The Fifth of August

The Fifth of August

PROLOGUE

-July 31, 1996-

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Any day now.

Any day now there would come a knock at the door, and Harry would leap up and answer it, and they would be at the door to take him home. Maybe today. Maybe it would be tomorrow. Today was good, though. Coming on his birthday would be nice, and he could go somewhere where his friends were waiting for him and he could open presents and joke and laugh and pretend that Sirius wouldn't have been there anyway. The end of his summer at the Dursleys' house would be bittersweet. It was quiet here, and nobody bothered him.

Old Mrs. Figg would wave whenever he passed, and a cat or too would trail behind him to settle down at his side wherever he would go. Sometimes he felt there was somebody watching him, but he wasn't really surprised. Often Mrs. Figg would invite him down to her house, and he would decline. He preferred to sit by himself, and wait.

Past Privet Drive with its rows of perfect gardens and shiny cars, past the street with the house on the end with the purple trim, far down where nobody recognized him anymore was a large grassy field. Harry liked to sit here. The grass was tall, never mowed and prickly, and he would get stickers all over himself from sitting down, but when he walked out and lay in the grass, he could disappear in the thick blades where the bugs buzzed loudly and the sun beat down on his eyelids.

The place didn't seem to be affected by the rain. The rest of town would be green and moist- the field would still be dry and dusty. The rows of houses shone in the mild sun, and the field would be scorching from the heat.

Harry moved through the field, weeds tugging at his feet. Today clouds hid the sun.

Somebody could be at his house waiting to bring him to Dumbledore. They could be worrying about him, wondering where he was. That was okay; they could wait.

Harry walked further, up an incline to a wide ridge. At the top, he stopped, looking down.

A wooden shack was nestled in between several shrubs and twisted trees. Harry slowly started walking towards it, dust rising under his feet. He'd never gone this far before, he couldn't remember ever being on this side of the ridge.

But when he was little he had been all over, everywhere but the Dursleys' house. He'd run through the field hundreds of times- he could remember struggling through the grass and kicking up the dust, running along the ridge. He knew this whole place like the back of his hand, right? The whole scene ahead seemed foreign to him.

Harry stood at the door. It was slightly lopsided, and when he reached out and pushed it open, it creaked loudly, and stuck in the dirt, as if it hadn't been opened in years. The sun shone through the door, lighting up the dim and stifling interior.

Harry blinked a couple of times, light imprinted on his eyes as he peered ahead.

In the center of the room stood a large, stuffed armchair. The walls were wood and the floor had a thick rug on it. The shack was bigger inside that it looked from the outside, and bookshelves lined the walls, filled with boxes and wrapped packages and letters and leather-bound volumes. An almost bare cot took one corner, and surprisingly enough on the far wall was a large stone fireplace. The wood of the shack was cracked and light shone through the planks, lighting up half of the old man's face.

The old man sat in the armchair. He wasn't terribly ancient, but perhaps Mad Eye Moody's age, with the same results. His eyes were dark and piercing, and his face was as worn and cracked as the shack itself. His hair was mostly pepper gray, slightly long and sticking out wildly. He wore a wool sweater and some creased pants, and a pair of thick-soled boots. He looked exactly in place there, in the middle of the room, the aura still and quiet. Harry got the impression that the man had been sitting in the armchair for a long, long time.

The old man looked at Harry, wrinkles and scars disappearing as his face moved into shadow. His face suddenly looked smoother and younger and it struck a cord in Harry's memory.

Harry suddenly felt apprehensive. Where had he seen this man before? Was he a Death Eater? Had he walked right into a trap? Mrs. Figg was going to skin him alive for taking the big risk of venturing this far from Privet Drive. Harry took a step backwards.

"I knew you'd come back," the man said matter of factly.

Harry stopped in his tracks, staring blankly.

"You, the boy." The voice from the armchair was familiar and somehow soothing. "They've instilled some real good in you, have they?" He let out a hearty laugh.

Harry stared, bewildered.

The man slowly pushed himself out of his arm, chair, taking a few steps to the nearest bookshelf where he reached out and picked something out. Weighing it in his hand, he held it in front of himself where Harry could see.

It was a glass jar, like the kind jam comes in. It was completely clear, and filled with a thick, gray, swirling liquid that moved on its own, twisting in tantalizing spirals. The man held it up in the air where the sunlight caught it, and it sparkled with a million lights.

"I have your memories."

He looked into Harry's eyes. "I've kept them here for you."

Harry took a step closer. He should run, and now. The door was open behind him, but Harry felt no urge to retreat back into the bright light. His eyes were locked on the liquid in the glass.

"Are you sure you want them?" The old man raised an eyebrow.

Harry nodded eagerly, taking a step forward. He waited. A couple steps and a moment later, he was face to face with the man, who silently placed the jar in Harry's hand. "Yes please."

It was heavy, dragging his arm towards the floor. The stormy fluid inside moved sluggishly, and Harry pulled at the tight metal lid.

It wouldn't move. Harry pulled hard, twisting, and it scraped around, loosening. Finally it popped open, and Harry gazed down inside for only split second-

Before pouring its contents down his throat.

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