This & That

*
Chapter 02
The Man in the Trees

"By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!"  
- William Shakespeare, "Macbeth", Act 4 scene 1

*

17 Chapel Road,Standfordin the Vale, Oxfordshire - 10:45pm GMT, Monday 10th July, 1995

The lights went out at precisely 9:40pm at 17 Chapel Road on the Saturday of July 8th. The whole house remained still from that time onwards, with the exception of the steady breathing of its four residentswho were at that moment in a deep sleep.

Outside, however, was not as inactive, for an owl in the distance was making her way towards the house. The owl, even in the darkness, could be made out as snowy white.

The dim moonlight glowed onto the magnificent owl, giving it a breathtaking air of majesty.Attached to the owlwas a letter. And it was the letter that made the owl unusual, because it was well known that owls did not carry letters. Postmen did. Not owls.

The owl hooted happily into the sky as another one approached it. This one was slightly smaller in size, with darker feathers. It flew to the snowy owl and gave a short, abrupt hoot. He too,was carrying a letter for a resident of 17 Chapel Road.

In the shadow of the trees in the garden of 17 Chapel Road, a pair of malicious eyes were watching the owls. Waiting.

The snowy owl soared up high into the air, above the more serious brown owl, taking her time delivering her letter. The brown owl didn't seem to care for procrastinating, and aimed straight for one of the windows of the dark home. And thus, he began his final descending flight.

At first, it all seemed safe. Then, a long sliver of green emerged from the trees, engulfing the brown owl. The snowy owl, who had remained high in the sky, screeched in shock as she saw her friend fall to the grass below with a dull, lifeless thud. And she flew off urgently into the night, away from the death, forgetting about her duty to deliver her letter. 

A short figure then emerged from the trees and walked towards to the corpse. The figure picked up the limp body and detached the envelope attached to the owl's leg,pocketing the envelope.The figure then dropped the owl to the floor and took several paces away from it.

The person then took out a long stick and muttered a word. Theowl'sbody reduced in size rapidly. The person then picked up the owl again and placed it in a bag. Within the bat of an eye, the figure, the owl and the letters were gone.

And inside number 17 Chapel Road, Hermione Granger rolled over in bed and curled herself up under her duvet.

*

...A woman and a small child walked along the pavement beside the shops. The woman seemed to be very nervous, gripping the small child's hand with her life. Some of the locals knew this woman and the small child; she was Petunia Dursley and he was young Harry, her nephew, brought upon Petunia and her family after a tragic accident involving Harry and his parents -- his parents had been killed  and Harry had survived with an oddly shaped scar on his forehead. And though it had been said that Harry was a young ruffian and a brat beyond belief, his aunt was holding onto his hand showing no expression showing that she despised the boy (although according to gossip, she disliked him) -- in fact, she was holding onto himas though she wasprotecting him from something... someone... The two stopped outside an off white buildingwith Pascal's Optometry clearly stencilledin the window. Petunia placed her free hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him in carefully and...

*

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon - 07:17am GMT, Tuesday 11th July, 1995

It was perfect. The scene, the setting. It all seemedtoo good to be true... she was there, he was there... nothing standing between them but the air and their... clothes? This was brilliant. She smiled at him and leaned in to kiss him... almost there... she pulled back... damn... wait... she opened her mouth to say something...

"Ron..." she said, in a voice unlike hers... and she sounded a bit, is that, annoyed? "Ron, wake up." Oh no, this isn't how it's supposed to be...

"Ron, wake up!"

Ron rolled over in his bed. "Mmmpph..." he mumbled into his pillow.

There was a distinct sound of someone getting very annoyed. "Ronald Weasley, I demand you get up... I'll call mum if you don't."

The duvet was pulled off his torso, letting the sharp coldness of his room hit him like a thousand icy daggers.

He bolted up straight, gasping. "What the..." he said loudly. He blinked a few times and focused on the redhead standing in front of him. "Ginny," he groaned.

She scowled and pulled the rest of the duvet off him, letting it drop to the floor.

"Mum wants you up," she said shortly. "Get dressed and come downstairs."

Ron looked at his bedside clock. "Oh bloody Hell," he moaned. "It's seven twenty in the morning!"

His sister merely shrugged before throwing one of his shirts at him. "I got up at six," she said, perching herself on the corner of his bed. "I have more day than you."

He kneaded the palms of his hands into his eyes. "But it's seven twenty, I need to sleep."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "No you don't. You need to get to bed earlier."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, and go to sleep at nine thirty... I'm not a baby unlike someone I know..."

"Don't insult Percy," she tutted. "It's not nice."

He looked at her incredulously. Ginny grinned. "Anyway, you need to get ready."

Ron nodded and yawned loudly. "Get out," he said.

She blinked. "Pardon?"

He motioned to the door. "You heard me."

"Why?" she asked.

Ron's ears turned red. "I need to get changed, you idiot," he mumbled.

Ginny burst out into a peal of laughter. "Oh, is that it?" she said, smiling widely. "I thought it was something serious."

He glared at her. "It is. I have to get changed."

She giggled. "All right. As long as you don't take too long -- I'll burst in on you again in a minute."

Ron threw his pillow at her. "Get out."

She raised her hands in defeat. "Fine," she sighed, getting up and walking to the door. "I'll see you downstairs, right?" she added as she exited.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. Ron scowled as the door clicked shut and reached for his Aidan Lynch figurine before throwing it at the door.

*

...bentdown to point out the friendly looking woman in a white coat.

"That's Doctor Pascal, Harry," she said softly. "She's going to make your eyes not hurt as much."

Harry nodded slowly as the lady walked over to them.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dursley," said Doctor Pascal. She pushed her black framed glasses up her nose. "Is this Harry?”

Petunia nodded. "Yes, Doctor," she replied. "He's been having a bit of trouble with his eyesight lately; bumping into things and whatnot."

Pascal cringed. "Poor dear," she sighed. "And call me Ayla;I feel it gives a more comfortable atmosphere in the clinic when there isn't a Doctor-Patient boundary,"

Petunia sniffed. She preferred calling Doctors "Doctor" and not by their name.

Doctor Pascal squatted down to Harry's height. "Hello,poppet," she said, grinning. "I'm Ayla. I'm going to take you into that room over there," here, she pointed to a room behind a glass window. It had a large machine of some sort in it. "So then I can make your eyes all better,"

Harry blinked at her. "Hello," he said quietly.

"He's a little shy at times," informed Petunia.

The doctor stood up and nodded. "Well, let's take him into the back room to get his eyes checked, all right?"

Petunia nodded. "I can come in with him, can't I?"

She laughed musically. "Of course you can!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Why wouldn't I let a mother in?"

Petunia bit her lip. "I'm not his mother, I'm his aunt."

Doctor Pascal shrugged. "Ah well, it was a simple mistake, come along anyway." her eyes glittered. "There are no rules against loving aunts."

Petunia...

*

Ministry of Magic Building, The Top Floor, Polytik Alley, London - 03:50pm GMT, Tuesday 11th July, 1995

"Yes, thank you, Miss Sayer-Jones; could you please type that up and memo it to Division Four, pronto."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and can you take this file and give it to Mr., ah, what's-his-name..."

"Jennings, sir?"

"Yes, that's it, and tell him I want it back before the end of the moon cycle."

"Yes sir, is that it, sir?"

"No... I want you to draft a letter to Dumbledore for me."

"Yes sir, after I deliver the file, sir."

"No, no, no, Miss Sayer-Jones, that will never do. Do it now."

"But sir, you need the file to be ported and the memo to Division Four typed up; I couldn't possib-"

"Do it now, Miss Sayer-Jones. Go on. Spit spot."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and I'll dictate, shall I? I want you in here with your shorthand parchbook and a few quills lickety-split."

"Yes sir,"

"Very well, now quick... dum de dum de dum... hmmm... what's that?... hmmm... I like this song... oh dear, I need to Tork mother this afternoon..."

"Back, sir."

"Ah, there you are;took you long enough."

"Sorry sir, I had to Tork for a new shorthand parchbook to be ported, and Kline in the Stationary Department's a bit scatter brained and-"

"Very well, Miss Sayer-Jones, now I shall dictate."

"Yes sir."

"'To Professor. Albus Dumbledore,'"

"Shall I add his titles after that, sir?"

"Yes, now don't interrupt."

"Sorry sir."

"Shush, now then... To Albus Dumbledore, I am writing to you to tell you that your theory about You-Know-Who coming back is a load of old tosh."

"Sir, you don't expect me to owl that!"

"Quiet, child, you can edit it however you want... now then... 'To Albus Dumbledore, I am writing to you to tell you that your theory about You-Know-Who coming back is a load of old tosh. Your theory has absolutely no base in it whatsoever. I personally believe that you are making this up to kick me off my seat as Minister of Magic, and that comma, is not right at all. Your theory, presents no base of fact in it and I believe that you are only trying to force the whole magical realm into a state of panic. Do you expect the public to believe the tale of one boy question? I think that you seriously consider going for a check up at Saint Mungo's Hospital. Faithfully, no, sincerely comma, new line, Cornelius Fudge new line Minister of Magic.'"

"Sir, that was horribly rude."

"Do you think so? I don't. Now, I think I quite fancy an ice cream. Could you pop down to Florean Fortesque's and get me one of those rainbow ones?"

"Sir, I need to type up this letter and the memo for Division Four and port the file to Mr. Jennings; could you possibly get one of the other girls to do it?"

"Nonsense, child, you've got plenty of time to do all that stuff after work. Now, get me an ice cream."

"Yes sir."

*

...smiled.

*

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon - around the same time, Tuesday 11th July, 1995

"I will never forgive you in a million years, Ginny," groaned Ron, lying down in the grass. "My whole body is sore and it's all your fault."

Ginny grinned as she sat cross-legged next to him. "Ah, but my dear brother, it is only you who is at fault. You must warm up before you rid the garden of gnomes," she said philosophically.

Ron pulled a face. "Bloody gnomes. You just had to wake me up thismorning, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "If I hadn't,then Mumwould've stormed into your room, wands blazing - so in theory, I saved you from a few days of de-gnoming thegarden by yourself."

He peered up at the sky and sighed loudly. "Then I must indeed thank thee," he said.

Ginny let out a squeal of joy. "Then it's true! My darling brother agrees to speak in Olde English with his only sister!" Shepicked up a bit of grass and rolled it between her fingers. "How do you think, my sibling?"

"Quite well, methinks, though perhaps my sister does not think so well," he said, looking up at the sky.

She threw the ball of grass at him, hitting him square on the forehead. "Fiend," she said scandalously.

"Puppet," he retorted.

Ginny picked up a bit more grass and threw it at him. "You've been reading," she stated. "Shall I organise a parade in your honour?"

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Nay."

"Hedge-born canker-blossom," she said, poking her tongue out at him

He looked at her in surprise. "Er, Midsummer Night's Dream?" he asked.

She nodded. "Was reading it last night. My Shakespearean Insult list is growing rapidly, you currish scurvy-valiant pumpion!"

Ron snorted. "You gut-griping giglet."

Ginny gasped in feigned shock. "Thou hast injured me deeply." She stood up and swaggered about. "The iron has entered my heart, Ron."

He blinked. "That last bit wasn't from Shakespeare."

"Right you are," she said, picking up a stick and poking the ground with it. "It was from Anne of Green Gables."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "One of Percy's."

Ginny promptly whacked him around the head with her stick.

"What was that for?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head.

She raised a brow. "You know very well what that was fo-"

There was a loud thump from inside the house and it started moving outside. Ron and Ginny groaned simultaneously. 

"Well, if it isn't our favourite sister," grinned George, joining them.

"Yes, our favourite sister," repeated Fred. He cast a knowing look at Ron. "Sorry Ronnie, but Bill's our favourite."

Ron scowled. "Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed!" he mumbled. Ginny suppressed a snort.

"Reciting old Willy Shakers are we?" cooed Fred, reaching over to ruffle Ron's red hair. "I never knew you appreciated the bard."

George's eyes widened. "Careful, Ron," he warned. "You'll turn into Percy if you're not careful, and start reciting cauldron bottom reports."

Ginny whacked him around the shins.

"Ow! What was that for?" cried George.

Ginny grinned. "For insulting Percy. I may be your favourite sister, but Percy is my favourite brother."

He pouted. "You're not my favourite sister anymore."

She shook her head. "If I'm not your favourite sister, who is?" she asked.

George paused. "Sarah Fawcett," he decided. "Doesn't live to far away and she's quite nice."

"Sarah Fawcett?" she repeated. "Didn't you fancy her once?"

Fred let out a loud laugh. "Oooh... incest!" he cackled.

Ron made a face. "I don't like Sarah," he said.

George rolled his eyes. "Why, may I ask? Is it because she doesn't appreciate the bard?"

Ron reached for Ginny's stick and hit George with it. "No, it's because she's a total cow."

"Ooh, someone's bitter," grinned Ginny.

"Only because she abused my Cannons poster," he retorted.

Ginny snatched her stick back from Ron and embraced it protectively. "Ick. Mr. Brown's got Ron germs."

"That thing has a name?" said Fred, eyes wide.

She nodded. "Why ever not?"

All of the boys shrugged. Most probably, sometime in their life, they too had named a bit of stick.

*

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey - 11:43pm GMT, Tuesday 11th July, 1995

Harry stared at the ceiling. He had been staring at the ceiling for about two hours now. 

He turned over the new information in his head repeatedly. Two days ago, he had beenwithout it and now he had it. Two days ago, he'd never had a Godmother and now he did - only she was dead. Two days ago, his Aunt started to act weird and now... and now she was practically a whole new person. For one thing, she gave Harry a whole half of grapefruit at breakfast, instead of the usual eighth. And not only that, but Vernon of all people was acting differently. Dudley was the same as ever, but his aunt and uncle seemed to be... different. Kinder, perhaps, and not as cold. And it had really started to hit him at breakfast...

...Earlier that morning...

"Here you go," she said while Vernon complained loudly about politics. "Eat up."

He looked up at her. "Um,"

She looked pointedly at the grapefruit. "Eat. Or I'll give it to Dudders," she said.

"Um," he said.

Vernon, who was in a tetchy mood, glared at Harry over his copy of the Whinging Sun. "Oh for heavens sake, boy," he growled.

 "Just take the food and eat it."

"Yeah," echoed Dudley. He had pulled his rifle into his lap and was stroking it. He smirked. "Eat up, Harry."

Harry poked the grapefruit cautiously.

"Dad," Dudley whined. "Can I load it?"

Vernon looked at Dudley angrily. "No, you can bloody well not," he snapped. "That thing is dangerous and I curse your Aunt Marge for giving it to you."

Dudley paled slightly and turned to Petunia. "Mum," he began.

"No," she said shortly.

He squirmed in his seat. "Dad."

Vernon slammed down his paper, his face red. "NO," he bellowed. "YOU CANNOT LOAD THAT - THAT GUN UNDER MY ROOF, UNDERSTAND?"

 He sniffled loudly, threatening to howl. "Mum."

Petunia turned the page of her magazine. "No, darling. Go and play on your computer like a nice boy," she said absent-mindedly.

Dudley looked at Harry, who had just finished his grapefruit and was getting up to go to the dishwasher. "Harry threatened me the other day with the m-word," he said childishly.

"Did not," muttered Harry.

Vernon and Petunia both looked at Dudley; they seemed equally mad.

"Leave Harry out of this," said Vernon. His neck seemed to swell and it almost looked like his veins were going to burst. "He has enough on hisplate!"

Both Dudley and Harry looked at Vernon, each shocked in their own way.

"Fine!" shrieked Dudley. "I hate you!" he stood up at the table. "I hate all of you!"

Petunia dropped her teacup and it shattered on the floor. The room was dreadfully tense. Petunia bent down to clean it up, minute sobs coming out from her.

Dudley glared at Vernon. Vernon glared at Dudley. Harry slid out of his chair and crept over to help his aunt clean up the shards of glass and sponge up the water.

"I hate you, Dad," yelled Dudley. "You're a bastard."

And with that, Dudley made a sort-of sprint for the front door and slammed it behind him.

Petunia gasped through a particularly dramatic sob. "My baby," she cried. "He - he - he hates me."

Vernon's face softened slightly and he walked to his wife, placing a hand on her shoulder. She sobbed more. "There, there darling," he said quietly. "He didn't mean it."

She placed the back of her hand against her mouth as she hiccoughed. "He hates us.... he - he - he hates his own family..."

Vernon cast a look at Harry. "I think you should leave, Harry," he said slowly, but notunkindly.

Harry nodded, carefully standing up and leaving his aunt and uncle and the shattered teacup.

*

A dark cave, Tintagel, North Cornwall - Time unknown, possibly very early morning, Wednesday 12th July, 1995

He had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

The very opportunity to be able to taste the sweet wine of power and hold onto the cup because it was his. To not have to fear that if he set down the goblet that it would be snatched up by someone else, someone less deserving, someone like Lucius - bloody - Malfoy. This was to be the pinnacle of his career. He waited outside the dark chamber of the cave, waiting for his Lord to be finished with the agent before him.

Water dripped down hauntingly from the roof of the cave, and the waves crashed onto the rocks outside. The Lord had cleverly located his new base right underneath a Muggle village.

Undoubtedly, the village would be up in flames by the end of the year. The Lord had decided to suffer the short-term pain of living beneath Muggles because, in the long run, they would all perish.

A tall person exited the Lord's chamber. He looked up.

"Oh, Peter," hiccoughed the agent between sobs;her voice was barely audible. It was Narcissa, one of the few female operatives.

 "He performed Crucio."

Peter looked down on her. "It's Wormtail to you," he sneered. "And don't forget it."

She looked at him, tears streaming down her pale face. She opened her mouth to say something but promptly shut it again and ran out of the cave, each step unleashing hell on every fibre of her body. Wormtail sighed and flexed his silver arm, it had still not failed him since his... sacrifice to the Lord.

"Wormtail," whispered a voice from the chamber. "I request your presence."

Peter bent down to pick up his large bag and lagged it into the great chamber. A slight chill shot up his spine, accentuating the coldness of the cave and perhaps his extreme fear and admiration for his Lord. He dropped the bag and kneeled down to his Master.

"Master," he murmured, kissing the hem of the Lord's robes.

"Get up," his Master snarled.

Wormtail stood up quickly. 

"Inform me of your movements, Wormtail," the Lord demanded.

He coughed slightly and shifted the bag forward with his left foot. "I have been watching the girl for the past week,sir, and have severed all magical contact that she has."

The Lord's eyes narrowed. "I have it on good knowledge that you have killed one of the incoming owls," he said.

Wormtail nodded numbly. The wine of power was seeping away.

"You remember I specifically told you to only stun the incoming owls,rid them of their mail and then oblivate them before releasing them, don't you?" Everything in the chamber was deathly still - even the water wasn't dripping. The sea outside seemed to have paused.

He gulped and nodded again.

The Lord took a deep breath. "Now we have the problem of the Ministry possibly camping out at the Mudblood's residence to make sure she's safe. You do realise that by not attacking, the stupid Ministry and Dumbledore will become comfortable and suddenly think that there will be no attack. It will be "The False War" in which nothing happens, and slowly all of them will relax and then we can attack. Now they will suspect something." He paused. Wormtail's lower lip trembled. "And this is all your fault,"

"Please, Master," Wormtail protested lamely. "I can explai-"

"Explain nothing!" hissed the Lord. And even a hiss was enough to frighten Wormtail. The Lord's lip curled. "You know what this means, don't you Wormtail?"

"No Master, please," cried Wormtail. "I will do anything for you, anything. I will steal the crown jewels, I will hang myself from the very beams of the Tower of London, I will steal Excalibur..."

The Lord paused for a moment, contemplating Wormtail's offer. "Crucio!" was his reply.

And the screams and wails of Wormtail could be heard from all the caverns deep. And even Lucius Malfoy, who was waiting for his turn to see the Dark Lord, could hear it.

*

Tadworth Train Station, Surrey - evening, Wednesday 12th July, 1995

Inspector Andrew Smithleaned in to, well, inspect the body that lay before him. It seemed that the body was dead,though there was no indication of that, excepting that there was no pulse and no breathing. The body seemed perfectly normal and healthy but it was dead. And it wore an expression of shock on its visage.

"Let's just call it death by shock," he murmured to his partner, Inspector Amy Laws.

She looked up from her clipboard and raised a brow. "Shock? But surely there's some indication as to why he died."

He ran his hand through his hair. "That's the problem, there isn't any. He hasn't had a heart failure or any other sort of medical problem that lead him to die. He hasn't been poisoned, disembowelled,cut or hit on the head, so we can rule out murder. He doesn't have any markings or whatever to point to suicide, there's nothing."

Laws bit her lip. "Then shock it is," she sighed, scribbling it down. "At least we have ID."

Smith nodded. "Yeah, what's his name again?"

She glanced at her clipboard. "Jack Templeton, born on June 12 1956, drove a Toyota Crown a few years ago until his license expired, divorced, sibling lives in Brazil, parents dead and, oh yeah, he lives in Blackpool."

Inspector Smith dug his left hand in his pocket and took out a stick of gum.

 He chewed on it thoughtfully. "Bit far from home then, isn't he?"

"Yep," Laws agreed. "And that's not all, I found this inside his coat," she held out a decent sized brown envelope. He took it.

"Do you know what's inside?" he asked, flipping it open.

"Just a collection of photos. I looked at the first few, and they seem to be from the sixties and seventiess," she said.

He pulled them out. "Hmmm," he observed. "You're right, about sixties and seventies... The three kids in the photo seem to get older through the stack."

Inspector Laws sniffed. "Do you think the boy in the photos is this guy?" she asked.

"I wouldn't doubt it," he said, handing the envelope and photos back to her. "Do you mind if you hang onto them?" he asked. "I'll be handling the moving of the body."

She took the envelope and nodded. "Sure," she said. "And let's get out of here before the reporters come on the scene;a dead body isn't good for a train station,"

He sighed. "Yep," he looked back down at the body. "I'll send him in to Finch-Fletchleyfor an autopsy," he turned to go. "I'll just go and talk to the train station manager and sort everything out, yeah?"

Laws flicked through the photos, nodding. She stopped at one and inspected it closely. The she looked up at Inspector Smith, who was just bending down at the body before going to consult the manager. "Andy," she said. "Get a look a look at this."Urgency was present in her voice.

Smith glanced up.

"This photo, oh bloody hell, the photo, it's - it's moving,"