the neighborhood, have I. I know I've seen that Dursley boy around with his pack of ... friends," she said archly.

Harry frowned. "Well...I've been away at school since September," he said uncomfortably. His mind was now churning. How could he talk about Hogwarts to Muggles, he thought furiously. Especially to nice people like the Downeys. They might take his evasions as rudeness.

"What school is that, Harry," Downey said mildly.

Harry was beginning to panic. He had made no plans about how he would describe Hogwarts to people in the Muggle world. "Well...err...its up in the North," he said evasively. "It's sort of a special school."

Evelyn Downey looked carefully at the shy young boy shifting uncomfortably in front of her. She had heard the neighborhood rumors and gossip about the boy who lived with the Dursleys. Some said he had been a delinquent who would be sent away periodically. Some had said he was retarded. But this boy didn't look or act like a delinquent. Perhaps he might be a little slow, she thought, but he didn't seem to show signs of real mental deficiencies. Maybe it was a special school for slow students and he was embarrassed about it.

"Well," she said, firmly cutting off the topic of conversation. "I'll bet you are glad to be on holiday now that the summer's here."

Harry smiled shyly again. "Well, I guess. Although I do miss my friends from school already."

Downey started chuckling. "I'll bet there's one in particular that you miss."

Harry's blush now heightened as he thought about Hermione's kiss the day before. A small smile crept to the corners of his mouth.

"I thought so," Downey said with a note of triumph on his face.

"Oh, Pat. leave the poor boy alone," Evvie said, smiling knowingly.

Downey turned to Harry, assessing him carefully. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five pound note out of his billfold. "Here you go, Harry. It's not much, considering all the work you did, put I'd be obliged if you take it."

Harry stepped back and put his hand up. "Oh, no, sir. I helped you because you looked like you could use an extra hand. Like a good neighbor should," he said firmly, looking a little taken aback. "I could never take anything just for being a good neighbor."

Downey's gesture died in mid air and he looked more intently at Harry. "But surely, boy, you could use a little money to buy that girl of yours a little present, or take her out on a date?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Well, sir, she lives on the other side of London and I don't know when I'll be seeing her again," Harry said quietly. "Maybe I'll get the chance to visit friends in August and she'll be there," he said, brightening a little. Then his face fell.

"What's wrong, Harry. Does she have another boyfriend?" Downey said softly.

Harry shuffled shyly, looking down and not noticing how closely the two Downeys were watching him. He gave an inward sigh and realized that maybe he could talk to these people, to work out his feelings, as they would never meet Hermione and Ron.

"Well, she's my best friend...and my other best friend, Ron, likes her too...We're all best friends and I don't want to hurt our friendship together," he said haltingly. "But..."

"But...?" Evvie asked quietly.

"But...ahh...as we were leaving the train station...she...she kissed me," he said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Well, there you are." Evvie said, smiling. "She must like you." Then she looked at Harry and Downey with surprise, and playfully hit Downey on the arm. "Patrick Downey, where are your manners. And where are mine. I swear you are a bad influence on me. It's almost lunch. Harry, you must stay for lunch and I'll make sandwiches. We have what's left of a roast in the refrigerator. Come, Harry, sit down."

Harry looked up, startled. "But...but...I have to get to the grocers and back. My aunt will have a fit."

Evvie looked startled at Harry. "You mean the one off Windemere Square? Why that's miles away."

"Yes, mum," Harry said with a look of resignation.

"Nonsense, Harry," said Downey. "You have lunch and then I'll drive you to the grocers and back. I have to pick up a few things there myself."

Harry gave a small smile. "If it's not too much trouble, okay."

"Well, that's settled," Evvie said. "Let's get you boys fed."

* * *

Harry hadn't realized how hungry he was until he got his first taste of the sandwich Evvie made for him. He ate with such relish that she made him eat another, despite his feeble protests. During lunch, the three chatted about a variety of things. Harry learned that Pat had started out as a dock worker, but, through schooling and native intelligence, he had worked his way up to a high management position for a shipping company. The Downeys had lived on Maisley Drive around the corner from Privet Drive for nearly thirty years, and yet Harry had met never them. But mostly, thanks to Harry's prompting, Pat and Evvie talked about their four sons.

Pat and Evvie's sons had all left home and three of them were now married. The couple had four grandchildren with a fifth on the way. After finishing lunch, Evvie had taken Harry to the living room to look at a seemingly endless number of photos, which Harry didn't seem to mind at all, sighing wistfully at what it might have been like to grow up with a crew of lively and loving brothers. In some ways, he thought, this could be a Muggle version of the Weasleys.

And like the Weasleys, the Downey's house seemed to have an endless supply of rooms that were added on almost haphazardly as the Downey sons had grown. The couple acknowledged that the house was too large for just the two of them, "But it's now so much a part of our lives, so rich with our memories, that I wouldn't think of moving," Evvie said with a sigh.

By the time Pat had taken Harry to the grocers and returned him to Privet Drive, it was nearly two o'clock. Before dropping him off, Pat turned to Harry. "You know, son. I'm retired now and Evvie is always after me to take it easy. But we like to keep the place up. It would be worth a couple fivers if you could come by once a week or so to mow the lawn. And I might have some other jobs around the house and yard for a strong young man like yourself, if you're so inclined."

Harry's eyes widened. He had really enjoyed being around the Downeys and would love working around their beautiful home. And maybe have lunch with them on occasion. "I would love that, Mr. Downey," he said enthusiastically. But then his smile faded. "But I'll have to check with my aunt and uncle. They usually like me to stay in and do chores." But a little bubble of hope rose in his expression. "But I'll ask them if I can. I'd really love to work for you, sir."

Downey smiled. "You do that son. And I bet there's a lot of people around the neighborhood who would like a hand, here and there. We'll look forward to seeing you soon."

* * *

After a great deal of yelling and accusation, Aunt Petunia accepted Harry's explanation for being so late from the grocers. She carefully perused the receipt and counted out the change Harry returned as if each penny was a jewel before she was satisfied he hadn't stolen anything. Then she sent him out to the garden to do some weeding.

That night, he broached the subject of working for people in the neighborhood. Aunt Petunia gabbled on for a few moments about his duty being to work around the house before working for some strangers, but uncle Vernon, with a rustling of his newspaper, simply muttered something about how it was about time that the young whelp started to contribute for his upkeep, and the matter was settled. Harry was free to do chores for the neighbors.

* * *

The Friday-night atmosphere in the pub was warm and intimate, but smoky, like the thoughts of Pat and Evvie Downey. The two were happy to have Harry come and do odd jobs for them. And he attacked each job with a vigor, even a joy, that they found surprising in a teenager. They had recommended him to several of their friends in the neighborhood, who had agreed to let Harry mow lawns or paint fences or do other chores that wouldn't get done otherwise.

But this morning, when Harry had shown up to do some painting, he had a tired, almost haunted look on his face. He worked as hard as ever, painting their garden shed and doing a meticulous job on the trim. But his smile was forlorn, and he turned down Evvie's offer for a second sandwich. When pressed, all he had mentioned was about having a bad dream and not getting enough sleep. And he was again evasive about his school.

Finally, the Downey's closest friends and neighbors, John and Merelie Nichol, arrived. John was a trim, silver-haired 60-year-old who had been a senior manager for the same shipping firm that Pat had worked. He had worked all over the world before settling into a directorship in London some 10 years ago. He was now semi-retired, going to the office once or twice a week to pour oil on whatever troubled waters had developed in his absence.

Merelie was a petite, vivacious woman who had been a blonde for so many years that friends were shocked a couple years before when, on John's retirement, she her gray hair grow out. "One less thing to worry about," she had said with a tinkling laugh.

The Downeys loved John's tales of the exotic and Merelie's lively sense of adventure, and the Nichols appreciated Pat's gruff honesty and intelligence and Evvie's earthy humor.

But tonight, as the Nichols arrived at the table with their pints, John noticed the Downey's subdued moods.

"What's wrong, Pat," John asked with concern. "That's not the face of the happy pensioner."

Pat swirled the porter in his glass. Without preface, Pat spoke: "What do you think of that Potter boy I sent to you for yard work."

John looked at Pat quizzically. "Well, the boy's the hardest working teenager I ever saw. And a bright lad. I've a good mind to send him down to the docks to see what he could do," he said with a chuckle.

Pat continued to stare into his glass for a long moment. "You know, at first, I thought maybe some of the rumors might be true, that he might be slow, or even a delinquent," Pat said without looking up. "But I've worked with delinquents down at the docks all my life and he doesn't seem the type. And I agree. He is not slow. He's bright as any kid his age I've ever encountered. But there's something about the kid that makes me wonder."

John and Merelie looked at each other and shrugged. "He seemed very nice, but awfully shy," Merelie offered. "I gave him some lunch and caught myself chattering on to him. You know, silly things about the kids and traveling and such. When I realized what I was doing, I looked at him closely, expecting him to be bored to tears. But her was looking at me like he never heard such wonderful conversation in his life."

The two couples paused, pondering Harry. "You know, he does talk about his friends. His girlfriend...what's her name...Hermione, and his best friend Ron and Ron's sister and the practical joker twins," said Evvie. "But he doesn't talk about the school except to say he likes it. And the surest way to shut him up is to ask about the Dursleys."

The Nichols looked pensive. "I think it's some sort of trade school," John said quietly. "I think he may be a little shamed that he's not going to a proper public school or the local comprehensive, especially given how bright he seems."

Pat looked up and gave Paul, the bartender, a wave for two more porters. Then resumed looking thoughtful. Then he looked up directly into John's eyes. "It's not for me to speak ill of someone when I don't know the facts..." and then he paused as Paul brought the pints over.

When Paul left, Pat resumed. "What I was saying is that, well...do you think they beat him?"

"Beat him?" Merelie said in shock.

"Aye," Pat said. "He has the look."

The four were silent for a long time. Finally, John spoke up. "Look, Vernon Dursley is a boor, and an obnoxious one, at that, but that doesn't make him a child abuser."

But Merelie put her arm on her husband. "Tell me, Pat. What did you see?"

Pat sighed and took a sip of his drink. "Look, when I was a wee one, I had a mate named Frankie. He was a good one to have around, but he never took us home with him. He never talked about his folks. And he would get the same haunted look I saw on Harry today. Then, one day Frankie didn't show up at school. After two or three days, my mates and me went to see him. But there was no one there and a copper chased us off the property. Said there was a kid killed in the house and the place was off-limits. It was Frankie. His pa beat him to death in a drunken row. I heard a story that he was sticking up for his mum, and his pa clubbed him with a spanner. It's been a long time since I thought of poor Frankie," Pat let out a long sigh. "But I saw him clear as day when I looked into Harry's eyes this morning."

Merelie suddenly shivered. "You don't think...?"

Evvie, who was gripping her husband's arm tightly, shook her head. "We don't know. That's why we needed to talk tonight. We don't know what to do."

John lowered his head with a frown. "Could it be drugs, d'ya think?"

Pat shook his head. "I don't think so. There was no signs that I could see. And remember, I worked the docks. I've seen it all, from reefers in the warehouses to guys OD'ing on the hard stuff who had to go direct to detox to the PCPers who thought they were God and tried to take dives off the gantry cranes. This look was coming from something Harry was forced to go through, not something he took to get high."

Merelie looked truly alarmed now. John raised his head and began to examine the pub patrons. "Is Atlee here?"

Merelie looked startled. "You mean Clement Ashwell? Don't call him 'Atlee.' You know he hates that."

John spotted Ashwell in the back, kibitzing a game of snooker while his wife socialized with several women at a nearby table. "Clem!" John called out, and waved the man over.

A tall, gangly man with sandy brown hair and a buttoned down shirt ambled over. He reached out his hand to John and smiled warmly. They shook hands and John grabbed a nearby chair. "Sit down, Clem. We've got some important ministry business to discuss."

Clem laughed. "John, has Merelie been beating you again," he said chuckling. Then he turned to the Downeys. "Or is it you, Evvie. Hasn't Pat been supporting you?"

Chuckles ran their course around the table, before Pat's face took on a more serious mien. "Clem, do you know Harry Potter?"

Ashwell looked at Pat thoughtfully. "No, I can't say that I do. Is he from the neighborhood?"

Pat nodded. "He lives with the Dursleys. Over on Privet Drive. He's their nephew."

Ashwell made a sour face. "Nasty business, those Dursleys. Particularly the wife. That dried up old prune is always coming down to the office to complain about something or other she claims she's seen or heard in the neighborhood. Why?"

Pat looked uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke. "Clem, you work in the social services down in town, right? And you're tight with the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children?"

Ashwell's features turned dead serious. "And you think someone's been abusing this Potter boy? The Dursleys?"

Pat put his head down and spoke quietly. "Look, Clem. I don't know anything for sure. I haven't seen anything specific or heard anything from the boy. But he's been helping do chores around the house. He's bright and energetic and hardworking all week. Then he comes in this morning like the walking dead, deep rings under his eyes, a real haunted look. He worked hard all morning but, by the time he was done he looked like he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry himself to sleep."

Clem was nodding thoughtfully. "How old is this Potter boy?"

"About fourteen," said Merelie.

"He'll be fifteen in another month," Evvie added.

"No drugs? That's about the age they start."

"No, I doubt that," Pat said. "I took a close look at him this morning when I saw how poorly he was looking. No signs I could see. No dilated pupils...that sort of thing...Plus, he seems to leave the Dursleys to come directly to work in the neighborhood, then disappears back into the Dursley house and never comes out."

Ashwell continued to nodded, listening intently. "What does he do for fun? He may go out after supper to run with his friends."

Evvie spoke up. "I asked him about that. He told me he wasn't allowed out after dark. That he had too many chores around the house. I asked him about what he does for fun. He said he reads. Or studies. And writes to his friends when he gets the chance." She took a deep breath. "And I asked him what he liked to watch on the tele. He said he wasn't allowed to watch, then caught himself, and said that there was nothing on the tele as good as a good book."

The other four at the table turned to stare. "He said that? That he wasn't allowed to watch the tele?" Pat asked in amazement. "What do they do, lock him in the basement?"

Evvie, with a look of sorrow, lowered her head and shrugged.

Ashwell now showed a look of real concern. "Look, the government can't act without a complaint or some evidence of abuse. Did you see any signs of violence? Any bruises? Anything like that?"

"Well, he does have an ugly scar on his forehead," Merelie said.

"He said he got that as an infant in the car crash that killed his parents," Pat said. "Although he seemed to be a little...I don't know...a little evasive about that. To tell the truth, he seems fairly open, if a little shy, about a lot of things, but absolutely closed mouth about the Dursleys."

Merelie chuckled mirthlessly. "Yes, I inadvertently called Petunia Dursley a witch over something he said over lunch, something about her pampering the son and making Harry do all the chores. And Harry quickly said no, she most assuredly was not a witch. He made the oddest face when he said that."

Ashwell continue to ponder. "Like I said, there's nothing official I can do at this point. It isn't even my department. But maybe I can nose around to see what I can find out. Maybe I can get him alone and talk with him."

Pat shrugged. "There's no difficulty in that, mate. Just ring him up and ask him to mow your lawn. He's damn eager to work. Says he enjoys it. I almost believe it, too. I guess he likes the money, too. He's made twenty off me this week. He helped me move some bedding and wouldn't take anything for that, but I gave him ten for the lawn and ten for painting our garden shed. And I couldn't get that quality of work for less than a hundred if I hired someone professional to do it."

John was staring at Pat, open mouthed. "Oh, God. I only gave him a fiver for mowing my lawn. He didn't mention a price beforehand and I assumed he fiver would do. He seemed genuinely grateful to get it, too. But I bet he thinks I'm the real tightfisted one."

Pat looked at John and had the first real laugh he'd had all night. "Once a boss, always a boss, living off the sweat of the working class." But his smile rapidly faded.

He turned back to Ashwell. "Look, let him do the work and then offer to give him lunch. I swear, he eats like he's never seen food before. Not that he doesn't have nice table manners, mind you. But it's like he savors every mouthful, like they don't...feed...him."

Suddenly, everyone at the table turned to look wide-eyed at everyone else.

"No wonder he's so thin, the poor thing," Merelie said, suddenly tearing up.

"Oh, God," said Evvie.

John and Pat looked furious.

"Give me his number," Ashwell said firmly. "I'll ring him up first thing in the morning for work. And I'll have a talk with him over lunch."

* * *

Harry was absolutely furious.

The day had gotten off to a horrible start. Another nightmare. This time, he was in the criminal docket at the Ministry of Magic. He was being tried for Cedric's murder before jury of all his friends. And Cedric's ghost appeared to testify that Harry had lured him to the cemetery and murdered him with an unforgivable curse. His friends all rose and turned their backs on him as the dementor entered the room to administer the kiss.

He had hoped that helping Mr. Downey paint his garden shed would help him forget the nightmare. But the sanding and scraping didn't provide any real outlet for his emotions. He only began to regain some semblance of control when the actual painting started, particularly doing the detailing work around the trim.

But he didn't have much of an appetite for lunch, and didn't feel much like talking. He felt bad for not being a better guest to as nice a couple as the Downeys and hoped that they didn't think he had left too abruptly afterward.

But the final straw was tonight at dinner. He'd worked for different neighbors all week. Mr. Downey was true to his word in telling friends that Harry was reliable and hardworking. He had enjoyed listening to Mr. and Mrs. Nichol describe her families adventures in places like Hong Kong, Jakarta and Amsterdam after mowing the lawn. Old Mrs. Beaupres was pleasant enough, if a little hard of hearing. He felt bad for Mrs. Calhoun, who complained that her husband always seemed to be too busy or too tired for yard work--or anything else for that matter, as she cryptically put it. And he appreciated all he learned from Mr. Corbin about carpentry as he helped him rebuild the back porch.

And was excited that he had earned forty-two pounds, the most Muggle money he'd ever had in his life. Surely, it was a pittance next to the fortune in his vault at Gringotts. But this was money he had earned by the sweat of his brow and he was proud of it. Proud enough, and foolish enough, to mention it to his uncle Vernon.

"Good," Vernon said with a sneer. "That will just about cover our expenses for having you live here this week."

Without batting an eye, Vernon took it from Harry. All forty-two pounds. Harry had complained, yelled, but Vernon threatened to take the cricket bat to his backside like he did when Harry was very young. So Harry stormed up to his room.

He had sulked for nearly two hours when he heard Dudley raising a row. He snuck down the stairs to see what the commotion was about.

"But it's Bruce Lee! I want to see Bruce Lee on the big tele, not that crappy little one in my room!" Dudley screamed.

Harry shook his head. That crappy little tele in Dudley's room was a top-of-the-line model only slightly smaller than the one in the living room.

Vernon tossed aside his magazine in disgust. "Oh, all right. If that will make you happy, watch the damn show."

Dudley jumped up and turned the set on. In his excitement, he began to make karate chop motions in the air and leveling low karate kicks that strained the seams on his overstuffed trousers. Harry could just see the screen over aunt Petunia's head from his perch on the stairs. He shrugged and was going to return to his room when he saw the opening credits, showing a panoramic view of Hong Kong. He remembered Mr. Nichol talking about being raised in Hong Kong while his father had worked there for a shipping company just after the war. Slowly, without thinking, he lowered himself to sit on the stairs and began to watch.

It was a stupid Muggle movie called Enter the Dragon, but Harry was mesmerized. He had never seen anyone move with the grace and power, or explode in furious movement, of this Bruce Lee. He could understand Dudley's fascination with the film. And he could feel the emotion welling up in himself. He began imagining himself leaping elegantly into the air and doing twisting roundhouse kicks, mostly aimed at his uncle's midsection. Dudley also figured strongly in some of his revenge fantasies. And he silently laughed at a scene where Bruce Lee tossed venomous snakes into a control booth at the fortress in the movie, imagining himself doing the same into aunt Petunia's kitchen after carefully instructing the snakes in Parseltongue beforehand.

As the film ended, Harry scrambled up to his bedroom and satisfied himself imagining new and creative ways to use kung-fu on his hated relatives.

* * *

Harry was pleased but not surprised when the Dursleys' telephone rang early the next morning, asking for him. A Mr. Clement Ashwell of Queen Anne Road wanted him to mow the lawn on Mr. Downey's and Mr. Nichol's recommendation. Harry explained that he had another lawn-mowing job at 9:00 for a Miss Embry, who the Downeys referred to as a respectable maiden lady, but that he would be able to be there at about 11:00. That would fill the gap in time before he got to the Steins on Cherry Lane in the afternoon. Harry smiled. He might even get lunch out of it. That way, he wouldn't have to buy his own lunch, as the Dursleys made it clear that if he was too busy to come along on their day trip to the lake, he would not be allowed back into the house until they returned that evening.

The first job only took him about an hour, so he took some extra time to sharpen the blades on the ancient Miss Embry's almost-as-ancient mower just the way Mr. Downey had taught him. Finally, he made his way to Queen Anne Road.

Mr. Ashwell met him at the door of a modest but very pleasant two-story frame house and showed him the mower and the scope of the job, promising him a tenner. Ashwell told Harry he normally mowed the lawn but that he and his wife were expecting the vicar for lunch and that Harry was invited as well.

When Harry mowed lawns, he found it relaxing just to follow the lines of the lawn as exactly as possible, without thinking of anything else. But he was a little nonplussed about lunch with the vicar. Reverend Strowbridge, on the few occasions the Dursleys attended services, seemed to be a warm, pleasant man. But he was the vicar, and Harry felt uncomfortable about lunching with him. He began to feel guilty about the infrequency of the Dursley's visits to services. And he also felt guilty about how few times he visited the chapel at Hogwarts. And he would hardly be presentable after all the work he had done that morning.

However, when he was done with the lawn, Mr. Ashwell came out and practically dragged him up to the house for lunch.

* * *

The Reverend Anthony Strowbridge, an affable, balding middle-aged man of medium height with a slight paunch, was not resplendent in his vestments. He had even left his collar at the vicarage. As Harry entered the kitchen, he was sitting back in a kitchen chair in a sport shirt and khaki pants, smiling at Denise Ashwell, who was recounting her travails during a recent dental appointment

Clem Ashwell ushered Harry in and presented him to Strowbridge, who smiled fondly at Harry.

"Pleased to meet you, Reverend Strowbridge," Harry said formally.

Strowbridge laughed. "Please, I'm not the Archbishop of Canterbury...at least not yet. In my spare time, which isn't as plentiful as I would like, I'm just Tony."

Harry shuffled uncomfortably, but gave a tentative smile.

Ashwell guided Harry to a small side bathroom to wash up. When he was through, he returned to find his place set at the small but comfortable table, which was laden with ham sandwiches and a variety of salads.

As Mrs. Ashwell began distributing the food, Strowbridge turned to Harry. "I understand that you are Vernon and Petunia Dursleys' nephew and that you live with them over at Privet Drive."

"Yes, sir," Harry said warily.

Strowbridge smiled as he watched Harry closely. "Tell me, Harry," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "What can I do to get them to attend services more regularly?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably and shrugged.

"So how long have you been living with the Dursleys, Harry?" Strowbridge asked.

"Since I was a little past one year old, after my parents died," Harry said, picking over his salad with a guarded look on his face.

"Really," Strowbridge said, his eyebrows arched. "I haven't seen you around much. I like to get to know members of my flock, but you seem to be one who has escaped my attention. I'm glad we finally got the chance to meet," he said with a warm smile.

Harry, who had taken a tentative bite of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully. He was worried that the reverend might start asking him about Hogwarts and he still wasn't prepared to answer them convincingly. He let the silence lengthen. Finally, Strowbridge broke the silence.

"I understand you go away to school. Is it a public school?"

Harry winced internally. "Well...no. I mean...well, yes, sort of. It's sort of a special school. They don't teach regular subjects."

"Like a vocational school?" Ashwell asked.

"Sort of..." Harry answered.

"What sort of subjects do you study?" Strowbridge asked quietly.

Harry thought frantically. "Well...stuff like...herbology...you know, plants and stuff. And caring for animals...And po...ah...like herbal remedies and stuff."

"New age stuff," Ashwell muttered quietly.

"So you are training to be a farmer?" Strowbridge said with a smile.

Harry shrugged again. "I guess."

Strowbridge leaned toward Harry. "What's the name of this school?"

Harry, not knowing what else to say, blurted out "Hogwarts."

Ashwell and Strowbridge chuckled. "An appropriate name for a school teaching animal husbandry, I suppose," Strowbridge said.

"It's the name of a flower," Harry said. "But it's misspelled. It's spelled H-O-G-W-A-R-T-S, not -W-O-R-T-S like the flower. My best friend Ron's two older brothers like to joke that Hogwarts is an institution of fine learning, if you don't need to know how to spell," he said with a quiet chuckle at the double pun.

Strowbridge and the Ashwells smiled. Harry chuckled inwardly that they wouldn't get the reference to being able to 'spell.'

"And does it look after your spiritual needs?" Strowbridge asked with an expectant smile.

Harry nodded, chewing on a bite of sandwich that he no longer could taste. Swallowing his food, he spoke. "Yes, it has a chapel.

"Who leads the services?"

Harry figured this was a safe enough question. "Reverend Micah Meacham, sir."

Strowbridge leaned back, his eyebrows arching again. "Interesting. There was a Reverend Micah Meacham who was martyred up in Scotland while defending his flock during the Civil War. Very interesting to be named for such an obscure, but valiant man."

The four resumed their lunch. After several minutes, Strowbridge again turned to Harry. "How do you like the Dursleys, Harry?" he asked quietly.

Harry shrugged. "They're OK, I guess."

"But pretty strict?"

Again, Harry shrugged. "A little," he said noncommittally.

"Do you have your own room?" Strowbridge asked.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"I always see young Dudley larking about with his friends," Strowbridge continued. "Why don't I see you running around, getting into mischief."

Harry wasn't sure how to answer this. "I...I guess I've got chores and stuff."

"Harry, do you have friends in the neighborhood," Strowbridge continued.

Harry once again shrugged. "I guess. Mr. and Mrs. Downey are nice. And I like to listen to the stories Mr. and Mrs. Nichol tell. They're nice."

"I mean friends your own age, Harry," Strowbridge said softly.

"Not really," Harry said equally softly. "All my friends are from school and they all live all over the place. None of them live near here."

"It must be pretty lonely, with no one of your own age to talk to all summer long. Why don't you come out to play or just hang around with the other kids in the area?" Strowbridge prodded.

Harry shifted in his seat, wondering how soon he could politely leave. "Well, I've got all these people I promised to do work for and I when I'm not doing that, I've got chores at home and stuff, and I have to study for the next term. Plus, I write my friends from school all the time," he said, mentally kicking himself for not writing Ron and Hermione yet.

"Harry, what do you do for fun?" Strowbridge asked.

Harry was at a loss. "Well I like sports at school, and there's all sorts of things to do there, and we can go into town one weekend a month, and we love practical jokes, especially with my best friend Ron's twin brothers who are real jokesters, and..."

"No, Harry. I mean here in Little Whinging."

Harry pondered. "Well, I like to meet new people, like the people I mow lawns for and stuff...and I got to see a real good movie on the tele last night," he said desperately.

"Harry," Strowbridge said intently. "Do you get into mischief much?"

Harry turned to Strowbridge, wide-eyed. "Oh, no, sir," he said vehemently.

Strowbridge suddenly laughed. "Sure you do. All boys your age like to get into a little mischief now and then. I daresay I did when I was your age. What are you, fourteen, fifteen?"

"I'll be fifteen on July 31," Harry said.

"So surely you get into trouble now and again. Things that your aunt and uncle wouldn't approve of."

Harry thought quickly how to answer this question. "Well, I overcooked the bacon for breakfast yesterday. They didn't like that."

Strowbridge and Ashwell gave Harry a quizzical look. "So you cook breakfast for the family? Is that one of your chores?"

"I guess," Harry said.

"What are your other chores?" Strowbridge asked.

"I don't know. All sorts of things. Mow the lawn, weed the garden, do the wash and wash the dishes, scrub the floors, all sorts of stuff," he said with a frown. "My uncle wants me to paint the house this summer."

Ashwell was beginning to get an angry look, but Strowbridge checked him with a glance. "What happens when you don't do your chores?"

Harry looked puzzled. "I do my chores," he said firmly.

"Well, what happens when you do them poorly, or do them wrong?" Strowbridge asked.

Harry grimaced. "My aunt or uncle get mad and yell...but I am careful and that doesn't really happen," he said with a sudden rush.

"Do you like living with the Dursleys," Strowbridge asked softly.

Harry shrugged. "They're all right, I guess." Then he made a show of looking at the clock. "Oh, I promised the Steins I would be there as early as possible, and it's almost 1:30. I'm sorry, but I have to get going."

Harry rose and thanked Denise Ashwell and then Clem Ashwell. He then turned to Strowbridge to shake hands. The reverend held tightly onto Harry's hand and looked him directly in the eyes. "Listen, Harry. If anything ever happens, or you need someone to talk to, you come to the vicarage and ask for me directly. No matter what time of day or night."

"Yes, sir," Harry said and started to pull away. But Strowbridge held his hand.

"One other thing, Harry," he said. "The parish sponsors dances for people your age twice a month. The next one is the Friday after next, starting at 7:00. I'll expect to see you there. And you can tell your aunt and uncle that."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. Strowbridge let go of the handshake and Harry left rather more quickly than would have been usual.

Strowbridge turned to the Ashwells. "What do you think?"

Clem Ashwell had a clouded look. "I don't know if they are beating him, but he is being mistreated, abused in one way or another."

Strowbridge nodded, a very serious look on his face. "Talk to the people in the neighborhood you trust. I want as many people as possible keeping an eye on that boy. If anything out of the ordinary happens, let me know. I may go pay a visit to the Dursley home to get a look myself. But I want to be careful. I don't what to precipitate a crisis. He's too vulnerable and right now there's little social services or the NSPCC can do legally without direct evidence of abuse or a statement by the boy. And I think he's either too scared to say anything or too naive to know there's help available."

Strowbridge started to rise, but settled back again in thought. "Your boys are, what, eight and ten?"

Ashwell nodded. "Sean will be eight this month, and David turned ten in March."

"That's too young," Strowbridge said. "There's got to be some neighborhood children his age that we can match him up with, to be his friend and sounding board. Think about it, will you Clem, Denise. We'll talk again soon."

With that, the self-appointed head of the newly formed Muggle Society to Protect Harry Potter rose and took his leave.

* * *