Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light

Harry Potter and the Legacy of the Light
A Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising Sequence Fusion
By: Gramarye

Chapter Two - Arrivals and Departures

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I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest....

-- "The Boxer", Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

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Harry had his doubts about sharing a taxi with an adult who could
barely be called an acquaintance. Yet as it turned out, Professor
Stanton's idea of 'company' suited Harry perfectly. Not five minutes
after leaving King's Cross Station, the older man had opened his
worn briefcase and pulled out several folders filled with paper, page
after page covered with scribbles and notes in a fine but messy hand.

"Chapters for a book I'm writing," he had explained, shuffling
through the papers in his lap. "They need a lot of editing. I have
an unfortunate tendency to get carried away with ideas and lose
sight of the big picture...or more often, proper grammar."

Harry had smiled politely, and buried his nose in Hermione's book.

It was a relief to read a regular book, a novel, one that didn't
focus on spells or potions or even the finer points of Quidditch.
He dove into the story head first, losing himself in the tales of the
young veterinarian's hectic first year of practice in the Yorkshire
Dales. Dealing with normal farm animals sounded almost as painful
as some of the nastier parts of his Care of Magical Creatures
class--only without the off chance that you'd find your eyebrows
burned to a crisp by a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

The soft, regular scratch of Professor Stanton's pen was soothing.
He read quickly, easily, not noticing that his head was nodding, or
that the book gradually felt heavier and heavier in his hands....

The thick volume slid from his fingers and landed on the floor of
the taxi with a soft thump. He was fast asleep.

* * *

The elderly driver adjusted his rear-view mirror. His shrewd eyes
softened at the sight of Harry's dozing form, and his grim features
relaxed into an indulgent smile. "Heh...th' young lad's tired out,
I see."

"Yes," Professor Stanton said quietly, removing his glasses and
folding them. His movements were very painstaking and deliberate,
and when he had finished he sat quite still, so as not to disturb
Harry. "He's had a hard year, it seems."

"Well, at least he's got a nice long holiday to look forward to.
Have himself a rest."

"So one would hope." Professor Stanton turned his thoughtful gaze
on the sleeping boy, and a hint of sadness crept into his voice.
"So one would hope...."

"Something wrong, sir?" The driver looked puzzled, but his voice was
wary, almost suspicious.

"No, nothing," Professor Stanton said crisply. He turned back to his
notes, but after a moment he set his pen down and said to the driver,
"Oh, by the way...."

"Yes, sir?"

Professor Stanton gestured to Harry, who was curled into a tight ball
in one corner of the taxi. "I don't think he has enough money on him
to cover the cost of this trip, but I don't want him to worry about it.
I will make up the difference on his fare. Please let me know if he
still owes money when we arrive."

"Of course," the driver replied with a nod. Any suspicions he may have
had about the gentleman's conduct vanished; as a doting grandfather and
a devout churchman, he had a high regard for those who showed kindness
to strangers, especially children. "Right generous of you, sir."

Professor Stanton shook his head. "Not generous. Just...concerned."

* * *

Harry awoke with a start at the sound of a car door slamming. It took
him a few moments to remember where he was. He ran a hand through
his mussy hair, pushing it away from his face.

"Mr. Potter, I think we've arrived," Professor Stanton said, shaking
him gently.

"Oh...oh, right." The nap hadn't made him feel any better, or even
more rested. His head still ached, and his mouth was dry. The only
blessing was that his nap had been free of dreams. Any sleep that
wasn't interrupted with visions of dead bodies and flashing green
lights had been infrequent of late.

Even with that good fortune, it still took a lot of effort to climb out
of the back seat of the taxi.

The driver had set his trunk on the front walk of Number Four, Privet
Drive. "There you are, lad. Need any help?"

"No, thanks. I think I've got everything." Harry dug in his pocket and
pulled out the wad of money. He was about to hand it over, but
something made him pause. He stared at the money for a moment as a
wave of cold horror washed through his body...he suddenly realized
that he hadn't bothered to count them. Not only that, he had no idea
how much the fare was, or how much to tip, or anything else.

The driver took the notes, casually ruffled through them, and tucked
them in his pocket. "Just right, young man. Seventy-five pounds
exactly--and thank you for the custom. Want your receipt?"

Harry gaped dumbly, then blinked. "Ah...no, no, thank you."

"Right." The driver winked, and touched his cap in farewell. "Take
care, now."

"Thank you," Harry said. He wasn't entirely sure what had occurred,
but since the driver had let him keep his luggage, he assumed that he'd
had enough money for the fare and everything was fine.

The taxi spluttered as the engine started, then revved loudly as it
drove off. Harry looked back, but it had turned down the side street
and was roaring out of sight.

He dragged his trunk up the walk, letting it fall with a loud bang on
the top step. All he wanted was to get inside and go hide in his room
for a while, though he knew he'd most likely end up raking the lawn
or weeding the garden before dinner. With a resigned sigh, he
turned the doorknob.

Locked.

He grunted irritably. Exactly what he needed--for all of them to be
out somewhere.

To be certain, he lifted the knocker and rapped once, twice, three
times on the front door.

The door opened a crack, and a wide eye peered out. After a moment,
the door opened a little wider to reveal a small, pudgy boy with a
grubby face, sucking on a lolly. He stared at Harry, his piggy eyes
glittering.

"'Oo are you?" the boy said around the mouthful of candy, rubbing his
runny nose on the sleeve of his faded shirt.

Harry gaped. He checked the house number; the lacquered house number
was a number four, and it was in the same position it had been when he
left. He was certainly on Privet Drive. It was the same house--but it
couldn't be.

"I...I...I live here," he stammered. "Who are you?"

The boy squinted at Harry, then leaned back and called out to an unseen
person indoors.

"MUUUUUUM!"

Harry jumped at the sheer volume of the boy's yell. It beat any of
Dudley's temper tantrums by a long shot.

He heard the slap-slap of slippers on the tiled floor, and stepped back
in shock as a middle-aged woman shuffled to the door. She wore a dirty
apron over an old print frock. Strands of greying hair straggled from
the kerchief that covered her head. A half-smoked cigarette dangled
from her lips, and to Harry's disgust she puffed out a miasma of stale
smoke, the stench of which permeated the once-painfully clean house.

"Get yer tea, Billy." The woman shooed the boy away from the door, and
turned to Harry. "Well?" she barked.

"I...I live here," Harry repeated thickly.

"Live 'ere?" She coughed heavily, and took a long drag on her stub of
a cigarette. "Wot 're you talkin' about?"

Harry tried a different tactic. "What happened to the Dursleys?"

"Dursleys?" Her face screwed up in momentary concentration as she
tried to process the information.

"The family that live...er, lived here before. The Dursleys. Vernon
and Petunia Dursley." He couldn't believe he was standing on his own
front step having this impossible conversation. Growing desperation
sharpened his voice. "What happened to them? Where are they?"

The woman shrugged, frowning his change of tone. "Well, 'ow should I
know? They're gone, aren't they? Didn't anyone tell you?"

"What--?"

The frown grew deeper, angrier. "They MOVED, boy!" she shouted,
sending a fine cloud of cigarette ash spraying all over him. "Moved!
Gone! Now go 'ome and quit botherin' us!"

She shut the door firmly.

Harry didn't move. Maybe, if he stood there long enough, and waited
very patiently, Aunt Petunia would come, open the door, and yell at
him to get inside and not track dirt all over her freshly cleaned
floors. Uncle Vernon would order him to mow the lawn if he wanted to
have anything to eat tonight. And Dudley would try to hit him with
the knobbly Smeltings stick he was so proud of. He would stand on the
step and wait until one of them opened the door.

He heard a rattle. The flap on the letter box was pushed outward, then
fell shut with a snap.

"Mummy, that boy's still 'ere! Make 'im go away!" It was a different
voice, a little girl's this time, whiny and petulant.

The woman's voice returned, more irritated than before. "Get in th'
kitchen and finish yer mash, Daisy. Take the baby."

The door opened once again, and the bedraggled woman stared at
him, her mouth firmly set in disdain. "'Ere, what're you doin'? I told you,
they're gone. They don't live 'ere. What are you waitin' for?"

Harry met her accusing gaze with a tranquility born of extreme
fatigue. "I used to live here. Where did the Dursleys...where did
the people who lived here before move to?"

The woman began to shut the door, but stopped short. She stared at
Harry as if seeing him for the first time. Her widening eyes took in his
pinched face, then flicked upward to the scar on his forehead, then
down to the trunk and cage at his feet.

The cigarette fell from her lips and landed on the doormat, leaving a
scorch mark.

"You...you're that boy." Her voice was shaking, filled with dread
and fascinated horror. "They told us about you. About the freak."

Something seemed to snap inside of her, and she backed away, staring
fearfully at Harry as though he were about to murder her and then come
after her children. "If you don't get out of 'ere in five seconds I'll
call th' police, I will. Go on, get out!"

"Wait--" Harry pleaded, desperately reaching out with one hand to stop
her from closing the door.

She leaped away from his outstretched hand. "GET OUT!" she screamed,
her cry rising to a painfully shrill pitch.

The door slammed in his face. The deadbolt lock snicked shut with an
ominous click.

He heard the sound of a telephone rattling in its cradle and a baby's
loud wailing, followed by a child's fretful screams.

He let his hand fall to his side and hang there.

"Mr. Potter."

The voice behind him was quiet, gentle. A sharp contrast to the noises
he heard coming from inside the house.

"Harry."

At the sound of his first name, Harry looked up bleakly. Professor
Stanton was there. He knelt down, eye to eye with Harry.

"Come with me, Harry," he said. He spoke very slowly and deliberately,
as if to a small child. "There's a friend waiting for you, not far from here.
I'll take you there."

Harry couldn't summon enough energy to form words, or even to open his
mouth. He nodded mutely.

Professor Stanton hefted the trunk onto one shoulder and handed Harry
the owl cage. With his free hand, he guided Harry down the walk and
away from the house.

Harry stumbled along, cage banging against his shins, not seeing
anything. His legs acted of their own free will, propelling him
forward like an automaton. He didn't know where he was going,
only that he was being led to meet someone.

A friend.

Going to meet a friend.

He couldn't tell how much time passed. It felt like a few moments, but
it could have been an hour for all he knew. As long as the hand was
behind him, helping him forward, he would just keep walking. But he
was tired...so very tired....

"Almost there, Harry."

Good. They were almost there. Wherever 'there' was. It wouldn't be
much longer now. He let his eyes drift out of focus, because it took
too much effort to look straight ahead.

The hand on his shoulder tightened, holding him back, and his legs
stopped moving. When he could focus once again, he saw that he was
standing before the front door of a different house, not as nice as
the one that had just slammed in his face. The paint on the door was
chipped and beginning to peel off in thin strips.

The door opened. His nostrils were assailed by a very strong and
unpleasant odour, one that he knew he should remember.

"Harry!"

The voice was thready, cracking from what sounded like lack of use.
The face hovering above him was blurry, but familiar. He squinted at
it, vainly trying to recall where he had last seen it...and heard that
voice...and smelled that particularly pungent aroma of cat....

The last thing he heard before his senses deserted him was a deep
murmuring, and the thready voice saying in a low snarl, quite different
from its original tone:

"Those blasted Muggles--good riddance to them."