Harry Potter and the Missing Memories

Chapter 1

Relative Safety

It was three-o'-clock in the morning, and Harry lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the dulcet tones of his cousin Dudley's snores from the next room. Funny, thought Harry, how a noise resembling a cross between a suction pump and agricultural machinery could actually sound comforting. Well, almost.

It was now three weeks since he'd got off the Hogwarts Express at Kings Cross and four weeks since... Harry shuddered involuntarily. He hadn't been sleeping too well since he'd arrived back at Privet Drive. The Leaving Feast had been a turning point and he'd felt able to talk about what had happened since then, but, well, he didn't have anyone to talk to here. And without that pressure valve of talking to relieve the numbness and pain that overtook him in waves, the nightmares had returned within days. They were all similar, a jumble of fragmented sounds and images, which always included a pair of red, flaming eyes, that high, cold laughter, and the Death Eaters black cloaks, which turned into bats and flew at him, smashing against the golden bars of the cage around him. And Cedric Diggory's pale, lifeless face staring blankly at him, finally disappearing in a flash of green light that awoke him.

Harry reached under the edge of his mattress and pulled out his very dog-eared copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, switched on a small torch and flicked his way through it half-heartedly, hoping to find something to catch his attention. But his eyes, stinging from the lack of sleep, couldn't focus on the words, so he tucked it back under the mattress with a sigh and lay back down again.

Harry couldn't explain why, but despite the nightmares and the usual frostiness of his aunt and uncle toward him, he somehow felt more secure at number four Privet Drive than he ever had done before. The mundane chores he had to do, the predictability of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's reactions to him, even the bullying attentions of Dudley seemed comfortingly 'normal' to him after the roller-coaster ride of emotions he'd been through this last year. Perhaps that had been what Dumbledore had had in mind when he'd insisted that Harry came back to Privet Drive this summer, instead of going directly to The Burrow. Though Harry knew which option he would have preferred. But the fact that Professor Dumbledore wanted him to be here both intrigued him and reassured him. I must ask him why sometime, thought Harry, as he drifted off into fitful slumber.

*

"Get up, you ungrateful boy. Get up now!"

Harry awoke with a start, as Aunt Petunia hammered on his door. He quickly glanced at the clock on his bedside table and realised that he had overslept. Aunt Petunia knocked on the door again. "Come on, boy, your uncle is waiting for his breakfast."

Reluctantly Harry staggered out of bed, pulled on a jumper over his pyjamas and opened the door. Aunt Petunia glared at him ferociously. "How dare you keep your uncle waiting like this! You know he has an important meeting this morning and has to leave earlier than usual. No doubt you've done this on purpose." "Sorry," mumbled Harry, as he passed his aunt and headed down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Uncle Vernon, a rotund man with very little neck, didn't look up as Harry entered the room, but continued sifting through a pile of papers that he had taken from the open briefcase beside him. Harry went over to the stove without a word and began to make his uncle's breakfast: a bacon sandwich and a mug of black coffee. "About time too," he growled, still not looking up from his papers, as Harry put the plate and mug down on the table in front of him. Harry turned back to the kitchen area and started washing up the frying pan.

Aunt Petunia came into the room carrying Uncle Vernon's jacket and umbrella. "The car will be here in a minute, dear," she said.

"Ah yes." Uncle Vernon looked up at the clock and started packing the documents carefully back into his briefcase. "Make or break, this meeting is, Petunia. Large contract. If we get it, then we're set for the next few years. If we don't..." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, hopefully it won't come to that. Isn't Dudley up yet? I don't know what's got into that lad lately."

"Yes, I'm quite worried about him," replied Aunt Petunia, " He's off his food and he's become so aggressive towards us, so introverted. It's quite unlike him. I might take him to the doctors if things don't improve soon."

Harry smiled to himself. Ah yes, Dudley. From the moment he could walk, Dudley had made it his sport, no, his purpose in life to ensure that Harry was as miserable as he could possibly make him. He had bullied Harry, chased him (though, as he was nearing the size of an Indian elephant, Harry was usually far too quick for him), broken anything that Harry liked or wanted and ensured that he had no friends, because all the other children at primary school had been far too scared of Dudley to even speak to him. Dudley had always got whatever he wanted, because Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always given in at the first sign of a tantrum. But he had also done everything his parents expected of him: he'd sided with them against Harry and everything he stood for, he'd followed in his father's footsteps to Smeltings, a (rather expensive) private school, and he'd greased up to Uncle Vernon's relatives and work contacts exquisitely, though usually for a fee.

But this summer, Dudley seemed rather different. He had lost a fair amount of weight over the year at school. It seems that the school nurse, noting the very limited success that the diet of the previous summer had achieved, had taken Dudley on board as her own personal project. She'd personally overseen his dietary requirements and had also embarked him upon a strict exercise regime, as well as some counselling sessions. Not that he was now skinny, but at least he fitted back into the largest size of the school uniform. From what Harry could gather, Aunt Petunia was not particularly enamoured with the school nurse and her regime, especially the counselling sessions, which she seemed to regard as a personal insult. " He doesn't need counselling, just love and affection," Harry had overheard her telling Aunt Marge on the telephone on one occasion. "It's not as if we've ever neglected him or anything."

But by far the biggest difference in Dudley this summer was the way he now reacted to his parents and Harry. Whereas in the past he'd thrown tantrums in order to get his own way, then toed the line as soon as he had what he wanted, now he seemed to rail against everything his parents stood for. The frequent confrontations between them could be heard halfway down the street. Harry learnt very quickly to keep well out of the way on such occasions and took to shutting himself in his room until he heard Dudley crash past and slam his bedroom door. Dudley still wasn't pleasant to Harry, but neither was he openly aggressive. Instead he had taken to silently watching Harry as he went about his chores as if trying to weigh him up, which Harry found far more disconcerting than the bullying.

The tooting of a car horn brought Harry back to the present. Uncle Vernon's 'car' had arrived. It was actually a private hire vehicle, a sleek black BMW with the licencing plate hastily removed from the back bumper, leaving only the screw holes showing. This was one of the other changes at Privet Drive since last summer: Uncle Vernon had had one glass of port too many at his firm's Christmas party and had been stopped by the police on the way home. As a consequence, the family car lay idle on the driveway while he served out his driving ban. To save face, Aunt Petunia had told the neighbours that they now employed a chauffeur, and Uncle Vernon had bribed the BMW's owner heavily to remove his taxi licence each morning before he turned into Privet Drive. The man had however refused to wear a suit and peaked cap.

Once Uncle Vernon had departed, Aunt Petunia turned to Harry, who was now eating a piece of toast, and snapped, "Well, what are you lazing about here for? Get yourself dressed properly, I've got some chores for you to do."

Wearily, toast still in hand, Harry went back upstairs, wondering what delights his aunt had in store for him today.

*

Late afternoon found Harry in the front garden of number four Privet Drive, soaked to the skin and covered in mud. His clothes, which were all Dudley's cast-offs and far too big for him, clung to his thin body in folds, rather like the skin on an elephant's legs. His hair lay flat against his head, apart from a few tufts on top, which stubbornly stuck out at various angles as if defying gravity.

After Harry had spent most of the morning polishing the numerous brass ornaments in the house, Aunt Petunia had insisted that he should weed the flowerbeds in the back garden in spite of the pouring rain. "The fresh air will toughen you up," she'd said, as she ushered him out of the back door, locking it behind him. At lunchtime he hadn't been allowed back indoors because Aunt Petunia had washed the floors that morning and didn't want 'the likes of Harry' walking across them. She had left him a sandwich and a mug of tea on the back doorstep, but he hadn't reached them in time to prevent rainwater from the leaky guttering from turning the sandwich mushy.

The rain had now stopped, and the sun had broken through from behind the clouds, making Harry feel warmer than he had done for hours. As soon as she'd realised that the rain had stopped, Aunt Petunia had appeared at the back door with a new set of instructions: he was to creosote the fencing in the front garden. "And make sure you do it thoroughly, otherwise the fencing might rot if we get more rain." Harry didn't really see the point in painting the fence now, because the wood was still damp from the rain, but he knew better than to argue. Perhaps if I used this stuff on me, I'd be waterproof too, he thought wistfully as he brushed his sodden hair out of his eyes and started work again. One of Hermione's waterproofing charms would probably have been better though, not that it would be allowed here.

The sun felt deliciously warm on Harry's back as he slowly but surely coated the fence in the evil-smelling creosote. There was no point in hurrying, after all. Aunt Petunia had told him to do a thorough job, and if he finished quickly then she would only find something else for him to do. Harry was of the opinion that number four Privet Drive must be the best-maintained house in the district during the summer months, with the amount of work he did around the place. In the last three weeks alone he had not only done all the usual gardening chores, such as weeding and mowing the lawn, and his quota of cooking and washing-up, but he had also partially redecorated the lounge. Since last August, Uncle Vernon had had the entire chimney-breast in the lounge removed, and it had been Harry's first task of the summer to paper and paint over the new plasterwork. "It's so much more practical now," Aunt Petunia had told the next-door neighbour. "We weren't using the fireplace at all, and this way we can arrange the furniture how we like, without a redundant fire being the focal point." Harry doubted very much that the practicality of the room had been their prime consideration and thought it much more likely that it had something to do with the way Harry had travelled to Ron's house the previous summer, and with a certain toffee...

Yes, this was definitely the most palatable bit of life at Privet Drive, thought Harry as he plucked a fly off the paintbrush: doing a slow, mundane job outside in the sunshine, keeping out of everyone else's way. Then he became conscious that he was being watched. He turned to see Dudley standing at the lounge window, just standing there and staring at him. Harry turned away again quickly and carried on painting. Just ignore him and he'll go away, thought Harry. But it's strange, why is he acting like this?

As Harry was finishing the last bit of fence and his clothes had just about dried out in the sun, the black 'chauffeur-driven' BMW turned into Privet Drive and screeched to a halt outside number four. Uncle Vernon climbed awkwardly out of the back of the car, grinning from ear to ear, and hurried, no almost skipped up the garden path towards the house. "Petunia!" called Uncle Vernon as he opened the front door. "Petunia, where are you? I've got some important news."

He disappeared inside the house and closed the door behind him. Curious as to what this 'important news' might be, Harry quickly packed up the creosote and brushes, left them outside the back door, went inside and slipped off his shoes. He followed the sound of Uncle Vernon's voice, which was coming from the lounge.

"... so I have to go to Rome next week to sign the contract. This'll keep us in business for the next five years. But the best bit is that they want me to take the family over with me. They're a family-based business, and they place great importance on family ties."

Aunt Petunia squealed in raptures of delight. "Oh, I've always wanted to see the sights of Rome, especially the canals!" "That's Venice, my dear," corrected Uncle Vernon.

"And they do really massive pizzas, don't they Dad?" grinned Dudley. Then his face fell. "Not that I can have much, " he added.

"So we're going to Rome?" said Harry, standing in the lounge doorway. The trio all turned and stared at him.

"We're going to Rome, but you most certainly are not," spluttered Uncle Vernon, his face purpling. "With your track record, you'd cause utter chaos!" Thinking back to the incident with Dobby and the pudding, not to mention Aunt Marge's last visit, Harry had to concede that he had a point.

"So I'm staying here by myself?" Harry asked, a warm wave of anticipation rising within him at the thought of a Dursley-free house all to himself for a few days.

"We can't have that either," snapped Aunt Petunia, staring down her thin nose at him coldly. "There'd probably be no house to come back to. No, we'll have to find someone to take you in while we're away."

*