Harry Potter and the Book of Clow

The story you are about to read is my interpretation of what Book Six will be, crossed over in part with the Card Captor Sakura anime series. In doing the crossover, I have placed priority on the Harry Potter universe - in other words, if some part of Card Captor Sakura did not initially fit with the Potterverse, it was re-formed to do so.

If you are asking why I am doing such a thing in the first place... well, I "cannot take responsibility for the whole", as it were. The idea of crossing over Harry and CCS was first coined by Victoria-Hughes, an excellent author in her own right, and one that you should read if you get the chance. When I read her take on the idea, though, my imagination was fired. I had read this just recently after reading Book Five, and after gaining a somewhat renewed interest in CCS as well. I found myself considering how I would have written it - what I could do, how I would relate the characters - and I also found that the world of CCS needed less mangling than I had thought it would need to fit properly into the Harry Potter universe; in fact, some ideas suggested themselves. This was nearly a year ago - however, in the ensuing year the idea has never entirely left my consiousness, and I often come back to it when I am particularly bored. I have finally decided to commit the story to digital paper, in part to simply fulfill the urgings of my brain. It is what it is... I ask you not to judge it by the stigmatism attached to "new year" stories or crossovers, but to allow it to stand or fall on its own merits.

To Harry Potter fans unfamiliar with Card Captor Sakura: as I have said, do not worry. I have crossed the two over with a heavy bias toward Harry's world; this work should fit to canon without incident, as I have made every endeavor to do so. Indeed, it is not a "universes collide" sort of crossover: the characters of CCS are living in Harry's world already, and are aware of it to varying degrees. If you are completely unfamiliar with the characters of CCS, do not worry - they will be sufficiently established within the story so that all you will need is perhaps a little knowledge of the previous Potter books. Simply enjoy the new characters and items contained within the following chapters for what I hope they shall contribute. Bon apetit.

To fans of Card Captor Sakura (Potter fans may skip this if they wish): while I have shown a bias towards the facts of the Potterverse, I have endeavored to keep the characters themselves as intact as possible. Sakura is still Sakura, Kero is still Kero, and Shaoran is still Shaoran. (Incidentally, I am going for "Shaoran" as his name in this particular work; while the Katakana of his name romanticizes directly to "Syaoran", it looks a bit odd in English, and Shaoran should be easier for everyone to look at and pronounce.) The cards will still be captured, and indeed The Clow factors very heavily into the story, in case you didn't notice the title. I have, however, had to sacrifice two main characters completely to get this story to work: Meiling and Tomoyo (AKA Madison for you U.S. Cardcaptors fans). I tried to work them into the story, but several factors were working heavily against them. First off, neither one is qualified to be at Hogwarts. Tomoyo has no command of magical power, and Meiling is also extremely weak magically (indeed, in the Potterverse, Meiling is by definition a Squib.) Short of completely reworking both characters to have powers, I could not properly put them anywhere near Hogwarts. Even if I did, however, I became worried about cast size. The story still focuses primarily on Harry and his friends; while Sakura and Shaoran will figure in prominently to the story (Sakura especially), with the addition of Sakura and Shaoran the primary cast is brought to five. I was afraid that the narrative would suffer under the strain of any additional protagonists, and therefore, Meiling and Tomoyo were put on the chopping block.

Beyond that, however, I have remained true to the heart of Card Captor Sakura: a girl discovering powers she never knew she had. As with the Potter fans, enjoy this as a re-imagining of what CCS could have been like; you will find more in common with the original than you think. (And if nothing else, many of you should be familiar with Tsubasa: Resivoir Chronicle. I suspect most of you are by now used to Sakura and Shaoran being mangled beyond all recognition.)

I of course welcome feedback on my work; it is impossible for an author to improve if he is not given constructive criticism. I do ask that criticism remain just that: constructive. You may flame if you wish, but it will accomplish little and waste the bandwidth FictionPark.org has so graciously provided (and given especially how often the server returns a "too busy" message, I think we'd all be grateful). If you see a problem emerging or think I've stepped out of line, however, please feel free to tell me so. I have made my email public in my profile; if you wish to go beyond a simple review, feel free to do so.

You will note that I have rated this story as R. This is because the Second War of the Snake shall bloom into its full, awful glory within this story, and I do not intend to have my Voldemort pull his punches. Indeed, the story's very first chapter has an unsettling event within it. If you are faint of heart or prone to nightmares, consider yourself warned; there are scenes within the story that will disturb you.

I shall close as I began: I have written this story for the amusement of us all as we await Harry Potter's true author to finish her work. Allow the story to stand upon its own merits; do not judge it on its heritage alone.

I wish you all a very happy journey to Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts, as I have envisioned it. Enjoy.

- Andrew Adderdice, Thursday, June 10th, 2004

Privet Drive, a street in Little Whinging, County Surrey, was as well maintained, trimmed, manicured, watered, painted and wholly normalized as it ever was on a particular early July evening, when a young man of 15 looked out his window in the smallest bedroom of 4 Privet Drive. His jet-black hair sat untidily on his head, his green, almond-shaped eyes looked weary, and the scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt, was prominent. This boy was, of course, Harry Potter, the most famous wizard of his age. He had survived an assault from the wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort nearly 15 years ago, when his mother sacrificed her own life to save his; and how, he had proven that Voldemort had managed to drag himself back from near-death and was once again plotting a conquest of Britain. In the eyes of honest wizards everywhere, he was a hero.

Harry Potter stood at his window, looked out onto Privet Drive, and sighed. None of them knew. None of them truly understood.

His sigh was twofold; it was primarily directed at the Muggles (non-magical people) he was observing from his window. A few days after he had returned from his fifth year at the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, the major news networks had carried the story of the Muggle Prime Minister warning the populace that MI6, the Crown's intelligence agency, had discovered "non-specific terrorist threats" directed at the main British isle, originating for Northern Ireland. Harry recognized it for what it was, of course; a veiled warning that Voldemort was active again, and the establishment of a cover story for when he would strike. Harry could only shake his head at this; disgruntled Sinn Fein supporters were like flies next to the awesome horror he knew Voldemort could and would unleash. But the Ministry of Magic could not reveal what was really going on; to defeat Voldemort by revealing the secret of the wizards at last would win the battle but lose the longest war of all. So the Muggles remained blissfully ignorant of the death that was stalking their streets; Harry could not help but wonder at their cluelessness. In his mind, the state of one's grass was of small consequence when the entire country was facing conquest or worse at the hands of the most dangerous Dark Wizard in a century...

The sigh was also directed somewhat in the opposite direction, toward the wizarding community. He had to grant now, however, that it was not as fair a judgement as he had once thought it to be. His best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, probably now had at least some idea of what he had been forced to face down in the past, whenever he had fought Voldemort or his minions. And certainly the members of the Order of the Phoenix - the secret society founded by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore - understood the sort of terror Harry had faced; they had been fighting Voldemort before he had even been born. Much of the wizarding world still seemed to hold Harry upon a pedestal that he felt he did not belong upon; as he had told Hermione and Ron last year, in his mind much of what he had accomplished rested as much on the timely arrival of assistance or sheer dumb luck as much as his own skill in magic. There had been some moments of brilliance, especially a few weeks ago, but he still felt as though most of the wizarding world made him out to be a sorceror of the same calibur as Dumbledore or Voldemort... but he knew that wasn't true, especially since...

Harry choked. His thoughts had been circulating like this for the past 2 weeks; he would think about what had happened in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, and he would once again be confronted with the fact that it was Harry's fault that his godfather, Sirius Black, was dead. Dumbledore had, at the end of the school year some weeks earlier, tried to take some of the blame for himself... but Harry had been staring one simple fact in the face ever since then: that had he not been so foolish, so "eager to play the hero", as Hermione once put it, then Sirius would not have been killed. He had not realized before then that people were willing to die for him; indeed, even though all the adventures he had struggled though, he had only considered that his own life might be in danger. Why would anyone feel the need to risk dying for him? There was never anything special about him, really; Hermione was inagruably a better magician than he would ever be, Ron was always more gregarious than he was, and men like Dumbledore had achieved fame though their actions, not dumb luck...

Inevitably, as he had done for the past two weeks, he stared the reason many would die for him in the face: Dumbledore had revealed it to him at the end of the school year, once he and Harry had returned from the Ministry of Magic. He had revealed to Harry that it had been prophecized that he and he alone could defeat Voldemort once and for all. Only he and Dumbledore knew this specifically, but Harry could not help but feel that perhaps those around him knew it in their hearts; indeed, didn't Harry confront Voldemort at every opportunity? He had directly beaten Voldemort four times now, and prevented him from murdering Ron's father; he had even fought him by proxy, in a sense, during his second year, and had learned the truth about Sirius and flushed one of Voldemort's vilest supporters from his own bedroom the year after. People did not need a prophecy to see that Harry and Voldemort would eventually come to a direct confrontation, and that only one would walk away from it (that was part of the prophecy that so disturbed Harry; it had not guaranteed at all that he would be able to overcome Voldemort, and had merely said that "neither can live while the other survives.") Even with this, Harry could still not believe that people would be willing to risk death merely for his sake. Sirius had, and paid the ultimate price; Ron would probably have permanent scars on his arms and neck from the encounter in the Department of Mysteries; Ron's sister, Ginny, and their mutual friends Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood had all been injured somehow; and Hermione...

Again, a knot formed in Harry's throat, and it was one that he found hard to explain. When he first returned from the fiasco at the Ministry, all he could think about was Sirius' death; nothing else seem to matter. Yet, as the loss of Sirius slowly healed from a gaping chest wound to a dull but constant pain, Hermione's near-death experience began to haunt him as well. Harry found this bizzare; after all, Ron had come close to death as well, having been nearly strangled to death by mad brains. Harry wondered, though: could it be because Hermione had been nearly killed right in front of his eyes? Or was it the severity of what had happened to her? The Death Eater that assaulted her, after all, had used a Crushing Curse on her chest; had he been able to speak the words of the curse, it would have shattered her ribs, causing them to perforate her lungs, and guaranteeing a painful, bloody death. That image was now haunting Harry's dreams as much as Sirius falling though the veiled stone arch was; a faceless Death Eater standing over Hermione, shouting a curse, slashing her across the chest with his wand, the horrible sound of ribs cracking and a squelching noise coming from Hermione's mouth as blood poured out of it; and her final look into Harry's face, eyes rimmed with tears and blood dribbling down her chin, before she fell over dead.

Whenever he dreamed that, Harry would wake up in a cold sweat.

Harry had not told any of this to Ron or Hermione in his letters to them; indeed, he was merely writing letters to ensure that Moody, Lupin, and Tonks didn't follow up on their threat to visit if they didn't hear from Harry for three days straight. This had been as much an attempt to deter his aunt and unclue from treating him too horribly over the summer; even without the letters, it had worked, because the Dursleys, Harry's only living relatives, had barely breathed a word to him since he had returned. (Harry suspected that in his Uncle Vernon's case, it had as much to do with Moody's creepy revolving eye as much as anything else.) This was fine by Harry; he was still unsure whether or not he desired much company. The loss of Sirius and the full burden of what Dumbledore had told him were still weighing heavily upon him; time alone to ponder them had given him a small amount of comfort.

Of course, he was not entirely certain that it was safe for him to leave the house anyway. Dumbledore has also explained last year exactly why he had been placed here as a baby: it was the final fulfillment of the charm his mother had placed upon him moments before Voldemort had brutally killed her. That charm had protected him from death then, and when his mother's sister had taken him in, the home of the Dursleys had become his refuge. According to Dumbledore (and to Voldemort, when Harry had confronted him two years ago), so long as he was in the home of the Dursleys, no harm from Voldemort could come to him. (Occasionally, Harry had an image come into his mind of the home of the Dursleys upon a tiny spike of land, in the middle of a massive crater.) It was for this reason that he had to return to the home of they Dursleys every year - so long as he could call 4 Privet Drive home, he could come here and be absolutely protected from harm. Dumbledore hadn't mentioned the protection extending outside the house, however, and because Voldemort was now possessed of some of Harry's blood due to his resurrection ceremony, Voldemort was capable of touching him - and, presumably, doing him harm. His followers had always been capable of casting curses on him outside of 4 Privet Drive, as well; thus, given the fact that Voldemort was currently stalking the country, Harry rather doubted it was entirely wise to wander the streets in the evening as he had once done.

So Harry stayed in his room, with his thoughts: Sirius, Dumbledore, the Order of the Phoenix, Voldemort, the prophecy, and Hermione...

It had been such for two weeks now. He only left his room to use the bathroom or to join the Dursleys for what had become fairly quiet dinners. The Dursleys didn't dare act with cruelty toward Harry; Dudley developed a vague look of terror in his eyes every time he saw Harry these days (Harry suspected this was in part because Dudley still thought it was he who had used a spell to bring out his worst fear last year, when they had been attacked by Dementors which Dudley was, as a Muggle, incapable of seeing). Part of him wanted to head out of the house, in honesty; he wanted to see Ron, Hermione, and the magical world in general again. However, they were, at this point, likely to be congregated at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix - Sirius' old house in London. To go there would be...

Harry shook his head vigorously, and let out another long sigh. He wondered if the hurting would ever stop completely; from what Dumbledore said a few weeks ago, Harry also had to wonder in tandem whether the pain ending would be a good thing. After a bit of pondering, Harry had come to realize, he thought, what Dumbledore had meant by the fact that Harry feeling such pain over losing Sirius proved that he "was still a man"; that he was capable of such selfless, undying love was his greatest strength, and was what set him apart from Voldemort, who had forsaken love in favor of cold, commanding power. It had been what saved him from possession by Voldemort mere weeks ago.

That fact still didn't prevent his heart from feeling as though it had been torn physically from his body.

With a final glance toward the oblivious Muggles below, Harry turned back toward his bed in the center of the room. A few of his school books lay on the bed, as well as several editions of the Daily Prophet (which he had taken a subscription out on the previous year to keep track of Voldemort's activities) from the past week. Over his bed, like a poster, was pinned an edition of the Daily Prophet that had been printed mere days after he had returned to the Dursleys, one that had reduced the burning of his heart a great deal when he had first seen it; the top quarter of the paper was dominated with the bold-faced headline "SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT". Once again, Harry glanced at the lead article:

"The Ministry of Magic announced yesterday to a shocked public that Sirius Black, once believed to be one of the most horrible mass murders and Dark Magic supporters of the 20th century and accused of the murder of a dozen Muggles and one wizard at a single time, was in fact completely innocent of the crime he was convicted of nearly a decade and a half ago. Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, made the announcement at roughly 6 PM. 'We have been given testimony and evidence by Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, that Sirius Black did not commit the November 1 Massacre of 1980,' she commented at the press conference. 'This has been corroborated by testimony given by half a dozen other witnesses, including several of the Death Eaters captured last week. Having both heard testimony and having viewed verified memories in a Pensieve, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has no alternative but to overturn its previous conviction of Black - he is hereby cleared of all charges on the matter. Posthumorously, I'm afraid.

"'Furthermore, we have by interrogation and Pensieve confirmed that the wizard believed killed in the original massacre, Peter Pettigrew, is not only alive but was in fact responsible for the crime which Black was originally convicted. He confessed to Mr. Remus Lupin, Mr. Harry Potter, Mr. Ronald Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger that he used a Mass Crush Curse in the event in question, and in the ensuing chaos, managed to hit Mr. Black with a particularly powerful Cheering Charm - explaining why we found Black in hysterics after the massacre - and then transformed into a rat. It seems that Pettigrew is an unlicensed Animagus who is capable of transforming into a rodent. The single finger we found at the scene was evidently cut off by Pettigrew in an attempt to fake his own death.

"'Still further, we have corroborated Mr. Harry Potter's original report of his central participation in the ritual that revived He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during interrogations of the captured Death Eaters. It was Pettigrew who conducted the actual ceremony that restored You-Know-Who to a full body and indeed even willingly sacrificed a hand in the process. It appears that Mr. Pettigrew is a full Death Eater, complete with the brand upon his arm. It was indeed he who used You-Know-Who's wand to murder Cedric Diggory of Ottery St. Catchpole during the incident at the final task of the Triwizard Tournament last year. He also, from reports, led Bertha Jorkins, the Department of Magical Games and Sports official who went missing two years ago, to the Dark Lord, where she was tortured for information and eventually killed.

"'In light of all the evidence, including the confession, and given the undefendable nature of much of the evidence provided, the Wizengamot has convicted Peter Pettigrew in absentia of twelve counts of murder in the 3rd degree, two count of murder in the 2nd degree, one count of forcing a charm upon another wizard, one count of a breach on the Ban on Dangerous Personal Spellwork, one count of performing Level A Dark Magic, two counts of aiding and abetting a known felon, one count of assault in the 1st degree, one count of kidnapping in the 1st degree, and one count of obstruction of justice. The severity of these crimes has resulted in authorization being given to the Aurors to kill Pettigrew on sight if he is found.

"'The wizarding public is advised that Pettigrew should be considered extraordinarily dangerous; he has shown himself fully capable of treachery and deceit, and is not above killing those who get in his way. Additionally, he is possessed of a means of assault even without a wand; from statements given by Mr. Potter and captured Death Eaters, You-Know-Who rewarded Pettigrew by using Arithmancy to craft a new hand for him, made of solid metal. Expert arithmancists have studied the reports and have determined that the hand is likely made of solid silver (where you know who obtained or conjured the silver from remains a mystery), and could be capable of exerting pressures up to 1500 PSI. Therefore, Pettigrew should be considered armed and dangerous with or without a wand. He is also capable of transforming into a rat; while there is some debate as to whether or not his new, non-organic hand would interfere with this, any wizard should be extremely suspicious of a lone rat where it should not be, or a rat with what appears to be a metallic forepaw. A ten thousand Galleon reward is being offered for information leading to Pettigrew's apprehension or demise.

"'Additionally, the Order of Merlin, First Class, that Pettigrew was awarded for 'confronting' Sirius Black is hereby revoked; Sirius Black is awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, for his attempt at apprehending Pettigrew for betraying the parents of The Boy Who Lived to You-Know-Who. This award is, unfortunately, conferred posthumorously, as Mr. Black was killed during the incident a week ago...'"

The article went on to briefly summarize, again, what had happened at the Ministry of Magic. Harry could read no more; although it brought relief to him to see Sirius finally have his name cleared and get the credit he deserved, thinking of Pettigrew seemed to make Harry's blood boil. Harry had spared Pettigrew in his third year at Hogwarts, when he had discovered the truth behind Sirius' conviction; he had done it to prevent his father's remaining two friends from becoming murders. Harry found now that a large part of him regretted this; if there was one man other than Voldemort who had earned death in Harry's mind, it was Peter Pettigrew. He could never forgive Pettigrew for selling out his parents... never...

Of course, Harry did notice that he had given testimony without actually seeming to do so. He assumed that the Ministry had pulled that information from the interview he had given to Rita Skeeter last Valentine's Day. Dumbledore must have told them not to bother me directly, he had thought. Harry was glad for it; clearing Sirius directly would have been an honor, but it would have left him completely drained. Besides, the Death Eaters the Ministry had captured (or, more accurately, been handed by Harry and his friends) would provide far more believeable corroboration than he would, even now that his own name had been removed from the mud.

The rest of the papers currently on his bed were recent ones; Voldemort sightings, rat sightings (a witch in York had spotted a group of rats on a street; the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad had to make a large section of the crosswalk exploding look like a gas leak), and the various goings-on of the Ministry of Magic. The current Minister, Cornelius Fudge, was on extremely thin ice; now that word had gotten out that not just Dumbledore but Harry had informed him that Voldemort had returned a year prior, many were demanding his job and a few were even demanding that he be sent to Azkaban Prison, the wizarding prison formerly guarded by the Dementors (beings that fed on a person's happiness; Voldemort had promised them free operation, and so when he showed himself openly they revolted en masse). His Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Jane Umbridge, had been sacked directly for complicity in the matter, and also for abusing her Ministorial power by ordering Dementors to attack Harry last summer (an act for which she was lucky to escape Azkaban.) One of the primary reasons Fudge still held his job was that a definite replacement could not be decided upon; many were practically demanding that Dumbledore take the position, but he had always said his first duty was to Hogwarts. Beyond Dumbledore, no one could reach a consensus on who could replace Fudge. Some suggested Amelia Bones, current head of the Magical Law Enforcement Department; others were suggesting someone outside the Ministry, like Newt Scamander (author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them) take the position. No one, however, could get (or seemed to want) a majority, so Fudge drifted along by default. Harry was farily certain it wouldn't be too long before Fudge was sent packing.

Of course, an article related to the one Harry had pinned over his bed had been in the paper, revealing exactly why Sirius had gone after Pettigrew in the first place. It was now public knowledge that Pettigrew had betrayed Harry's parents to Lord Voldemort. It had been common knowledge in the upper levels of government ever since he had been attacked as a baby, of course (with the exception of it being assumed Sirius had betrayed the Potters, not Pettigrew), but until now the full nature of the crime had not been disclosed to the public. Harry had wondered whether he should be angry about this; he was generally annoyed when his private life was aired out in the open (including a number of liberally written reports about himself, Hermione, and Viktor Krum in his fourth year). In this case, however, he was not angry at all. He was somewhat pleased about it, in fact; he hoped that the true story of what Pettigrew had done, what he was capable of, would make people understand all the more what Voldemort and his people were planning.

He gathered the papers and books together, set them on the floor, and flopped face-first without ceremony onto the bed. He had been getting tired early these past two weeks; the amount of thinking he did these days usually exhausted him metally by sundown (another reason Harry wanted to get out of the house - he was desperately beginning to want for something new to think about). Seconds after he had gone horizontal, however, his stomach growled menacingly, eliciting a grunt of frustration. Despite how tired he was, he doubted heavily that he could sleep on an empty stomach...

Something struck him just then, however. He sat up and looked back out the window - the sun had disappeared below the horizon; the sky was now pink with the glow of dusk. Harry looked at his wristwatch - it was a few minutes past eight. Dinner should have been an hour ago. Harry wondered if he had perhaps been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had missed the call to dinner... but no, Aunt Petunia made sure that he at least ate, and his window was open, he'd certainly have heard Uncle Vernon drive up...

Crossing the room, Harry opened the door and hopped down the stairs, curious as to what was going on. Uncle Vernon was very rarely ever late to anything. Although his uncle's obsessiveness for control over all aspects of his life generally made Vernon a very unpleasent man, it did produce a very small number of redeemable features, and one of them was his punctuality; he made a point of leaving work at five and getting home by six, and if he was late it would only be due to a snarling traffic accident on the freeway, some kind of trouble with the car or police, or the Rapture. The first two would have resulted in Vernon angrily calling home from his cell phone, and since Harry hadn't noticed the Good Lord and four horsemen striding across the sky from his window, something very strange indeed was going on.

At the foot of the stairs, he could hear Dudley complaining to his mother from the kitchen. Dudley, his cousin and the only son of the Dursleys, had grown quite a bit since Harry had first started going to Hogwarts; however, his voice had never lost that whiny, annoying tone whenever he was complaining about something that wasn't just right. Harry listened for a moment: "Muuuum, where the heck is Daaaad? He was supposed to be home two hours ago..."

"I don't know, Dudleykins, but dinner will be ready soon," he heard his Aunt Petunia reply. Harry frowned slightly - was he just imagining things, or had she sounded nervous? He strode from the stairs, down the hall and into the kitchen. Dudley glanced at him, looked stricken for a moment, and then looked quickly back at the television in the far corner of the kitchen - "at least I don't have to deal with him," Harry thought wryly. Aunt Petunia was already working on dinner, and she looked somewhat flustered. Her eyes were wide open, and her movements were abrupt and almost jerky. She didn't even seem to have noticed Harry entering the room.

"Uncle Vernon isn't back yet?" Harry asked simply; Aunt Petunia jumped nearly a foot, dropped the empty pan she was holding, and spun around to face him, looking terrified. "Don't do that!" she yelled, shrill but at the same time slightly hoarse, as though a bit of voice had been scared out of her. Harry was surprised at this; he hadn't even tried to conceal his entering the room. Even Dudley had noticed him come in.

Petunia took a moment to gather herself before she said, in an angrier but much more solid voice, "No, your uncle hasn't come home yet. Don't you pay attention from up there?"

"He hasn't called?"

"No! Now sit down, dinner is almost ready anyway."

Harry did as he was told, sitting opposite Dudley, but he was still staring at his aunt quizically. He guessed that his aunt was thinking along the same lines he was; something very strange would have to occur for Vernon to be this late without at least contacting the house. Still, Petunia did seem exceptionally nervous. Harry supposed this was because Petunia had been thinking the same thing that he had just realized: once Vernon did get home, he was likely to be in an intolerable state. Harry made a mental note to stay in his room - and lock the door - once dinner was over, if dinner ended before Vernon returned.

Petunia had dinner ready in roughly ten minutes (ten minutes in which Dudley did absolutely everything he could to avoid looking directly at Harry, including, to Harry's infinite amusement, attempting to look as though he was reading the newspaper with interest) and soon the three of them were eating a very quiet dinner. It felt odd not having Vernon there; it was usually he that started most of the conversation at dinner. Without Vernon there, the three of them had even less reason to speak to each other than they normally did. Harry ate his food at a normal pace; Dudley was eating fast as always, although it was not entirely clear whether or not this was due to his normal gluttony or to his desire to get away from Harry as fast as possible; Petunia was the oddest of all. She couldn't decide if she wanted to eat quickly or slowly; she'd shovel down several forkloads at a time, then pause, delicately sip her wine, dig at her plate a bit, and then start wolfing again. She did all this with that same wide-eyed look of heavy anxiety that she had worn while preparing dinner; occasionally, she would glance up at the hallway, toward the front door of the house, in an almost fearful manner. She would then resume eating even faster than she had been.

"Is something the matter, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked tenatively.

"Don't ask questions," she replied breathlessly; the usual answer to most of his questions with the Dursleys, but definitely not the same tone he usually got.

Between the usual time it took to eat and watching his relatives behave strangely (which was an event in and of itself; the Dursleys prided themselves on being as normal as could possibly be), it was nearing 9 PM when Harry finished dinner. Dudley had finished far sooner and had left for the living room; Petunia had taken as nearly as long as Harry. She said "Wash the dishes" vaguely to him, not making eye contact at all. He got up and collected the dishes, glasses and silverware, and began scrubbing them in the sink. By the time he had loaded all of it into the automatic dishwasher, it was a quarter past nine. Uncle Vernon was still nowhere to be seen, and Aunt Petunia had barely moved at all. She was sitting at the kitchen table, fidgeting.

Harry wondered if he should try again to talk to her about what was troubling her so deeply; this was beginning to feel like more than just a tardy husband. He decided against it, however - his aunt and uncle avoided giving him the time of day if they could, so trying to engage Petunia in an emotional conversation would be quite like attempting to tear down a wall with a glass toothpick. Harry wandered out of the kitchen and back toward the stairs, thinking about what to do next. Perhaps he should write Hermione and Ron an owl; they might be able to liberate him from the house for a day. Ron's family, being all wizards, didn't possess any non-magical means of transport, but Hermione's parents were both dentists, so they likely owned several vehicles. Yes, that'd be it, he'd write Hermione and ask for sweet liberation... Ron would be invited too, of course...

He had only gotten halfway up the stairs, however, when an incredible booming sound shook the house. Harry literally leapt at the sound, and his glasses fell off. He spun around, half-spralwed on the stairs, one hand searching for his glasses. The sound had come from the front door of the house, which he was now facing, although that had not at all been the door knocker; that had been enough to rattle the foundations of the house. But a sound like that, from the door, could only mean...

Harry heard several things as he put his glasses back on; one was a piteous wail of fear from Aunt Petunia in the kitchen, and from the other side of the house, he could hear his cousin yelling "What the?!... MUM! I think Harry's doing You-Know-What!" He then heard much more minor booming sounds - Dudley bounding down the hall toward the door. Another boom almost knocked him flat (and nearly jumped Harry's glasses off his nose again from sheer force), but Dudley steadied himself against the wall. He drew even with the foot of the stairs, and gazed up at Harry furiously, flexing slightly. Boxing suited him, apparently; Harry hadn't really noticed before just how much of his fat had become muscle as of late. He suspected he had been looking for an excuse to physically confront Harry before now, despite his apparent fear of Harry. "What the hell are you trying to do, huh?! Mum's going spare!" He gestured toward the kitchen.

Harry looked his cousin in the eye and held up both his hands to indicate he didn't have his wand with him; even Dudley knew his ability to perform magic was severely curtailed without it. Dudley looked at him disbelievingly and then looked to the door; no more booms were emanating from the doorway, although a small haze of dust now filled the air, every single particle of it having been disturbed by the house being rocked so. With some trepidation, Dudley walked over to the door, and flung it full open, his arms up, ready to beat the tar out of anyone on the other side.

He stared, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed for a moment (his arms quite suddenly limp at his sides), before vomiting profusely and then passing out, face first.

Petunia, who had a view of the front door from where she was sitting in the kitchen, let out a long, mournful wail of agony before falling into sobs.

And Harry could only stare in disbelief at what was in front of him.

About four feet from the door, on the front lawn, was Uncle Vernon. He had been skewered, like a pig on a spit, though the buttocks straight though his body and out the top of his head on a massive metal spike which had now been affixed to the ground, so that Vernon looked like some kind of obscene scarecrow. The look on his face (which was spattered heavily with blood) was a thesis in pain; his narrow eyes were bulging out of his head, his mouth was wide open in a scream of anguish. His arms and legs were unusually stiff; they looked reinforced, posed. In his right hand he held what was unmistakably a human heart (probably his own), and in his left he held a foot-long, bloodsoaked knife. His abdomen had been sliced open, and some of his guts were hanging out; there was blood all over his body and dripping down the opening in his torso. And around his neck was a sign, with writing in red lettering: SURRENDER THE BOY.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to think. He had to shake his head violently several times to clear his head. He felt the beginnings of tears in his eyes, but he didn't feel the same way he had when Sirius had been killed, or even when Cedric Diggory had been killed when he had accidentally come with Harry to Voldemort's resurrection two years ago. Vernon had treated Harry like he was less than filth ever since he had been barely over a year old; Harry had absolutely no love for the man in front of him. And yet... Vernon had never done anything to deserve this. He had been a generally unpleasent person thoughout his whole life, as far as Harry could tell, but he had never done anything to earn having his life ended like a monkey on a stick. He had, at least, deserved dignity in death... Sirius and Cedric had died, but they had at least died well...

Harry, of course, realized at once who was responsible; he suspected there we Death Eaters (Voldemort's loyal, non-mind-controlled servants) waiting in the darkness around the house for Harry to step out. Harry knew better - Dubledore had said that so long as he was inside the house, Voldemort and his supporters were incapable of harming him. Hedwig, his post owl, was upstairs, snoozing in her cage, in his room - he'd send her to Dumbledore straightaway. Probably though a different window, as well - he didn't want Hedwig to get blasted out of the sky seconds after leaving the house. Harry got to his feet, and started heading upstairs, when his aunt screamed, "Oh, don't bother, they're probably already sending someone, you fool boy!"

Harry stopped dead in his tracks and stood there a moment, stunned. They're already?... remembering something his aunt had said last year, he stepped back down a few steps, and then poked his head over the railing, looking down the hall and toward the kitchen (and Petunia). "What do you mean?" he asked, thoroughly bewildered.

"I'm sure that Dumbledore and the Ministry and everyone else is watching the house! They must already know!" she howled at him. Harry very nearly stumbled a step when she mentioned Dumbledore - she had never, ever mentioned his name before, despite having gotten at least two letters from him. She had a point, though. He knew Dumbledore had set members of the Order of the Phoenix to watch over him, out of sight, the previous summer; it would make sense that he'd do so again, just to make sure something like this didn't happen. Petunia seemed to echo his own thoughts, however, when he heard her mumble "Oh, but they couldn't spare a man to watch over my husband, no... it's all about him, he's the only one they care about, the rest of us are just collateral..."

Harry felt a surge of hot, lancing anger at this, despite the fact that it had come to his mind as well. "That's not true! Professor Dumbledore respects everybody, he wouldn't..." and the rest of the words died in his mouth. Angry as Petunia had made him, he really couldn't refute her. Why hadn't someone been watching Vernon? Certainly Dumbledore knew what Voldemort and his supporters were like - he must have anticipated that they would try and use one of the Dursleys to force the others to give him up...

Petunia leapt to her feet, slamming her hands down on the table, her chair thown back. "WELL, YOU EXPLAIN THAT THEN!" she screeched at him. "IF THIS MAN LOVES EVERYONE SO VERY MUCH, EXPLAIN WHY MY HUSBAND LOOKS LIKE A KEBAB! AND FOR GOD'S SAKE," she said, her voice dropping slightly, "DO SOMETHING... do something about Dudley!..."

Harry almost leapt down to the foot of the stairs, and began to flip Dudley over and move him to a convienient wall while Petunia devovled back into sobs. As Dudley was well over twice his size, this was by no means simple. After a few minutes of struggle (after which Harry's arms felt like they'd fall off), Harry managed to get Dudley propped up against a wall, with his front covered in fairly putrid vomit. Harry felt sick himself - once again the people around him were suffering. First Cedric and his parents, then Sirius, and now the Dursleys. Was death going to stalk him until the day he killed Voldemort, or Voldemort killed him? The image of Hermione with a shattered chest and a look of pure despair in her eyes flashed before him again, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. It took all he had to keep it down.

Petunia had begun mumbling again. "Oh yes, they're all worried about him, he's their little hero, all over their newspapers..."

Harry spun around so fast his glasses nearly went flying again. "What?" he said to her simply. Petunia knowing about the magical world in general was one thing... but newspapers? Was she getting the Daily Prophet? "How do you know about?..."

"Oh, you think I don't keep track of you in the news, boy?" she replied sharply. "I've been getting that vile rag ever since you showed up on my doorstep so I could keep an eye on what all those wierdos are doing... in case they were planning on taking you or something..." She looked and sounded wild now; her eyelids were twitching unnaturally. "And ever since Dudley was attacked and you said what you did last year, I've been checking for news about... him," she said throatily.

Harry hesitated for a moment. "Do you mean Voldemort?" he said finally.

"Yes," she hissed at him, looking him dead in the eyes now. Harry had never seen her expression like that before; her horse-like face was twisted into a mask of fear, hate, and deepest loathing. "I knew if he was back that they'd come after you sooner or later... I warned Vernon to be careful, but he wouldn't listen, he didn't understand, he didn't want to hear about it..." She drew several heavy breaths, and then said, "I wish you had never been born."

Harry felt another lance of anger pierce his heart, but he was also feeling more sympathetic toward his aunt than he had ever felt before. While it was probably true that she loathed him now more than ever, she was also blind and dumb with grief. He shouldn't - couldn't - be vindictive. In the awkward pause that followed Petunia's pronouncement, he searched for something to say. Finally, he replied softly, "Well, I'm not too happy to be here, Aunt Petunia... but you did take me in."

She stared at him in cold fury for a few more moments, and then was reduced to tears again; she buried her head in her arms and could only say "Stupid... stupid... damn you, Lily, damn you..."

Harry thought for a moment to taking her to task for cursing his mother, but he let it go. He felt exhausted once again. Vernon dead, Petunia following the magical world much closer than he had thought... his brain felt flat, and he still felt a bit queasy to boot. A flash of Hermione's eyes churned his stomach again. He closed his eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths.

Finally, he turned from his aunt and went back to the door, intending to shut it. He suspected it'd be knocked on normally soon enough, and he didn't want to stare at Vernon's mutilated body any more than he had to. Once he got to the door, however, he noticed that the neighbors were starting to stare; some had begun to congregate on the lawn, and it looked like Mrs. Darbeyville across the way had fainted much like Dudley. Harry had absolutely no idea what to say; he looked about, and said, with a (terribly weak) tone of casualness, "Uh, hey there... nice night, eh?"

Most of the people on the lawn looked at him as if he were barking, raving mad. Harry sighed, looked down for a moment, noticed the pool of blood creeping its way toward the door, and then decided it'd be much more pleasent to look up. He hadn't been lying, it was a nice night. The moon was full, and even with the light pollution around Little Whinging, he could see a few stars.

He blinked. Had something just passed in front of the North Star?

And then he saw them. Flying in formation were at least half a dozen people on brooms, silhouetted against the moon. They were coming in very fast; Harry wouldn't be surprised if they were all mounted on Firebolts. Three of them were speeding right at him; one zoomed over the house, and two began circling the area, shining light from their wands down like torches, looking for anything suspicious.

Harry checked his watch. Thirteen minutes, give or take, since the first booming knock had shaken the house.

At least the Ministry of Magic is punctual, he thought.