Harry Potter and the Story of Eliza

Chapter One:
Have you heard voices?

The sky above the small town was covered with clouds the color of coal, that night. Wind swept through the buildings, stirring dust and dead bits of foliage-- leaves, sticks, pine needles-- then twisted and turned on its way to its own unfathomable destination. Above the sickly warm air and wind hung the golden image of a nearly full moon, shining down on rooftops and reflecting its own light in the quiet waters of backyard swimming pools. Light from the city blocked all view of the stars, however, and to the west the sky had taken a purple-red hue.

Watching all of this was a teenage boy, his baggy pajama pants nearly falling off his wiry figure for want of a belt. His sheets were thrown on the floor carelessly and his pillow hung on the very edge of the mattress, about to join the rest of the bed coverings on the ground.

On the desk opposite the boy's bed, a white owl hooted softly from her opened cage. Harry glanced back, pushed his glasses up his nose, then got up slowly, crossed the room, and stroked the bird gently, his messy black hair getting in his face.

"Can't sleep, Hedwig?" Harry wore half of a smile. "Don't tell me that you're having nightmares too... one of us has got to be happy. Hey!" He pried his finger out of the owl's beak. "Not so hard, all right?"

The owl closed her large eyes, enjoying the attention she was getting. Harry, still stroking her head with one hand, reached across the desk and refilled her water dish, gazing about his room as he did so. His cauldron stood beside the bed, containing half of his schoolbooks. The other half of the volumes lay on the floor, held open by quills, scraps of tissue paper, and other odds and ends that might serve as bookmarks. On his desk was not one, but several books on Quidditch (birthday presents from his friends), accompanied by a half-finished letter to Ron and a postcard from Bulgaria. The latter had been sent by Hermione, who, it seemed, was enjoying her summer far more than he was.

On the other side of the room stood his bookshelf, containing not volumes of literature, but cardboard boxes of Dudley's more salvageable junk that he couldn't justify throwing away or stuffing it into storage. Beside the boxes, looking like some holographic top, rested his Sneakoscope. The piece lay quite still, balancing on its center, reflecting prisms of light onto the walls from the window.

Harry had worried about this initially-- he had given it to Hermione briefly before school had ended, explaining that it was too loud to keep, as Uncle Vernon's socks had been given to Dobby. Unsurprisingly, she had come up with a perfect solution—Hermione had used a muting charm on it to keep it from being heard by anyone more than ten feet away. Harry's only job was to keep the Dursleys out of the room, which wasn't exactly hard, as they were normally happy enough to stay as far away from the place as they could.

Hedwig hooted again, startling Harry out of his thoughts and back onto his pet, who was obviously looking for more attention. "Later, Hedwig," he muttered, and stood up once more, nearly tripping over the tangled mess of sheets on the floor.

As he had nothing better to do, he started cleaning his room absently, thinking about the reason he was out of bed in the middle of the night in the first place.

He'd been having nightmares again—though they didn't supernatural. His scar hadn't hurt since he had come back to the Dursley's, there were no dreams that ended with anyone dying. In fact, he'd seen no signs of anything that might have to do with the wizarding world at all, good or bad, which was rather irking. In the words of C. S. Lewis, "If there is a wasp in the room, I'd like to be able to see it."

The strange thing about these dreams was that it seemed to be the same dream, repeated over and over again. It felt like a silver veil, slowly drawing open and revealing something that gradually got clearer and more detailed... or perhaps Cedric's death had really unhinged him. Whichever it was, Harry felt that he could do without it. It was hard enough to get to sleep in this heat without being woken by odd visions in the middle of the night. Even if they were important... what was he going to say? It was bad enough when he had to tell Sirius about his scar hurting... now he was going to write telling his friends that the bad dreams were keeping him awake? Harry winced at the thought of what kind of reception a letter like that would receive... Ron would think he'd gone off his onion.

Harry lay back down on his bed, not bothering to replace the sheet, although he did yank back the pillow before it fell to the ground. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the last wisps of the dream. Nothing came to him other then an impression that it had something to do with Hermione.

After nearly an hour with no success, he finally fell back asleep.

---

He was uncomfortably warm when he heard the smart taps of someone rapping fingernails on his door.

"Wha...?" Harry attempted to turn over and ended up falling off the edge of the bed with a loud, "Oof!"

The door cracked open, revealing Aunt Petunia's horse-like face, her blue eyes darting all about the room. "Get up!" she hissed. "And get that stuff in a box! We've got an hour and a half before we start... hurry!"

She then dashed out of sight, leaving the door half open and a very confused Harry, who had to think for a good thirty seconds to realize what his Aunt was talking about before it clicked-- and Harry felt the blood drain from his face.

The lot sale.

Ordinarily, he loved lot sales... picking out interesting objects from people's used things, wondering what the history was behind some of the more battered pieces, giving change he had found on the sidewalk to hopeful looking four-year-olds at lemonade stands... This one couldn't have been more dreaded. Aunt Petunia, apparently, had come to the decision that there wasn't enough space around the house, and that all their extra junk had to be gotten rid of at once. She probably would have taken box upon box to the dump, had not her friend Yvonne talked her into something different-- making money for getting rid of things. The end result was his aunt, racing around like a mad woman for the past two weeks, collecting everything that she no longer saw as necessary and throwing it into boxes. Everything had been labeled. Everything had been sorted. It was as if the most maniac perfectionist in the world had set out to create the flawless lot sale.

Of course, she had had some difficulties-- especially where Dudley was concerned. The boy felt that he simply must have his old alphabet blanket (confirming Harry's long time suspicions that his cousin was much too stupid to read), his broken robot, his squashed bird cage, his three-sizes-too-small sneakers, his old aliens game that he hadn't played in four years, and other various pieces of junk that he had acquired. The outcome of this had been much wailing on Dudley's part as Petunia fought between her two current obsessions-- keeping the house clutter free, and making her Duddykins happy. In the end she promised getting her son at least twenty new presents with the money she made from selling off his toys. Uncle Vernon and Harry both stood on the sidelines, watching from a distance, until Vernon announced he was getting a headache and got himself a set of earplugs.

Harry would have been all too happy to join him; however, Aunt Petunia had other plans for him. The last few days had been filled with sorting the junk, by name, usage, size, color... it was enough to make him go insane.

The only room in the house she hadn't touched was his room, and apparently she had remembered the bookcase with Dudley's junk in it. Harry got dressed quickly and turned to the shelves with the boxes. He took two steps forward, blinked, then spun around and raced for the restroom instead.

A few minutes later, Harry opened the restroom door, feeling greatly relieved, and returned to his own room, where he was surprised to see all the boxes had already been cleared out. Apparently, Aunt Petunia had rushed in impatiently, heard the bathroom being occupied, put two and two together, and simply got them herself. All the shelves had been completely cleared off, leaving room for Harry's old schoolbooks he still had stashed in the cupboard beneath the stairs, not to mention his new birthday presents.

From downstairs came the sounds of his Aunt's rapid pacing, making everything just perfect... it was almost six thirty, and she expected people to show up at eight, leaving herself very little time to set everything out superlatively, as she had planned.

Harry shut the books on Quidditch and absently moved them to the bookshelf, without cleaning it. Once his schoolbooks were stored, Harry moved on to his odds and ends from his trunk-- a small bag of sickles and knuts, a working model of a Firebolt sent to him (Harry's stomach had done odd gymnastics upon reading the signature of the unexpected letter) by Cedric Diggory's parents, his broomstick maintenance kit, omnioculars, and other oddities. An hour later, all of his things had found a home on the newly cleared bit of space, and Harry was feeling rather cheerful, although a little voice in the back of his mind kept tugging at him, like he had forgotten something quite important.

Fifteen minutes till eight, Aunt Petunia opened the door once more. "Breakfast," she said shortly, pushing a bowl of dry cereal onto his desk. "And you're not to come downstairs."

Harry nodded; he'd expected this. He felt tempted to open a window-- already it was getting incredibly warm and stuffy. Although the outside would be warmer, if anything, there was at least some chance of a breeze blowing in. Harry pushed the window open, checking for wind. There was none.

For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of climbing out the window onto the lawn, and then spending the day wandering around the neighborhood. He stopped this train of thought almost immediately, flinching and glanced toward the bookcase in anticipation of the shrieking the Sneakoscope usually emitted when he started considering ideas like that.

Not only was the Sneakoscope silent, it wasn't on the shelf.

Harry blinked, crossing the room. It was there when he woke up... along with the boxes...

Then it clicked.

Aunt Petunia must have thought the Sneakoscope was a cheap top and thrown it in a box with everything else... then taken it down to her lot sale.

It wouldn't really have been so much of a problem, had Harry not known her well enough to know his aunt was quite willing to use slightly... dishonest... methods, if it would get her what she wanted. In this case, rid of what she considered to be trash.

As soon as she died lie, the Sneakoscope would go off, and since it would be out in the open, almost everyone would hear it, regardless of Hermione's clever Muting Spell. In short, Harry had to get that back, and as soon as possible... if he wasn't all ready too late.

Harry's eyes went wide, and he raced to the hall window. The first car had pulled up to the sale.

"Uh oh..."

---

Harry walked down the stairs, sweating under the invisibility cloak. The bottom stair creaked splendidly under his weight, making Harry wince... but as both Uncle Vernon and Dudley were still asleep, it wasn't noticed.

The boy brushed his black bangs out of his eyes once more, and slipped quietly out the back door, narrowly avoiding catching his cloak on the screen door, which closed with a brief squeal of slightly rusted hinges. He walked quietly along the grassy lawn, trying to stay on the shortest bits, to avoid anyone seeing the footprints being made and wondering why the Invisible Man had graced Privet Drive with his presence.

Two old ladies (one of which was crazy old Mrs. Figg, who held a cat in one arm and swung an old cane with her free hand) were browsing the tables, while a tired looking mum chased around her eight year old daughter. The child was so frantic Harry had to wonder how he'd manage to get close enough to search for the Sneakoscope at all without being bumped into. Aunt Petunia's high, false laugh echoed from the shade of the house, where she had positioned herself and her money box.

Harry slipped into the rows of tables, which were set so close together that he'd have to be extra careful to avoid everyone and be prepared to dive out of the way at any time. First glancing at the hyper little girl, he started going over the tables, searching for that box Petunia took from his room.

He didn't get long to look-- fifteen seconds after he had started, Mrs. Figg's cat yowled, its great yellow eyes fixed on the spot Harry was standing.

Mrs. Figg stopped dead. "What is it, Tibbles?"

Harry tried to ease out of his position without being noticed. He took a single, slow step, kicked a pebble with his foot, and froze once more.

The old lady's eyes narrowed, and she looked back at her cat. "You see something, sweetie?"

Harry decided to forget caution for a moment and dove under the table, brushing the tablecloth as he passed. Mrs. Figg must have caught sight of the swaying fabric, because she took three steps forward and examined the phenomenon carefully. This wouldn't have been a problem for poor Harry had not the crazy lady decided to set her cane firmly on the edge of his cloak.

Harry, beneath the table, froze on the spot. Mrs. Figg was talking to Tibbles again, in the same sickly-sweet voice. For a woman so old, her grip on the stick was surprisingly strong, and Harry couldn't pull it away without fear of damaging the precious fabric.

One minute passed. The old lady had apparently had developed a sudden interest in the old kitchenware above Harry, and the cane didn't move. Another minute. Harry tried pulling gently at the cloak, to no avail. Three minutes. Was Mrs. Figg just going to stand there forever?

"Oops!" A small plastic saucer fell to the ground. The old woman bent down, to the point where Harry could smell her garlicky breath and hear her bones creak. She retrieved the item, her fingers brushing against the surface of the cloak, but if Mrs. Figg noticed anything, she didn't show it.

The cane moved, finally, and Harry jerked the invisible fabric away at top speed.

To Aunt Petunia's credit, the Sneakoscope hadn't gone off yet... or else Harry was just out of hearing range. The boy wiped his forehead (it really was much too hot to be doing this kind of thing) and started crawling under the tables, hoping to find the item before someone else did. With every move he made, though, he stirred some dust or made an odd shuffling noise that would have been disastrous had anyone been paying attention to him.

Three minutes later, Harry had gotten some bad news and some good news. The good news was that he'd spotted his Sneakoscope. The bad news was that it was next to Aunt Petunia's lawn chair, lying amidst several old electronic robots and three torn comic books. Old Mrs. Figg was standing nearby as well, looking at a stuffed animal and asking Tibbles deafly if he wanted a new toy. Harry slowed his pace-- the old wacko, had she looked beyond her cat, could have seen the dry grass folding under his feet easily.

Harry cringed and pondered whether walking faster or slower would be the better course of action, and in so doing more or less retained his previous pace, taking two fast steps, then flinching and standing still for a moment.

Ten feet from the Sneakoscope.

He could see it so very clearly—the direct sunlight shining off its multicolored surface. He took another two steps, careful not to disturb anything. Another two steps.

A woman almost touched him, brushing past the boy and holding an old electronic can opener with a slight frown on her face. Aunt Petunia leaned forward, wearing a stiff smile. Harry almost sighed out loud in relief before he caught sight of Crazy Mrs. Figg, closer than ever and standing a foot away from the artifact.

Aunt Petunia, talking to the woman, nodded sagely. "Of course it works--" she began.

The Sneakoscope let loose with a loud shriek, a sound that seemed deafening in the quiet yard. Harry's eyes widened, Aunt Petunia jumped to her feet, her face gone pale, and the woman flinched, looking for whatever was making the hateful noise.

It lasted only a fraction of a second, before Mrs. Figg's cane slammed down on the artifact, breaking the cheap thing into five pieces. The sound and the glow at once ceased.

Harry's green eyes remained on the pieces of the Sneakoscope, and he felt a strange urge to gather them up in his hands and bring them back to his room. He'd had it for almost two years, and while it never had told him anything useful, he had to admit that he didn't necessarily want to lose it.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Figg peered around blindly. "Did I step on something?"

Aunt Petunia's watery blue eyes darted to the ground and the smashed 'top', and at once the cardboard smile returned to her face. "... I'm afraid you broke it."

"Oh, dear." The old lady appeared dumbfounded. "I'd better pay for it then... what did I wreck?"

Harry snapped out of his trance, looking for a good way to get back into his room before he was caught, while his aunt tried to swindle the Insane One, who appeared to be trying to pay her in kitty treats.

First problem between Harry and the house was the table before him. He ducked under the tablecloth with little effort to go unnoticed, more than likely making the fabric sway terribly.

Mrs. Figg's head snapped up. She dug in her purse, pulled out a five pound note, thrust it at Aunt Petunia, and said something about her cat's feeding time. Then she went around the tables in the other direction, towards the house. Tibbles meowed loudly, and the lady put the cat on the ground, where it at once bounded towards Harry.

"Back off," Harry hissed at it softly, as the tortoiseshell tried to rub against his leg. He hadn't counted on this as being an issue; no cat had ever spotted him under the cloak, not even Mrs. Norris or Crookshanks... although with Crookshanks one could never be too sure.

The cat took paid no heed to Harry's words, and he took a step backwards. The dry grass crunched beneath his feet and the cat raised its head, sniffing the air experimentally.

Mrs. Figg, of course, tried to follow her cat, calling 'Tibbles!' rather loudly. Harry backed up another pace, then broke into an all out run past the side of the house, but was so busy looking back over his shoulder that he tripped over an unused lawn sprinkler and fell into the grass, the cloak still, thankfully, covering him.

Harry swore under his breath. The cat's eyes followed the movement of the sprinkler, but beside that, seemed to have little idea of where his unseen prey might be.

Mrs. Figg's hazel eyes sparkled behind her thick glasses, and she took six steps forward. Not her usual slow pace, but quick and purposeful across the grass to pin his cloak beneath her cane and grip the fabric all in one fluid motion.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't tear this," she said quietly.

"Don't!" Harry did the first thing that came to mind and pulled the hood of the cloak off and raised his hands in front of him. "It's just me. Harry!"

The old lady's eyes softened, and she released the silvery smooth fabric to stand up straight. "Don't use that around here, lad," she warned, turning her head slightly so she could glance behind her. "And get back in the house."

Harry nodded, rising to his feet. His face was red from the heat and the prospect of being caught, and the glasses he wore were sliding down his nose, causing his vision to blur. Wordlessly, he pulled the hood back on, turned, and ran to the side door. Once there, he opened the screen, turned....

And saw crazy old Mrs. Figg waving about her cane and calling loudly for Tibbles, apparently lost. Over the house, a barn owl flew into the window he had left open that morning, and Harry entered the house, trying to imagine what on earth the old loony was up to.

He ran up the stairs—Harry didn't care who he ran into now; he was too busy being relieved—and into his room. A letter lay on his desk, next to Hedwig's cage, and the snowy owl shook her plumage as the door opened and the boy pulled off the cloak and crossed the room, grabbing the letter and carefully tucking the invisibility cloak back into his trunk before examining the parchment more carefully.

It seemed to be the typical Hogwarts letter, bearing the school crest and motto on the seal. He opened the letter, reading through the list of books and school supplies he'd be needing (his eyebrows rose when he saw that 'dress robes' was still under 'uniform'). There was no prefect badge.

Something like disappointment crept up into Harry's eyes, then vanished as soon as it came. Being a prefect was probably boring anyway—he'd hear all about it from Hermione, no doubt.

He sat down on his desk, dropping the paper and putting his head in his hands for a full five minutes before looking up at his half finished letter to Ron. He picked the quill back up, dipped it into the inkwell, and continued writing without really paying attention to what he was doing. At last, he picked the note up, tied it to Hedwig's leg, and watched his disgruntled owl fly off over the tops of the houses on Privet Drive.

Harry sat at the window for a good five minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, once, he thought he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Figg's meandering walk, but as soon as he turned his head, it was gone. Maybe she was a witch, Harry mused silently. His room was stifling hot, even though it was still fairly early in the morning, and all he really wanted to do was to pull the cool sheets over his head and fall back asleep.

Maybe he wouldn't dream again...

With that thought, Harry pulled down the blinds and collapsed on his bed, burying his face into the pillow. Within half an hour, the boy was sound asleep.

It had been a long, long day.