Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 1

Why God Gave Us Cupboards

"He who attacks must vanquish. He who defends must merely survive." - Master Kahn

***

For the first time in his nearly fifteen years of existence, Harry Potter was absolutely thrilled to be locked away in the cupboard under the stairs of #4 Privet Drive. Considering the years he had spent loathing the very existence of the tiny, dark, vermin infested space, this was something of a miracle. And really, it was ridiculously easy to get shoved in there by a red-faced Uncle Vernon, sputtering about manners and ingratitude and all the things Vernon himself seemed to know a lot about. All it took was a simple remark about how all the girls laughed at Dudley's weight, a foghorn-like bellow from 'Dudley-wuddums' himself, and Harry was tucked away beneath the stairs wondering why in the world it had seemed so vitally important that he be in this position. The Dursleys were irritating, granted, but it had only been two weeks since Harry returned to Privet Drive. He had another six and some before he could start his fifth year at Hogwarts, and angering Uncle Vernon now wasn't the smartest move.

It had been nearly twelve hours since Uncle Vernon had pushed the rather overdone padlock home, and Harry was becoming somewhat exasperated with himself. Getting away from the Dursleys was all well and good, but this was one of the stupidest plans he'd ever hatched, and that was saying something. He couldn't get to the loo, have anything to drink or eat, and perhaps most importantly, he couldn't get owl post. He'd sent Hedwig to Ron just that morning, and even if his friend had replied so quickly, Harry's faithful owl would not be able to get the letter, his only and treasured lifeline to the magical world, to him.

So, given all this, it was something of a relief, if an odd one, for Harry when he suddenly heard an almighty *kaboom!* that rocked the very foundations of the house. Plaster showered down on Harry's head as he lept to his feet, fumbling for a wand which wasn't there. Oh yes, that had been the other half of the punishment. Sometime over the past year Vernon had apparently gotten a little smarter, for he had removed Harry's school trunk to the attic before locking Harry away where his possessions usually rested. He had nothing but his rather overlarge T-shirt and jean shorts, and a tiny, sagging cot.

He stood poised, ready to pounce the instant his cupboard opened, expecting any minute to hear gruff voices, distorted under black, Death Eater masks. Harry could feel his heart speeding, his stomach becoming tight and knotted and his nails digging painfully into his palms. It was the waiting that really scared him, he had come to believe. Once things really got started, he did alright, but just standing still and waiting for the Death Eaters (for who else could it be? Harry didn't think Muggle explosives sounded quite like...that) to come and find him and do whatever it was they were going to do to him. Or try, anyway. He stood there, squinting into the unrelieved darkness for nearly a minute before deciding this was ridiculous. He was a wizard, and a famous one at that, it was about time he started acting like one. His thoughts were little more than a hum of instinct and fear and anger. The ridiculous thought that this was his holiday, damn it, and nothing was allowed to happen on his holiday kept circling wildly in his thoughts, and with every repetition Harry's outrage grew. Not yet, he thought almost savagely. It's too soon. Can't they ever leave me alone? Without much thought, Harry lifted his right hand, fingers spread wide and pointed forward. He closed his eyes and focused. He remembered Dumbledore, his ancient, smiling eyes and seeming omniscience. How many times had he seen Dumbledore do magic without his wand, great, flashy spells like conjuring tables upon groaning tables of food? Surely Harry himself could do a simple unlocking charm.

"Alohomora!"

Harry blinked.

"Well, that was unexpected," he muttered.

Shrugging philosophically, Harry ducked out of the cupboard and picked his way through the shattered remains of the door. Even if Uncle Vernon didn't throttle him, the Ministry of Magic probably would. But it couldn't be helped now, and if there was one thing Harry had learned over the past year it was not to dawdle over life and death situations.

He paused only momentarily to let his eyes readjust to light, then padded as quietly as possible up the stairs. The stealth wasn't really necessary--Dudley's continuous stream of babbling, Aunt Petunia's shrieks, and Uncle Vernon's thundering would have drowned out a roaring Hippogriff. But Harry had learned the use of caution, the value of stealth, and how easily that value could be measured in human lives. Unluckily for him, the access to the cramped attic of #4 was in his Aunt and Uncle's room. Luckily, however, said room was at the moment empty. The three Dursleys had their backs to Harry as they stood at what had once been the entrance to the smallest bedroom, but which was now something of a balcony overlooking piles of rubble.

Harry took a brief moment to be thankful that Uncle Vernon hadn't in fact found himself as a reasonable man over the past year and hadn't even considered letting Harry have his school things in his room. The frightening specter of Sirius Black had lost some of its potency, apparently. At least his wand and invisibility cloak and the accumulated detritus that multiplied frighteningly in the bottom of his trunk hadn't been blown to tiny, irrecoverable bits. He cast one, worried glance at the Dursleys' backs, then slipped through the door into his aunt and uncle''s room.

It was the work of a moment to stand on the bed (Aunt Petunia would have porcupines when she saw the footprints on her Indian silk comforter) and scramble through the trapdoor. Or start to.

Harry had only his head and shoulders up in the musty attic when he heard below him a distinctive *pop*. And then, before he could decide whether to pull himself the rest of the way up or to drop down and face his foe, a completely incongruous voice said, "Harry? Harry, what on earth are you doing?"

At that point Harry let go of his hold out of simple surprise and landed with a rather enjoyable *whump* in the middle of the king sized bed.

"Mrs. Figg?" He gawked at her for a moment, taking in the rather frightening ruffled dressing gown, the gray hair up in tight curlers...and the elegant, redwood wand clutched in her hand. "Wha--"

"Oh, my. No time for that now. Where is your wand?" she said, flicking her eyes around the room in a way eerily reminiscent of Mad-eye Moody.

Deciding this really wasn't the time for a complete reevaluation of his elderly neighbor and her relocation in the heretofore absolutely exclusive wizard and Muggle categories in his mind, Harry rose again from his awkward sprawl. "In the attic. I'm just going to get it and my invisibility cloak."

"Attic? Why under heaven would you put--oh, never mind." She cut herself off. "Go, quickly. They'll break through the temporary shield I put up in less than a minute."

Harry didn't need to ask who "they" were, and so he once again yanked himself up through the trapdoor and fumbled about in the dusty darkness. Upon locating his trunk, it took precious seconds to open it and rummage about. He found his wand quickly enough, but it took even longer to dig out his invisibility cloak and drape it over himself. By the time he was turning back to the trapdoor, he could hear shouts from below, both Mrs. Figg's surprisingly decisive tones and the all too distinctive muffled ones of the enemy.

Making sure the cloak was secure and gripping his wand firmly, Harry stuck his head back through the trapdoor. He really wasn't sure if he could shoot spells through his cloak, and didn't want to find out the hard way, so he allowed the very tip of his wand to protrude from safe invisibility as he peered down.

His heart gave an almighty thump as he beheld the all too familiar silhouettes, their black robes flapping and their masked heads looking misshapen and monstrous as their shadows prowled menacingly along the walls. Mrs. Figg was doing quite well, considering she was facing four opponents. She still had her wand, and seemed to be for the moment unaffected by any spells, but it was really impossible for her to stay that way for long, especially considering that her opponents were spreading out, forming a semi-circle around her and firing from all directions.

"They don't expel for self-defense...right?" Harry muttered, taking careful aim. Then, "Stupefy!"

The Death Eater was obviously caught completely by surprise as he fell in an ungraceful heap, wand clattering a few feet away. Harry waited a moment to appreciate his good timing before swiveling his wand to the next target...and having it snatched away and his arm nearly taken off by a powerful "Expelliarmus!" from one of the three remaining. Rubbing his smarting forearm and silently cursing at his own stupidity, Harry squinted down through the rain of plaster dust and red sparks, looking for his wand. Apparently they knew he had an invisibility cloak, either that or they were just really spell-happy. Either way, it was something of a disaster.

Should he jump out of the attic and join in the battle, hoping to reacquire his wand? He did have the invisibility cloak, so it wasn't quite as stupidly suicidal as it might have been. Or maybe he should check the attic, look for a window and somehow worm his way out and climb down the outside of the house. What he would do then, Harry didn't know, but he figured he should come back in the house and hope to surprise the Death Eaters from behind. He couldn't, after all, just leave the Dursleys and Mrs. Figg to their non-existent mercies.

Harry nearly groaned aloud when another series of *pops* assaulted his ears. Just what they needed, more Death Eaters. So it was with blooming joy that he saw the familiar silvered face of Albus Dumbledore peek around the door.

Things were over rather quickly after that. One Death Eater seized his stunned companion, while the other two covered their retreat with a hail of curses, both unforgivable and more mundane, then Apparated out as soon as they could.

Harry dropped down from his perch in the ceiling, landing somewhat more gracefully on the bed and casting about for his wand.

"Here ya are, sonny," a familiar, gruff voice said. Harry turned and accepted his wand from the hand of Alastor Moody.

"Thanks." Harry said, shoving his cloak into a pocket along with his wand. He looked up again, just realizing who he was talking to. "What--"

But for the second time he was interrupted. "Harry, are you alright?" Another familiar voice, this time belonging to--

"Professor Lupin!"

"Well, not exactly," his old mentor said. "It's just Mr. Lupin, now. Or Remus if you prefer. You don't look injured, but did any spells get through to you?"

"Oh, just the disarming one." Harry waved impatiently. "What about Mrs. Figg? She was the one doing all the fighting, really."

"Fine, just fine," said neighbor answered, being helped to her feet by Moody. "Just a little sore. Out of practice and all that."

"You did an excellent job, Arabella." Dumbledore spoke for the first time from the doorway as he sheathed his wand. "That shielding charm you erected after the original wards were compromised was positively inspired."

Arabella, Harry thought. The pieces were starting to fall into place, and he couldn't decide whether to be irritated or incredibly grateful at the presence of a witch in his neighborhood as...what? Babysitter? Random neighbor? Watchdog?

But that could wait. He had another, rather more pressing question.

"Sir?" Dumbledore's eyes turned to him, their familiar twinkle soothing the last of Harry's reactionary nervs. "How did they get in? I thought there were shields." He hesitated, not wanting to call Albus Dumbledore a liar.

"And I told you that you would be safe here, that nothing could happen." The Headmaster sighed, tugging distractedly at his beard.

"Well, yes." Harry felt his face heat a little.

"I am very sorry, Harry, for misleading you. But I myself was confident that the wards could not be breached. They are ancient, enormously powerful magics. They depend on one of the strongest magical substances there is." His eyes sharpened on Harry, and for the hundredth time Harry thought what a marvelous teacher Dumbledore must have been...what a marvelous teacher he was. "Do you know what that substance is?"

Harry hesitated. It seemed like a typical Dumbledore question, loaded with nearly endless possibilities. Yet...yet he somehow kept remembering that unicorn, lying dying and brutalized, its blood nearly vibrating with something spicy and intense.

"Blood?"

"Exactly." Dumbledore frowned for the first time. "The wards were built around the blood bond you share with your relatives, particularly your Aunt Petunia. And if Voldemort has found a way around such powerful magic..." He trailed off, deep in thought.

"Well, at least Voldemort wasn't here." Harry said, hand going unconsciously to his scar. "I didn't feel a twinge...unless--" he paused, having a sudden thought. "Sir, does the fact that he has a little of my blood matter? Will my scar hurt anymore when he's near? Or could my blood have helped him through the wards? Or maybe--"

"Easy, Harry." Dumbledore's smile returned, if a little forced. "Those are all valid and reasonable questions, but we really do not have the time to stand here and discuss them. You have only to know that I was cautious enough to ensure that you yourself could not dismantle the wards, thus Voldemort, even with your blood in his veins, could not. Come." He turned, extending an arm for Mrs. Figg and waving off Professor Lupin, who had been attempting to repair the rather extensive damage to the room. "Leave it, Remus. There's no point. Neither Harry nor his relatives will be returning here again."

"And what, exactly, does that mean?" Everybody except Dumbledore jumped and faced the door where a nearly grape colored Vernon stood in all his indignant glory. Dumbledore simply smiled benignly at him.

"It means, Mr. Dursley, that you and your family must accompany us to Hogwarts before we can find you a new home where you will be safe from any future harm."

At any other time, Harry would have been amused by the silent mouthing and fabulous puffing Vernon displayed as he attempted and failed to disobey Albus Dumbledore. But right then, however, all he really wanted was to leave this place. He had never liked #4, for very good reasons, and the prospect of leaving it well before the usual time was something of a godsend.

Twenty minutes later, as he touched the paperback romance novel used as a Portkey and spun away to Hogwarts, Harry realized that he was thankful for a lot of odd things today. First his cupboard, and now the Death Eaters themselves for attacking. He should have been afraid, he knew, or at least upset at the loss of yet another safe haven--or as close as anywhere with the Dursleys ever could be--to Voldemort and his followers. But as what remained of #4 dissolved around him and the distinctively flavored Scottish air flooded his senses, Harry realized that all he could muster was a vague sort of gratitude. He was bound for Hogwarts, at least for a day or two, and even if Dumbledore just plunked him back with the Dursleys in a new location, he would have a few precious hours at his real home to carry him through the rest of the summer. It was, Harry thought with a flash of bitter humor, probably the only favor Voldemort was likely ever to do him.