Dance With Me Harry

DANCE WITH ME HARRY

By Aerie22

CHAPTER 3

"I'm Not A Dursley"

Dear Ron,

How is it going? I'm safely here on No. 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys are as bad as ever. Dudley is as fat as ever, and my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon still treat me like a slave when they aren't ignoring me.

One good thing is that I'm getting out of the house now. I'm mowing lawns and helping the neighbors with other stuff. It's fun to meet all these nice people I never knew even though they live nearby.

I met this nice girl named Sara. She's older, but very pretty. And she's nice to talk to. She's not a girlfriend or anything. She's got a boyfriend already--his name is Trevor!!! Can you believe it! Beautiful Sara dating Trevor the Toad! Ha Ha Ha! I told her all about you and Hermione. She was very interested.

I've been thinking about you and Hermione a lot. I wonder if you like Hermione. You know, like a girl. I sort of like her like a girl. A lot. I hope you don't mind. I guess if she likes you like a boyfriend, that's okay with me. But I like her, too. I hope you don't get mad. We are best mates and I don't want to make you upset or anything. Let me know how you feel. Okay?

Harry

* * *

Harry sighed. He had thought about what he would say to Ron all afternoon. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing. He didn't want Ron to be mad at him. He would do anything not of jeopardize their friendship. But he couldn't stop thinking about Hermione. And about that kiss she gave him on the platform.

He looked back at the letter. In the area where he mentioned Hermione, the parchment was almost translucent, he'd erased it so often to reword it to make it as honest, but nonthreatening as possible. But he had to tell Ron. He believed Sara was right. He and Ron had been best mates for so long that he had to trust Ron with his feelings. If he couldn't trust his friendship with Ron over something this important to him, then he couldn't trust any friendship. He tied the letter to Hedwig's leg after giving her an owl treat and sent her on her way.

He immediately wondered if he was doing the right thing. He tried to get to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. Almost immediately, he regretted sending the letter. He would continue to worry for a long time.

* * *

"And just what are you doing, young Master Harry," Mr. Nichol said with a smile.

Harry flushed. He had just finished mowing and raking Mr. Nichol's back lawn and was behind the garden shed, doing some of the karate kicks he had studied in the booklet from Dudley's karate school he had sneaked out of his cousin's room earlier in the week.

Dudley had been enrolled in a karate class as soon as the summer began. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hoped that this might be a good way to control Dudley's weight. Dudley was enthusiastic, seeing himself as the next Bruce Lee. But his enthusiasm waned after only three classes, while Harry's only seemed to increase. So he had 'borrowed' Dudley's karate school booklet and started practicing the movements in the booklet whenever he could find a little space and some privacy outside.

Harry found a kind of release from the strenuous movements. He imagined all sorts of scenarios, usually involving Voldemort or his uncle, and occasionally Malfoy, as his victims. He disliked his cousin Dudley, but could no longer find it in himself to imagine beating the fat, forlorn boy.

But now he was embarrassed by being 'caught' at his practice by Mr. Nichol. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nichol. I just finished the lawn and still had a little energy to exercise a little," he stammered.

"Another Bruce Lee, then, are we," Nichol said with a chuckle. "I saw that his film was on the tele a few days ago and braced myself for all the young hooligans in the neighborhood to start karate chopping picket fences up and down the block as a result," he said, shaking his head with a smile.

Harry nodded, still embarrassed. "I saw that film, too."

Nichol's smile softened. "I thought so. I could tell by what you were trying back here. You've got some athletic ability, it seems, but you're doing a lot of it wrong. And I think you you've missed the boat completely on what martial arts are all about."

Harry looked up, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Nichol laughed. "Look, son. You're trying to be Bruce Lee, with all those high kicks and spins. You're copying movie magic moves. But for all your efforts, you're flailing around with no power behind what your doing. And you're trying some fairly difficult and inaccurate moves, rather than the truly strong but simple moves."

Harry stared at Nichol. He was tall, but not overly so, and slim. But he was graying and must be close to sixty. Harry wondered what Nichol knew about karate and kung-fu.

Nichol caught Harry's skeptical expression and chuckled. "Harry, from the time I was eight until I was sixteen, my father was an expediter for Gulf & Pacific Shipping in Hong Kong. We lived up in the hills, but my father's job was down by the docks. And, believe me, it's a lot rougher down by the docks than up in the hills."

"So you know about this stuff?" Harry asked shyly.

Nichol smiled. "When you're an adventurous kid like I was, you tended to stray into areas where you shouldn't. And I got bloodied up a few times as a result, before my father sent me to train in self-defense. He knew people who knew what was what, and I ended up being trained by a true master, not one of these local boys with just enough money to afford a few robes and a sign above their studios. If you really want to learn karate, I can give you a little guidance."

And true to his word, Nichol sat down and explained, and then wrote out, an exercise program to develop strength, agility, speed and stamina. But when Harry asked about what kind of moves he should be trying, Nichol shook his head. "Sorry, Harry. First, you have to master your body and discipline your mind. Work on these exercises and your running and, in a few weeks, I'll give you some pointers on moves," he said chuckling. "That's your first lesson. Patience."

Nichol leaned back on the lawn chair and put his hands behind his neck. "You know, when the time comes to show you how to move, I can show you a few things, but I'm not as young as I used to be. But I've got a nephew who lives not far from here who has been training at a real dojo for years. He's a couple years older than you, but I bet you'd get on well together. Why don't I ring him up and the two of you can get together over a couple sodas down at Langans fountain tonight. His girl is out of town and I bet he'd enjoy the company."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think I can. My aunt and uncle don't want me out at night," she said in a rush.

Nichol smiled. "Don't worry about that. I'll just ring up Vernon and tell him to let you out for one night. Hey, it's Friday. I've seen you working all week around the neighborhood, even in the rain. It's about time you got out and enjoyed yourself a little," he said, smiling.

Harry didn't know what to say. He began to panic. "But...but...I can't," he said pleadingly.

Nichol gave Harry a concerned look. "Why not. Don't be shy, boy. Peter's a lot of fun. And you must be making a fortune, with all the work you're doing around here. It's about time you got out and spent some of it," he said with a grin that covered his concern at Harry's sudden panic.

"But...I have to help chip in to my aunt and uncle...I don't have..." he stammered.

Nichol's brow clouded. "They make you pay some of your earnings to the house. Well, I suppose that helps encourage a sense of responsibility. How much to they take?"

Harry was turning red in anger and embarrassment, his head down.

Nichol frowned. "Harry. How much do they make you turn over?"

"All of it," he whispered.

Nichol leaned back in shock. "What!?! All the work you've been doing and you haven't go a cent to show for it!?!"

Harry shook his head sadly, now close to despair.

"Are they putting the money away for you? No allowance? Nothing? They can't be taking everything."

Harry shook his head. "They're taking it all. All of it," he said, his face burning in shame.

Nichol was on his feet, outraged. "But why? Why do you even bother if you get nothing for all your toil?"

"Because I like the people I work for," he muttered in a barely audible tone.

"You don't even hold anything back. You don't give them everything, do you!?!" Nichol shouted.

Harry was shocked by Nichol's tone and the suggestion that he lie. He jumped up, panic and anger showing on his face. "I'm not a liar! I'm not a cheat! Not even to them! And they can't turn me into one," he yelled, his a crimson mask of humiliation and outrage. "I'm a Potter!!!" he screamed. "I'm not a Dursley!!! I'm a Potter!!!"

He suddenly turned and ran from the Nichol back yard without even collecting his payment.

John Nichol sunk back down into his lawn chair, horrified and furious.

* * *

Nichol was still furious, and Merelie was near tears, when they arrived at the pub that night. They quickly located the Downeys and sat down with sullen looks.

"Well, someone throw a spanner into the works down at the docks, John. You look like a general strike as just been called," Pat said with a speculative grin.

John shook his head angrily. "That would be a blessing. At least I'd know how to handle that."

Evvie looked back and forth between John and Merelie and her faced paled. "Oh, no. You're not sick, are you? John? Merelie? Are the kids okay?"

John shook his head. "We're all fine. It's that young Potter boy that's got me upset," he said.

"Young Harry?" Pat said in shock. "What did he do? He seems like such a good kid."

John raised his eyes, startled. "Oh, no. It's not what he's done. It's what the Dursleys are doing to him."

Evvie gasped. "What?" she asked, fearing the worst.

John was now working up to a full outrage. "That f...that bloody aunt and uncle of his are taking every penny he earns for themselves. All his bloody work and sweat are going right into fat Dursley's pocket, the son of a bitch!"

Steve and Penny Robinson, who were at the next table, turned to stare at Nichol, whose had raised his voice.

Penny reached over to John. "Are you talking about the Potter boy? The one who mows our lawn?"

Nichol nodded curtly. "All that work and nothing to show for it."

Penny gasped. "They're sending him out to work and taking everything? They can't be that hard up for money, can they?" she said with a surprised look.

Clem and Denise Ashwell, who had heard the commotion, came over. "What's all this?" Clem asked.

John felt like getting up and announcing it to the whole pub. "That fat bastard Dursley is stealing every penny young Potter has been earning these past couple weeks. I knew he didn't have any friends in the neighborhood, so I tried to set him up with my nephew Peter. But he said he couldn't go. He didn't have a penny to spend. That fat son of a bitch," Nichol fumed.

Two tables down, Jeanne Seabury, the new president of the Garden Club Harry's Aunt Petunia belonged to, heard the whole conversation. She knew Petunia all too well and hated the snooping, back-biting bitch. Jeanne's sense of outrage gave way to an evil glint in her eye. 'Oh, Petunia. We've got you now,' she thought.

* * *

Petunia Dursley was dusting the living room with the tele blaring in the background just to keep her company. It was Saturday, and Vernon was out buying various and sundry items for the house after dropping off Dudley at his karate class despite the boy's protestations that they were boring. And her misbegotten nephew Harry was out mowing lawns and doubtless gathering up every spot of dirt he could find to track into the house. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Petunia went to the door and was shocked to find Jeanne Seabury, Angela Mathers and Deanna Crone, the board members from her garden club. They were all smiling and each was carrying what looked like casserole dishes.

"Petunia, darrrling," Jeanne said with exaggerated friendliness. "Please let us in. We are here for you in your hour of need."

Petunia gawped a couple times, but stepped aside to let her 'friends,' all of whom she despised, in. "Whaa...? Ahem, to what do I owe this lovely visit," she said in confusion.

Her visitors had gone to the kitchen to drop off their gifts. Jeanne returned and grasped Petunia's shoulders, giving her an air kiss. "Oh, Petunia. We're so worried about you."

Angela and Deanna looked at Petunia with sympathetic eyes that barely concealed the venom behind them.

"I...I don't understand," Petunia said with a crooked smile.

Her three visitors took seats in the living room. "Petunia, dear," Deanna said soothingly. "We know that times can be difficult every once in a while. And we know how strong and proud you are. But you should have come to us."

Petunia was thoroughly confused. "But...I don't know what you're talking about."

Angela chimed in. "Oh, brave, brave Petunia. We understand. But don't worry. It will be just be between us girls. Now tell us. How bad is it? Is Vernon still working? Has the business suffered setbacks. You can tell us."

Petunia was beginning to panic. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

Jeanne now took the floor. "I think it is so noble of your young nephew to go out each day and work so hard to pitch in and help you out of your financial straits. We heard that he gives you every penny he makes to help you make ends meet. And I've already sent out messages to all the members of the garden club to pass an emergency resolution to waive your club dues until you're back on your feet. And don't worry about the dishes we brought. I'm sure those casseroles will feed you for at least a week. You can return the dishes when you can."

A look of absolute horror crossed Petunia's face. "What are you talking about!" she shrieked. "What financial straits?! What...?!!"

"Oh, I'm sorry dear. We didn't mean to upset you. It's just that young Harry let slip that he was giving you every penny he earned. So naturally we assumed..." Angela said, leaving the pregnant point hang in the air.

"That filthy little...." Petunia was on her feet screaming. "Get out!!! Get out all of you!!! And take your bloody casseroles with you!!!"

Jeanne, Angela and Deanna rose as one. "Well," Jeanne said in a huff. "We're only trying to help!" she announced, her nose stuck high in the air. "Ladies?"

And the three marched into the kitchen to retrieve their baking and marched, nearly lock step, out the door.

Petunia was beside herself. Just wait until that worthless spawn of the devil comes home, she thought as she burst into tears.

* * *

Vernon Dursley had dropped the complaining Dudley off at his karate classes and was now making the rounds of the local shops. He had already stopped at the butchers, purchasing a roast and some chops, and picked up a loaf of his beloved date-nut bread at Tannen's Bakery down the block. After depositing his items in a cooler in the boot of his company car, he drove toward Dudley's karate school.

As he parked, he noticed the liquor shop and decided it would be good time to stock up the home bar. As he was waiting to pay for his purchases, he heard a familiar, and long-dreaded, voice.

"Well, if it ain't fat little Vernon Dursley."

Vernon turned to meet the stare of Steve Robinson, the man who, as a school boy at Smeltings, had been a rugby player who terrorized any student he thought was dishonest or a sneak. And Vernon Dursley was his favorite target.

Vernon's eyes got large as he remembered his worst days at Smeltings. "Now...see here, Robinson, you can't go talking to a man like that..." he stammered.

Robinson, who was as wide as Vernon but muscular, and nearly a head taller, walked up to within inches of Dursley and looked down into his eyes, just like he did at Smeltings. "No I can't, you fat little shyte. But I see no man here. Instead, I see a fat little sneak who is buying his gin and bitters with money I paid his nephew for his work and his sweat."

Vernon Dursley nearly wet himself in fear. "What...?"

"You heard me, you little turd. I heard all about it. About you stealing young Potter's hard-earned money. Just like when you were back at Smeltings, when you and your little crowd would extort money from younger, weaker kids to pay for your sweets. But little did I think you'd do it to your own flesh and blood. What's next you fat bugger. Selling your son to the white slavers?'

"I...I..." Vernon stammered.

Suddenly, Penny Robinson grabbed her husband and pulled him away, giving Vernon a venomous look. "No use getting in trouble over scum like that," she hissed and led Steve out of the store.

Vernon felt a warm trickle down his leg. He had wet himself after all.

* * *

It had been a lovely Saturday for Harry. He had mowed three lawns a had a wonderful roast beef sandwich at the Steins for lunch. And as he passed by the Geddes' place, Sara came out and waved him to stop. They had a friendly chat. He reassured her that he was feeling much better about himself since talking to her two days before but confided his worries over his letter to Ron. She told him she expected to see him at the church youth dance in another week and that she would introduce him to several of the young people from the neighborhood, including a couple girls his age who, she hinted, might be pretty enough for his tastes.

So Harry was in a good mood. Which is why he didn't expect the punch from Vernon Dursley as he walked in the back door.

"You sodding whelp," Vernon screamed as Harry hit the floor from a solid blow to the midsection. "That'll teach you to talk about our private business to strangers."

Vernon grabbed him by the collar and dragged Harry, who was bent into a fetal position and gasping for breath, past a hysterically crying Petunia. "Little bastard," she kept screaming.

Vernon continued to drag Harry's body down the hallway until he came to the cupboard underneath the stairs. Vernon opened the cupboard and slammed Harry inside so hard that Harry's forehead hit the wall, opening up a cut above his left eye. "If I had a gun, I'd shoot you like a rabid dog, you little bastard," Vernon screamed. Harry mercifully passed out.

* * *

Rev. Strowbridge was a little put out that he didn't see Harry at services on Sunday. He always kept an eye out for his special people, like Jenna Cartwright, the young teen mother who was struggling to cope with single parenthood at such a young age, and little Paulie Charnoff, who Strowbridge helped to kick a drug habit. But Strowbridge knew that not every troubled young person he helped would be a regular at services. He was just happy that so many were there over the years.

But Strowbridge became a little more concerned on Monday and Tuesday, when his little network of Harry watchers reported that Harry wasn't showing up to work around the neighborhood, as promised. Harry hadn't been very communicative during their little chat, but Strowbridge thought that this might be a sign of shyness, rather than a truly troubled youth. Plus, the people in the neighborhood all seemed to think of Harry as punctual, courteous and hard-working, looking at him as something of a neighborhood mascot rather than a teenager prone to trouble.

What concerned him even more was his cursory investigations, along with Clem Ashwell's, into Harry's background and school. Strowbridge had made a couple telephone calls to friends and, within a day, received an unexpected visit from a cleric from the Archbishop's staff. He was politely but firmly told not to pursue inquiries about Hogwarts, but instructed to call a private number in the Archbishop's office immediately, before anything else unless Harry's life was at stake, should anything untoward happen to Harry.

Clem Ashwell received the same warning and request from an 'official' from the Department of Education and Skills. "He was no more DES than I am the Queen," Clem said. "More like MI-5 or Scotland Yard, if you ask me."

In both cases, the officials swore that Harry was not under any kind of suspicion or cloud, but was being protected from harm. Strowbridge was extremely curious, but agreed to follow his instructions. But now Harry was among the missing and Strowbridge was determined to check on the disappearance.

* * *

It was Wednseday and Petunia was depressed. Harry was still locked in the cupboard. Vernon left specific instructions not to let him out under any circumstances. Petunia only let him out once on Monday afternoon when Harry, in a weak voice, threatened to pee out the vent on to her carpets unless he was allowed to go to the bathroom.

But Petunia was worried. She hated the boy as much as Vernon did, but she worried that he might die on them and then they would be a in a world of trouble. Vernon had mentioned possibly driving the boy to some remote location hundreds of miles away and abandoning him, then reporting his as a runaway, but Petunia didn't know if that would work. So she was unprepared when the doorbell rang. She decided pretend no one was home until she saw Rev. Strowbridge peek through the blinds and notice her sitting there.

She rose and went to the door. "Ah, Petunia Dursley," Strowbridge said with a smile. "I've come to see about my little friend and your nephew, Harry Potter. I had heard he was ill and I came to see if there was anything I could do."

Petunia was going to stand in the doorway to block him, but Strowbridge, with years of experience in such moves, swept by her without blinking an eye. "Where is young Harry, anyway?"

Petunia stood, opened-mouthed and terrified. "He's...he's run away. We don't know where he is."

Strowbridge, who had already sat down in the living room, looked up at Petunia with concern. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a nice boy. Did you notify the authorities?"

Petunia's eyes darted around as she tried to think what to say. Strowbridge, seeing this, narrowed his eyes. Suddenly he knew. But he hoped against the worst.

"Uhhh...he hasn't been gone all that long..." she said in a rush. "I don't know...he's just our nephew...Are we allowed to file a report?" she said, near tears.

Strowbridge rose, a notebook in his hands. "Petunia, are you sure you don't know where Harry is?" he said in a firm tone.

Petunia was in a full-blown panic. "No...of course not. He always was unreliable...I'm sure he'll turn up...Look, I'm very busy...."

Strowbridge was striding past her now. "Where's his room. Maybe there are clues there."

"Ah...upstairs..." she stammered.

Strowbridge walked down the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. He was shocked at the contrast between the two boys' rooms. Dudley's was overflowing with clothes, gadgets, toys and magazines. Harry's, on the other hand, was nearly bare, with only a few old clothes, neatly kept but tattered, in his closet.

Strowbridge turned and almost ran in to Petunia. "Mrs. Dursley. Where is Harry?" he said firmly.

Petunia's eyes were now tearing up. "I don't know...You have no right..."

But Strowbridge ignored her and began to search throughout the house. As he went down the stairs, Harry woke up from his daze.

* * *

Where am I?

Oh, the cupboard.

It's dark. And my head hurts. And I feel sick to my stomach. But nothing comes up. My throat hurts.

Where am I?

Oh, yes.

He hit me. He hit me in the stomach. Then why does my head hurt?

I've got to get out. But I don't have the energy to move.

My wand. I can unlock the cupboard and get out.

Accio wand.

Nothing.

Maybe it can't hear me.

My head still hurts.

Mum. Dad. You helped rescue me from Voldemort. Please come and get me now. Please?

Nothing.

I know they loved me. I knew all along and now I know for sure. My dad died defending me. And my mum gave her life so I could live.

For their sacrifice, they now get to see their son die in the cupboard under the stairs.

Alohamora!

Nothing. I need my wand.

Why does my head hurt so much?

Professor Dumbledore, why am I here?

So I can lead a normal life. So that I will be away from all those who would flatter and pamper and spoil me. So I can die in the cupboard under the stairs.

Where are you now, Professor Dumbledore?

Hermione?

If only you were here. I know you would make it all better. Just having you near makes it all worth while. Just one of your hugs will make the pain go away. You're the only one I can count on, no matter what.

Is that you?

Moving around in here is so painful. But I have to get to you, Hermione. I know it's you out there. If I could only get to the loose slat in the cupboard door.

My fingers aren't working right. There, that's the one. Now, push it up so you can see. I know it's Hermione. She's come to make it better. Push up the slat.

No! My fingers! The slat fell. Now they'll hear and come and send Hermione away and she won't come and take care of me.

The cupboard door opened and Harry fell out.

He looked up.

"Hermione?" he croaked out.

Then everything went black.

* * *

Just after Strowbridge passed the cupboard under the stairs, he heard the click of the louver slat falling back into place and quickly turned around. He saw the cupboard and, to Petunia's horror, opened it. Harry tumbled out. He looked up groggily. "Hermione?" was all he managed to croak out. Petunia screamed and fainted.

* * *

Strowbridge had carried Harry out and into his car. As he promised, his first cell call was to the archbishop's office as he sped toward a local clinic. The person in the archbishop's office advised Strowbridge to stay with Harry and that someone would be there with a couple hours to take over. And the person on the other end of the line, when advised of the circumstances, told Strowbridge not to call child services until the archbishop's representative arrived and could be consulted.

The doctor at the clinic was adamant about writing up a child abuse report, but advised Strowbridge that Harry's only serious medical problems were a mild concussion and dehydration. Strowbridge was relieved that it was a hurt but breathing Harry that had found, not the body he had expected.

When he entered the corner of the unit were the boy was being treated, Harry managed to raise his head. "Thanks, Reverend. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused."

Strowbridge was shocked to hear Harry say that. But then, he always was. He shook his head and took Harry's hand and sighed. More than half of the abused children he had seen in his time as a priest had been quick to apologize for the trouble. It never ceased to amaze, or sadden him.

"Harry, it's not your fault," he said soothingly. "What happened?"

Harry looked up at Strowbridge. "I don't know," he said weakly.

Strowbridge nodded. "Don't worry. It will come back to you. The sooner, the better."

Harry looked up at Strowbridge with a tired and puzzled expression. "I remember what happened," he said hoarsely. "I just don't know why."

Strowbridge returned Harry's puzzled look. "What did happen?"

The nurse came in briefly to give Harry another small cup of fluid and to check the intravenous tubes hooked to Harry's arms.

When she left, Harry looked up at Strowbridge. "I don't know why...I had a nice day on Saturday...mowed lawns for the Steins, Jacobys and Tuttles...talked to Sara...Sara Geddes...she's pretty," Harry said and gave a hoarse cough. "Then came home. Uncle Vernon hit me in the stomach as soon as I came in the door. Threw me in the cupboard. Woke up there. What day is it?"

Strowbridge was choking back tears. "It's Wednesday, Harry," he whispered.

Harry closed his eyes in sorrow and anger. "I'm not going back. Never going back..."

"You won't have to, son," Strowbridge said, grasping Harry's hand firmly in reassurance.

"Don't care what Dumbledore says. Never going back," Harry said quietly as he leaned back and closed his eyes.

* * *

It was getting on toward three in the afternoon when a strange procession walked into the clinic. On one side was a tall and burly cleric. On the other was a tall and burly man in a black suit and sunglasses. And in the middle was an elderly man with long white hair and a long white beard, wearing a green checkered three-piece suit, a floral ascot and work boots.

The man in the dark sunglasses showed his identity card to the receptionist. "Harry Potter," he said in a flat voice. The receptionist waved them back to one of the doors to the emergency units.

Harry was sitting up now, looking more alive. His throat was still sore, but his head had stopped throbbing and he was no longer nauseous or dizzy. He was chatting with Strowbridge and disappointed that he wouldn't he able to attend the parish youth dance when the three mysterious figures entered.

Strowbridge blinked. "Seth?"

The cleric nodded. "How are you doing, Tony?" he asked with a sad smile.

Harry's eyes were wide. "Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a sad smile. "Harry. I'm so sorry. I never knew things were so bad or I would never have sent you back here."

Harry nodded, his eyes filling. "Oh...professor...just when I was beginning to enjoy the mug...the neighborhood, they did this to me," he said, tears running down his face.

Strowbridge looked up sharply at Dumbledore. "You sent him back to those people?" he said in an angry voice.

For the first time, Harry saw Dumbledore looked shamed. "I never knew it was this bad. They were his only relatives and I thought it was the only place he would be safe."

Strowbridge was now angry. "Instead, they almost killed him," he said contemptuously.

Suddenly, Seth grabbed Strowbridge's arm and pulled him away. "Tony, we've got to talk."

Strowbridge gave Dumbledore one last angry look and turned to follow Rev. Seth Plessy, the Archbishop's representative on magical affairs.

* * *

When they were alone, Seth sat Strowbridge down. "Tony, what do you know about this boy...Harry?"

Tony was still angry. "I know that he's one of the nicest teenagers I've ever met, but those who do know him well didn't bother to check to see if he was well cared for, or if he lived or died."

Seth gave Tony a placating look. "Believe me, there's an awful lot of people who care about Harry. Including the old man out there. They just didn't expect this."

Strowbridge rubbed his hand across his face, trying to calm himself and relieve some of the tension he was feeling. "I wish I know what in heaven's name was going on. You say people care about him, but all I see is an abused and battered boy who's done nothing but work hard and be pleasant to everyone who's come in contact with him. A couple of my people told me they were worried about him. So I set up a warning signal to watch out for him. Sixteen people in the neighborhood volunteered to try to keep track of him. Sixteen! And when he started to fail to show up for little jobs he'd promised to do for them, I started getting calls left and right from people, not to complain about him, but because they were out of their minds with worry for him. Who is this boy, anyway?"

Seth looked at Tony intently. "Tony. What do you know about Harry? About his abilities? About Hogwarts?"

Strowbridge looked up with a start. "What abilities?"

Seth stirred uncomfortably. "What do you know about Hogwarts?" he asked quietly.

Strowbridge shrugged. "It's the school Harry goes to. Some sort of agricultural trade school, from what he told me. I couldn't find it in any educational registries I looked in. I get the impression its up north, maybe Scotland. Why?"

Seth looked down and thought for a long time. Finally, he looked up at Strowbridge. "Tony. We go back a long time. I know you are one of the most honorable people I've ever met, in or out of the Church. So I don't ask this lightly. Can I trust you not to breathe a word of this to anyone?"

Strowbridge was taken aback. "Seth. You know me better than that. Of course you can trust me."

"Even if what I tell you sounds crazy? Or I sound like a loon?"

Strowbridge gave him a wan smile. "I remember you back in the seminary. I can't imagine anything you could tell me that would surprise me."

Seth took a deep breath. "Harry's a wizard. Not a metaphorical one. A real one. Like witches and wizards. Hocus-pocus. Magic. Except it's no slight of hand. He's the real thing."

Strowbridge stared. "What?"

Seth sighed. "There's a whole community of people out there. A whole civilization of magical people out there. They live side-by-side with us. But they have special powers. And they stay underground, apart from the rest of us. And Harry's one of them. And one of the most important, from what I understand."

Strowbridge shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. How could there be a whole community that none of us know about?"

Seth shrugged. "There's all sorts of ways they do it. The school Harry goes to, Hogwarts. It's an old abandoned ruin of a castle away from any of the main thoroughfares in the middle of an impenetrable forest up in Scotland. It's owned by the National Trust and completely off limits to the general public. Or, at least, that's what everybody thinks. And that's what everybody sees when they fly over. But it's some sort of magical shielding. It's actually a beautiful, fully functioning school in the most beautiful castle in the Isles. I know. I've been there. It's a school...a sort of wizarding university where they learn about magic and about how to keep a low profile."

Strowbridge's head was spinning. "But...how many of them are out there?"

Seth shrugged. "No one seems to know. I've seen estimates ranging anywhere from 100,000 to 750,000 in the U.K. alone."

"How can that be?"

Seth bent forward, his elbows on his knees. "I don't know how they do it. There's supposed to be a community of about 8,000 living right in the heart of London in some place called Diagon...Diagon Alley. I'm not sure exactly where, because they have all this magical shielding. It probably looks like some abandoned railway line or some unexploded bomb area because that's the way they want it to appear to us...Muggles."

Strowbridge blinked. "Muggles?"

Seth nodded, a small smile forming. "That's what they call us, the nonmagical community."

Strowbridge shook his head. "If this is such a deep dark secret, why are you telling me?"

Seth's smile disappeared. "Because there's a war going on among the wizards. And Harry is in the middle of it."

"What?!"

Seth nodded. "There's some sort of wizarding Hitler out there, trying to take over. And it's spilled over into the nonmagical world a couple times. There was a big one about fourteen years ago, where some thirteen people were killed by a wizard. The authorities let on that it was a gas main explosion, but it was a wizard's spell that killed those poor people."

"But what does Harry have to do with all this?" Strowbridge asked pleadingly.

Seth tried to figure the best way to answer this. "Well, it seems that this wizarding Hitler killed Harry's parents when he was an infant and then tried to kill Harry. But somehow, Harry had some sort of special magic that turned the killing stroke around and nearly killed the tyrant. So he's become something of a symbol to the wizarding world to resist this Hitler. That's why he has so many people looking out for him. This dark wizard, Voldemort is his name, has risen again, according to some, including the boy, who says he witnessed this rise. And now he is trying to come after Harry again. He wants either to kill or capture him to demoralize the wizarding world and allow him to unleash some sort of reign of terror. And there are people at 10 Downing Street who are aware of what is going on and are worried. That's why MI-5 is here. You know, Mr. Sunglasses out there. That's Sean Donovan, one of the few people in the government who know more about the wizarding world than I do."

Strowbridge was quiet a long time. Finally, he looked up at Seth. "So I ask you again. If this is such a deep, dark secret, why are you telling me?"

It was Seth's turn to be quiet for a long time. "Because Harry isn't safe in the wizarding world right now. The only place he's safe at the moment is in Little Whinging. And probably, the only place he'll be safe now is with you and Mae at the vicarage."