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 Four - Postman's Knock

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What joy is better than the news of friends?

-- Robert Browning

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Harry awoke on the morning of his fifteenth birthday to the sound of
the postman rattling the metal flap of the letterbox.

He sprang out of bed in one fluid movement, pulling on his new dressing
gown as he flew down the stairs to scoop up the tidy pile of letters that
had been deposited on the front hall floor.

As he knelt on the cool tiles of the hall, he deftly sorted through the
day's post. Two parcel notices for oversized items; he would have to
go down to the post office later in the day to pick them up. He tossed
aside a coloured advertisement and a couple of bills. Two envelopes
immediately caught his eye: a very thick one from Hermione and a
thinner one without a return address.

He carried the post into the kitchen and set it on the table, then
filled the kettle--a new non-electric one that Mrs. Figg had caved in
and purchased the week before--and set it to boil. He sat down on a
kitchen chair, tucking his legs under him. Whistling softly under his
breath, he slit the thick envelope open and pulled out a folded sheet
of paper and another, smaller envelope, addressed to him in Ron's hasty
scrawl. Setting aside the envelope, he unfolded Hermione's letter and
began to read.

Dear Harry [it said],

Happy birthday! I hope you get this letter
on time--you know what the Muggle post is like.
I've enclosed Ron's letter as well. He couldn't
remember how many stamps to use, and I told him
that using too many would only make the envelope
look suspicious, so he decided to just owl both it
and your birthday present to me and let me pass
them on to you.

How's life without the Dursleys? Is Mrs. Figg
spoiling you rotten? I'm sorry I haven't written
very often, but since you told me that secrecy was
of the utmost importance, I figured that it would
be better to restrict my correspondence. But I
couldn't forget your birthday present; you'll just
have to go and pick it up, that's all. What a
bother it is to not be able to use owls!

Things are fine at home, but I can't wait to get
back to school. I'm so tired of swapping labels
on boxes of files and typing up National Health
forms for cavity fillings. At least I have enough
saved up to buy that boxed set of "Neo-Pythagorean
Approaches to Arithmancy" I've had my eye on all
summer.

Will you be spending the last few weeks at the
Burrow again this year? Will you be coming to
Diagon Alley to get school supplies? Let me know,
and I'll tell Ron. I don't think they get Muggle
post at the Burrow, but you could always try
sending him a letter yourself. I'm sure that
Ron's dad would love to get a letter delivered
by a real live Muggle postman.

Well, I should be going, so I hope to see you soon!
Happy birthday!

Love from
Hermione

"'Neo-Pythagorean Approaches to Arithmancy'? Is she off her rocker?"
mumbled Harry, returning her letter to its envelope.

A hand ruffled his hair, making him leap away in surprise.

"Well, I thought I was going to be the first one up, but you beat me to
it," Mrs. Figg said. She had entered the kitchen so silently that he
hadn't even noticed. "Happy birthday, brat. What would you like for
breakfast? We've got waffle mix, or I can make scrambled eggs...."

"Waffles, please, if that's okay," Harry said. "With lots of syrup.
And sausages."

"I think I can manage that." She rummaged through the cupboards
and pulled out measuring cups and an old blackened waffle iron.
"And how about your birthday dinner?"

"Whatever you're making 's fine with me," said Harry.

"Don't you want anything in particular?"

He opened the envelope containing Ron's letter. "No, not really."

"Oh, Harry, you just don't get it, do you?" Mrs. Figg said with a
laugh. "It's your birthday. Come on, choose whatever you want for
dinner, and I'll do my best to whip it up. Or we could even go out
to a restaurant, if you like. You're the birthday boy--it's your
decision."

As Mrs. Figg's words sank in, Harry suddenly felt a stinging sensation
in his eyes and nose, and blinked rapidly to try and get rid of it.
For years, the Dursleys had barely acknowledged his birthday. He had
watched silently, longingly as Dudley had received expensive presents
which would be forgotten in a month's time, elaborate birthday cakes
that would be reduced to a mess of crumbs and icing, and above all,
lavish praise from his doting parents. Now, having the chance to pick
a menu filled with his favourite foods, or being given the prospect of
visiting any restaurant and ordering whatever he wanted....it was
almost too much for him to bear.

"I don't know," he whispered helplessly.

Mrs. Figg looked at him with compassion, her eyes bright with tears
and understanding. "Tell you what," she said huskily. "You sit down
and read your letters, and I'll finish with breakfast. Then we'll go and
pick up your packages, and you can take your time and think about
what you'd like to do for a birthday treat. Just let me know when
you're ready."

"All right," said Harry, intensely relieved that he wouldn't be forced
to make an on-the-spot decision.

He read through Ron's letter, his mouth watering as the rich aroma of
frying sausages filled the small kitchen.

Hey Harry!

Happy birthday, to start. It feels so weird to not
use an owl to send the post. Hermione says she does
it all the time, but Muggles just don't know what
they're missing, not having owls.

Mum says to tell you that you're more than welcome
to spend the last few weeks with us if you want to,
though since you aren't living with the Dursleys
anymore, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't want
to come. To tell the truth, it's not exactly all fun and
games round here at the moment. Dad and Percy got
in a huge fight last night at dinner about Fudge and
the Ministry and You-Know-Who. Percy was being an
ass, as usual. So now they're not speaking to each
other, and Mum won't speak to Percy because Percy
said that Dumbledore was, and I quote, "past it". As
usual, Fred and George aren't being much help--they
ruined one of Mum's best cooking pots the other day,
working on some new project of theirs called
"Weasley's Jumping Jelly-Babies", and now
she's furious at them, too. So all told, things
are pretty crazy here. But I'd like to see you,
and I know that Ginny does, too.

I probably should keep this letter short, since I
don't know how well Errol will hold up if it's any
heavier. Mum told me to use him to send this to
Hermione. She still doesn't trust Pig to deliver
the post properly. Let me know through Hermione
what your plans are, all right?

Cheers,
Ron

As he finished reading Ron's letter, Mrs. Figg set a plate before him.
"Eat up, eat up. There's more where this came from."

The third envelope was momentarily set aside to take care of more
immediate needs. He speared a sausage link on the tines of his fork
and used it to mop up the sticky syrup. Eating dripping waffles and
reading the post at the same time is no small feat, but Harry did so as
only a growing fifteen year-old boy can. Only when the first batch of
waffles had disappeared under his knife and fork did he pick up the
last letter.

Dear Harry,

With any luck, this letter will arrive in time
to wish you a happy birthday on the actual day.
It's been a long, long while since I sent a
letter the Muggle way, so I can only hope that
it doesn't end up lost or returned or whatnot.
It's a pity that you can't receive owls, but
since Arabella Figg's done just fine without
them for so long, I suppose I can grit my teeth
and bear a little inconvenience.

I hope your summer's been more enjoyable than
some previous ones. I almost couldn't believe
it when Dumbledore informed me that you'd be
living with Arabella. It's a comfort to hear
that you're in such capable hands. Arabella
Figg was, and is, one of the best Aurors we've
got, and if anyone can keep you safe until
school starts again, she can.

I don't know how much you've heard, but things
aren't going too well in the wizarding world.
What with the in-fighting amongst the Ministry
members, flying rumours, and tension all round,
everyone's tempers have been on edge. That idiot
Fudge still refuses to accept that the Dark Lord
has returned, and as long as his opinion is the
official opinion of the Ministry of Magic, we're
all at a standstill. I'm only hearing this as
secondhand information, of course, but I still
don't like the sound of it. It looks like we'll
just have to wait and see how all this plays out.

I truly wish that I could come and see you, but
until Wormtail is caught and turned in to the
authorities, it's not safe for me to be out. I
can't even tell you where I am, but I thought I
should let you know that I'm all right, and so
is Remus. Speaking of Remus, he wants to write
a few lines, so I'll turn the pen over to him
for a moment.

[Here, the handwriting changed from a cursive scrawl to a tidy block
printing]

Happy birthday, Harry. Fifteen already, eh?
Old folks like your godfather and myself don't
bother to count birthdays any more--it just
makes us feel more ancient than we already are.

I hope that you're enjoying yourself before
school starts, and that Arabella isn't running
you ragged with drills and making you rewrite
your essays ten times before she's satisfied.
She's just getting back into form, so she needs
someone to practise on...but I'll stop there
before I say too much and spoil everything.

Sirius is starting to look rather edgy, so I
think I'd better say goodbye for now. Take
care of yourself, Harry. I'm thinking of you,
and we both wish we could be there to help you
have a proper celebration. Of course, there's
always next year.

Yours,
Remus Lupin

[The handwriting changed back to Sirius' script]

Anyway, as I was saying, I wanted to let you
know that your birthday present is going to be
a little late this year. I don't trust the post
enough to handle your present, so it'll have to
wait until you get to school. Once you see what
it is, though, I know you won't mind the wait.

Happy birthday, Harry, and many more to come.

All my love,
Sirius

"Good news from your godfather, Harry?" Mrs. Figg asked brightly,
sliding another waffle onto his plate.

Harry nearly choked on a chunk of sausage, and had to gulp down
water to shift the spicy lump of meat from his throat. Eyes streaming,
he coughed and blinked at his elderly guardian, who had a mysterious,
knowing little grin on her lips.

"Don't worry...I'm nothing if not discreet," she said. "Dumbledore
sent me a letter a while ago, explaining everything. And I do mean
everything." She shook her head, still smiling at Harry. "You're a
piece of work, brat, you know that? Just like your father. And your
godfather, come to think of it."

Harry didn't know whether he should be offended or filled with pride.
He decided on a combination of the two. "Thanks, I think."

"Any time." She chuckled. "Now eat. You want to go to the post
office, don't you?"

Once the breakfast dishes were dry, they went to the post office to
pick up Harry's presents, as Mrs. Figg had promised. The two parcel
slips turned out to be from Ron and Hermione respectively. Hermione
had sent two books: a slim but large volume titled "Secrets of the
Seekers--New Quidditch Strategies and Tips", and another James Herriot
book, "All Things Bright and Beautiful", the sequel to the one she had
lent him. Ron's gift was a squashy parcel of fresh gooseberry tarts,
which he had labelled as a combination present from his mother and
Ginny, and a new Chudley Cannons promotional poster, the seven players
resplendent in their best orange robes and the team's cannonball logo
emblazoned across the background.

The remainder of the day passed like a wonderful dream. He loafed
around the house, reading his new books and napping when he felt like
it. After a quick lunch, Mrs. Figg banned him from the kitchen so she
could bake his birthday cake, and he spent much of the afternoon
sitting in the front hall, relishing the rich scent of chocolate that
wafted through the open door.

For dinner, he suggested going to a restaurant, mostly because he'd
never really been to one with anyone but the Dursleys before. He had
no idea where to go, but by chance, the colourful advertisement that
had come with the morning post had been for a recently-opened Indian
restaurant not far from the house. Mrs. Figg, upon learning that he'd
never eaten Indian food, declared that he'd love it--and that was that.

It was Harry's first time in an ethnic restaurant; Vernon Dursley
refused to touch that "nasty cat food", as he called it, and Dudley
would have rather died of starvation than go to a restaurant that
didn't feature hamburgers and chips as the highlight of the menu.
He stared at the menu for a long time, not because he was being
overly selective but because he was trying to find a dish that he
could pronounce.

Mrs. Figg, however, was rattling off her selections like a culinary
expert. "I'll have samosas to start, then the tandoori chicken tikka
with a side of keema naan. Oh, and I'd like the chicken to be 'Indian
hot', please."

"And to drink, madam?" their waitress asked, copying the order down.

"Oh, just some mango juice, please." She handed her menu to the
waitress. "Harry, what would you like?"

Harry wordlessly pointed to one of the dishes that had the word "mild"
in its description, choosing discretion over valour.

The waitress nodded. "Bewali chicken...very good, sir. And to drink?"

"Just the water, please," Harry said faintly.

The waitress nodded again, took his menu, and left them.

Harry decided that now would be a good time to broach the subject of
visit to the Burrow, before their food came and made conversation
difficult. He had no idea how she would respond, but he was terrified
that she would forbid it outright in the name of his safety or her peace
of mind or some other unarguable cause. The best he could do would
be to start slowly, choose his words very carefully, and above all,
act casually.

"Thank you so much for taking me to dinner, Mrs. Figg," he said,
flashing his most winning smile.

"Not at all, Harry. Are you enjoying your birthday?"

"It's been lovely." He took a quick sip of water. "It was great to
hear from Ron and Hermione again. It feels like ages since I've seen
them."

"Well, you'll be back in school soon enough," said Mrs. Figg lightly,
noncommittally.

"Yeah." Harry frowned at that, but decided to press on. "You know,
Ron told me something funny in his letter. You know what he said?"

"Hmmm?" She was busy studying a series of framed black-and-white
photographs of the Taj Mahal that hung on one of the restaurant's
walls.

"He...he said that his mum was wondering if I'd be coming to Diagon
Alley to get school supplies before classes start." Not a complete
lie, just a minor stretching of the truth.

Mrs. Figg smiled lazily, not really hearing him. "Really? Oh, I'm
sure we'll figure out something."

Harry's eye twitched. This wasn't quite how it was supposed to go.

"Oh, of course. But I thought...I mean, the last few summers, I spent
a couple of days with Ron's family, just to make it easier to get to
Diagon Alley. Much less bother for everyone, you know." He laughed,
trying to sound genial.

Mrs. Figg leaned back in her chair. The lazy smile was gone, replaced
with a grim frown and a sour stare. "And so you were wanting to do the
same this year? Spend the last few weeks with the Weasleys?"

"Um...well...well, yes," he blurted out, then added, "that is, if it's
all right with you, of course."

"We'll see."

Harry bit his lip, but said nothing. He knew that tone of voice all
too well. When adults said, "We'll see", it usually meant "Chances
are, you're not going to get your way".

But at that point, their food arrived, and Harry's plots and plans
to visit the Burrow took second place to his sudden discovery that a
food described as 'mild' in an Indian restaurant is not exactly 'mild'
to someone who had never eaten so much as instant curry before.

* * *

It took some cajoling on Harry's part to allow Mrs. Figg to let him
stay with the Weasleys for the last weeks of the summer. Actually, it
took several days of constant and repeated asking, filled with pregnant
reminders that "it would look suspicious if I didn't go" and "Mr. Weasley
can keep me up to date on developments within the Ministry".

Mrs. Figg grudgingly agreed, but not without extreme and explicitly
stated misgivings on her part. Harry dashed off a happy note to
Hermione, telling her to send it to Ron as quickly as she could.

The remainder of his time with Mrs. Figg passed in much the same way it
had before his birthday. When he wasn't working on homework, he was
reading his new books, or eating one of his elderly guardian's enormous
meals, or sleeping. He'd never had so little to do during the summer,
primarily because Mrs. Figg wouldn't let him help out around the house.
Whether it was an attempt to make up for the years of hard labour with
his aunt and uncle, or merely her pride getting the better of her, he couldn't
tell...and didn't care.

But even though she refused to let him do physical labour, she kept him
incredibly busy with schoolwork. Every one of his essays had to pass
her critical eye, which could pick out the smallest flaw or tiniest
inaccuracy. He soon learned to dread any sudden intake of breath she
made while reading his papers, because it was a sure sign that he would
have to recopy it yet again. She was a stern taskmaster in everything
academic, picking apart his essays and grilling him on everything from
proper use of fungi to minutiae concerning the unbearably dull Accords
of the International Conference on the Undead in 1078.

Ron's letter, via Hermione, came the morning after one of their marathon
homework sessions that found Harry nodding sleepily in his cornflakes.

Harry,

Short note, sorry. Mum says to take train
from London. Will pick you up in Exeter,
taxi to Burrow. Let us know your train
plans. Talk to you soon.

Ron

P.S.: Ginny says hi.
P.P.S.: Hermione says she's tired of being
delivery service--wants you to write her
more. Just like a girl to say that.

Mrs. Figg snorted as Harry finished reading Ron's message out loud.
"Exeter, eh? I'll have to make your train reservations--you'd be best
off going out of Paddington. I don't trust King's Cross, not unless
you're catching the Hogwarts Express. It's a seedy place...though I
dare say that it's better than it used to be. Less chance of you being
mugged or worse, nowadays."

Harry ignored her remarks. He picked up his empty bowl and set it in
the sink. "Will you let me know when you do? Make the reservations,
I mean."

"Yes, yes," she said, grumbling. She checked her watch. "I'm going
shopping, do you want anything?"

"No, thanks. But I think we're out of cornflakes."

As he picked up the discarded cereal box, he felt the food in his
stomach turn to lead. The summer had been wonderful, but it was
nearly over, and he would have to go back to Hogwarts in less than
three weeks. Every year, he had loathed the summer holiday and
eagerly looked forward to going back to school, but this year his
feelings had completely reversed.

"Bread...hoover bags...do you need more shampoo?"

"No, I've got enough."

A tiny part of his mind, small enough to be brushed aside but large
enough to make itself heard on a regular basis, spoke up.

Cedric Diggory wouldn't have minded going back to school...but he
didn't even get a chance to finish it....

"Are you all right, Harry? You don't look well."

"I'm fine."

He was back to where he had started.