Come Hither

Chapter 2

A Morbid Summer

Harry woke from a fitful, terrifying sleep as somnolent emeralds peeked out from behind their apertures and idly studied the ceiling. It had been this routine everyday: wake, exist, go to sleep - an endless monotony of living - unembellished, grey, and apathetic. Reflexively, his hand came to his brow and rubbed at his scar; it had been throbbing dully through his summer, heralding Voldemort's return and probable preparations for the domination of anything that so much as hopped happily. He was back, Cedric was dead, and all was bleaker than the very room in which he slept at number four, Privet Drive. Harry opened his eyes fully, stretched, and averted his blank stare to the outside of his window, into the bright, sunlit afternoon - the day before his birthday.

Hedwig was out there hunting and doing whatever owls did in the open world while he was left here in this purposely-ordinary house to endure the torture of the Dursleys. At least they never changed, and he could rely on their insults, making him do tedious chores, and near starvation to console his need of constancy and balance, after going through a roller-coaster of a fourth year. He allowed the mundaneness of the Muggle world and its lack of fluctuation to embrace him as he returned from school.

He was seldom content these days, which was the order whenever he was here. He would either be scrubbing the floor and dishes or doing his summer schoolwork, never wanting to give his mind a moment to rest on the things that tormented him, but come night, those demons took free reign of his mind: they wrapped around him and squeezed like a diabolical anaconda until he burst in a sweaty daze, sourly flavoured with fear, guilt, and revulsion, never granted him the mercy of swallowing him whole into reprievable insanity.

Shaking off his sluggishness from sleep, Harry lazily got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The day proceeded much the same as the many before it: he did the chores for the most of it, and pushed through some of his essays while intermittently striding over to the window and staring out of it just to blank his mind and try not to think, sweeping his gaze on the surrounding matchbox houses, the spartan streets, and the rolling, forget-me-not peaceful sky. How he wished he could be as innocent as these bleak sights were, wished he never witnessed the resurrection of the darkest wizard of the century, wished he never witnessed a death, and a death of a dear friend, it was. He knew he shouldn't dwell on these thoughts; they would do him no good. He trudged back to his desk and continued his studies.

Close to ten o'clock, Harry's eyelids started drooping, and his backside was sore from sitting on the chair for so long. He was reading something to do with the third class of Enhancement Potions, or something like that, and it was then that he decided to call it a night when he realized his mind was absorbing the text at which he was blankly staring in rations, and it didn't make any sense, because Harry was quite sure that potions weren't related to pangas even remotely. Thus, giving in to the lull of sleep, he closed Moderne Potions, by Perkus Naelblume and went to settle in his bed. The sky was dark and peaceful outside, and the streets eerily quiet and peaceful. Resolving to catch a few Z's before the strike of midnight - his birthday, Harry shut his eyes and sighed deeply into the rough, unwelcoming covers.

However, seemingly three seconds later, green figures proclaimed the time 11:58 - two minutes until he would turn fifteen. He would celebrate it cautiously, quietly, and in solitude, never allowed to let it past his room, never allowed even a modicum of happiness beyond this room, Dudley's second bedroom. As he lay there, he thought about Ron and Hermione, his two best friends in the whole world, thought about all the other wonderful things for which he could be grateful: Sirius, his godfather, whom he had only discovered a year ago. He wanted to be with Sirius so much it ached right there in his heart, but no matter, he would be able to see him and spend time with him when he went back to Hogwarts; Professor Lupin, Sirius' friend and one more person related to his parents' era, and somebody to whom Harry felt close, comfortable with, and thought him almost as a mentor, even; and Professor Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore cared for and was fond of him very much. He had people that loved him, and he could look forward to those wonderful moments with them, away from the Dursleys.

12:00. Beep! Beep! Beep! Harry smiled wanly. "Happy birthday, Harry," he murmured to himself in the dark stillness. He closed his eyes. Nothing changed - the silence remained unyielding, and the loneliness stood its ground.

But following this almost immediately was the sound of flapping wings. His sleepiness suddenly gone, Harry threw off the quilt excitedly and greeted the four owls as they swooped in one by one through the window he had left open in anticipation for their arrival. One of them, a large, grey one, keeled over on his bed after a rather unceremonious landing, dragging down its partner, little Pigwidgeon, with it. Hedwig, conversely, landed gracefully on his headboard as always and surveyed the unconscious bird on the bed with disdain clearly written all over her body before she flapped her feathers regally, hooted, and rearranged herself on the headboard with what one would call dignity.

"Hey, girl," Harry said softly, as he patted her with a smile, and she nipped at his hand affectionately before ruffling her feathers again, a gesture which clearly said, 'That's enough now.' Harry assented with a wry smile, withdrew his apparently offensive hand, went over to the large heap of feathers on his bed, and tried to rouse it into life; one yellow eye peeked out and a shake of its legs was offered, indicating for him to show mercy and remove the baggage. Harry obliged with an amused shake of his head: he tied off the large box and proceeded to the smaller box of Pigwidgeon's.

The boxes turned out to have strawberry cake, a dozen mince pies, and another green sweater with a big, red 'H' in the middle. Harry was already munching, fingering his cake, and mentally thanking Mrs Weasley profusely as he went over to Hedwig to relieve her of her own burden. Sirius had sent him an ornate dagger with silver, intricate carvings that ran seamlessly from the hilt to the tip of the blade on both sides and seemed to have some sort of order, actually, upon further scrutiny, but none Harry could discern sufficiently at that moment. The edge, very sharp, looking as though it could give him a cut if he so much as allowed it to hover over his skin, was delicately serrated, and for a moment, Harry thought that the grooves were miniscule extensions of the intricate carvings. There was no note that came with it, which only added to its mystery; Harry was a little frustrated at it, but he decided he loved it very much, regardless.

He then moved on to the handsome tawny owl he knew came from Hogwarts. As usual, it carried the usual Hogwarts letter informing him that school started on the first of September, there was a list of his new school books as, and it went on to remind him of the school rules.

For reading, there was a copy of the Daily Prophet he would look at later that Hermione had sent him, as well as, most predictably, a large, relatively thin tome entitled, Useless Magic: A Collection of the Most Marginal, Mundane Magic Imaginable. Well, that was... helpful, he guessed sarcastically, and idly flicked through it, finding that it had no trouble in living up to its name - it was indeed useless - there were many trivial spells that did very common things and tricks, such as the Pimple-Vanishing Charm, Shoelace-Tying Charm, the Impervius Charm Hermione had used to dry his glasses in a Quidditch match back in third year, and Harry even came across a Vomit-Inducing Charm; if only Muggle models knew of this one.

Every now and then, however, Harry discovered a spell that seemed relatively useful in its own right and rather didn't belong in the book; some spells stood out but blended in, somehow. Admittedly, these weren't complex, high-rated spells such as an Impediment Hex or an Unforgivable Curse, but they were somewhat useful, despite the title. Harry put the book down, undecided as to how to feel about it, but he was thankful to Hermione, still. At the very least, it was the thought that counted.

Harry stepped back and stared at the presents on his bed from his loved ones - the food, the dagger, the literature. Not long after, he rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes with a smile to bid farewell to his fifteenth birthday, feeling so much more loved than when he had awoken.