Save One Thing

Save One Thing

Chapter Four

You wake up, and Harry is in your room, just standing at the end of the bed and looking at you, and he's looking at you so hard that he doesn't even notice when you're looking back.

Your throat is dry, and his name leaves your lips broken. "Har-ry?"

His eyes meet yours, equally shocked, and his mouth moves without speaking.

"Harry!"

"Er--I--"

"This is my room!" you shout, struggling to sit up. "Get out! Get out, now!" But Harry stays, and he takes a few steps closer until he's standing right beside your bed. You can feel the magic building, and you can feel your heartbeat echoing in your ears and against your fingertips. You wonder if he can feel it too when he grabs your hand with both of his, and it's almost funny-- his fingers are so small they can hardly wrap all the way around, and still, you can hardly move.

"Come with me," he whispers, eyes going wide beneath his glasses.

"No," you say trying to twist your way out of his grip. "No. I don't want to."

"I don't care," he hisses, but it doesn't matter if Harry cares, because you're not going to move, and he isn't strong enough to make you. His hands leave, but before you have a chance to push him away, one of them shoots up to cover your mouth. "Stay quiet," he whispers before slowly moving away. "You have to stay quiet."

Harry looks wild in the dark. Even in daylight, he never looked normal, but in the colorless nighttime world of your room, he seems almost dangerous-- smaller, faster, less predictable. It's hard to tell where he is. As the magic flashes through your vision, he appears blurred around the edges, as if he's made of shadows, and it doesn't help that you never liked the dark. His patchy hair is blowing about, as if it's taken on a life of its own. His eyes are darting erratically from one corner of your room to the other, and his odd scar is a black stain across his forehead.

He shoves a hand into the pocket of his jeans and searches for a few moments before pulling out a small glass top and setting it on your nightstand. Then seconds after his hand moves away, it wobbles up from its side and starts to spin. "So," you say, pulling your blankets up over your chest and finding they do nothing to hold off the cold winds. "Batteries, so what? My remote control airplane can--"

"Wait," Harry says, taking a few steps back, and you watch as the top spins faster and faster. You hear the soft, grinding whistle of glass drilling through wood, and soon wisps of grey smoke are rising from your nightstand.

"What is that?!" you ask, not really wanting an answer. "Stop it! Make it stop!"

He looks to you for the first time since putting the top down and smiles. "Be quiet."

"You-you said you couldn't."

"I can't," he whispers. "I'm not." He grabs the top with one hand and your arm with the other. "Come with me."

"Get off!" you yell, but he only tightens his hold on you.

"You have to be quiet."

"Fine," you say. "This better not take long."

He nods once, but he doesn't let go of your arm, and he doesn't step back to give you room to get up. Then he starts pulling hard in awkward, jerky motions, as if he's trying to rip your arm out of its socket rather than help you stand.

You push him away and manage to clamber out of bed on your own. Silently, he leads you out into the hallway and down the stairs, and you stumble over each others feet in the dark, satisfied that you're hurting him a lot more than he's hurting you. "Don't go freaking out," he says when you reach the lounge. You're about to flop down onto the sofa, but he gives your arm another rough tug and pulls you over to the window and slides the curtains back. "Look."

It takes a few moments for your eyes to adjust-- to ascribe form to the shadows and the movement of dark things against the dark sky, and at first, you think it's some horrible sort of animal-- one huge black mass moving towards the house, but then it breaks apart into dozens of separate pieces, and for a second, you wonder if it could be the things from the alleyway-- the Dementors, but it's not that cold, not yet. Then the streetlight overhead flickers just a bit brighter and you see the faces, white faces with cavernous black eyes and gaping angry mouths-- not real faces then-- masks.

"Are-- are they people?" you ask, and Harry gives you that look you hate. His lip curls upward slightly, and his head tilts to the side, and without words he manages to tell you he's better than you are in every possible way. But you don't pay attention to Harry's look for long, because your eyes are still growing used to the light and you notice something else out there on the lawn, something the people are holding in their hands and pulling from their pockets and pointing just off to the side of your window-- guns.

You start to shiver, and Harry lets out a rough laugh that sounds more like a cough, but he doesn't look very happy. They will find you, you think. They will shoot, and you will die here with Harry or because of him, and really, there's not any difference. Your parents are trapped, and you can't fool yourself into thinking they'll be all right where they are, because the man who wrote the letter telling you they were lost was the same man who wrote Harry's letters, and you wonder why you couldn't have just left them alone, and then none of this would be happening.

You can hear Harry's owl calling from upstairs and flapping its wings against the bars of its cage. "M-make it stop," you whisper, but he only gives you that look again. "MAKE IT STOP! YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT STOP!" And you don't know whether you're talking about the owl or the magic or the people outside, but you think it could be all of that, all of what's been happening since you got the letter about your parents. You want so badly for things to be normal again.

"Shhhh," Harry hisses. "I can't do anything. I told you that."

"Oh . . ."

"Shhhh," he repeats, grabbing your shoulder and trying to stop your shaking. "It's okay they're here every night."

"W-what? That's impossible. I would have--"

"You don't notice anything," he says. "The whole neighborhood could disappear overnight, and you wouldn't notice."

"B-but-- Guns!"

"Oh?" Harry twists his neck around to look out the window and then turns back and nods. "Well, that's new."

"Do you th--think this is funny?" you ask, trying to summon up what anger you can from fear.

"No," he whispers. "Be quiet. They can't hurt us. I don't even think they can see the house. Listen."

The silence deepens between you, and the owl calms down and stops flapping about, and you begin to hear faint voices coming from outside.

"Here," one of them says. "It's got to be here."

"Two to the left, six to the right, and three across the way," answers a second.

"Then this is it?"

"Well, no."

You turn your head so you can see the particular two you had been hearing as they walk off your yard onto the sidewalk and then pivot around and walk directly back to your front door.

"Here," the first one says. "It's got to be here."

"Two to the left, six to the right, and three across the way."

"Then this is it?"

You turn back to Harry. "How?"

"Shhh."

"How are you doing this? How are you keeping us hidden? You said you couldn't."

"I'm not," he says. "Now stay quiet. I don't know whether they can hear."

"But . . ."

"Let me see your hands," he says, and before you can sit on them or hide them behind your back, he grabs you by the wrists and twists so your palms are facing up. "Stay still," he whispers, taking the top out of his pocket and laying it on its side in your left hand. "Now watch."

Slowly, it turns itself over until it's upright on its tip and begins to spin.

"How?" you ask, cradling it between both your hands as it starts to get faster, barely touching the surface of your skin.

"Don't ask me," he says. "You're the one doing it."

"I-I'm not!" You shout, and as you do the top begins to light up. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"

"Fine." Harry shrugs, leaning his head back against the wall and smiling. "Fine, you're not."

You try to close your hands and make fists around the top to stop its spinning, but it's too fast, and it tears at your skin. "I can't be."

Harry presses down on your shoulder and leans on you to scramble up off the floor. "Okay, whatever you say, Dudley. I'm going to bed."

In your hands the top is spinning so fast you can barely make out its shape. "H-how can you? We should-- we should call the police-- call someone."

"No," Harry says looking down at you. "We can't do anything to let them know we might really be here. We can't, understand?"

"No. I don't understand any of this. It doesn't make any sense at all"

He pushes onto your shoulder harder than before. "You can't tell anyone about them or it's all over."

"Hell," you say, wincing and at the same time, trying to make it seem like he's not really hurting you. "Just leave me alone, alright."

He lets go, and you let the top fall to the floor, where it continues to spin, hovering a few inches above the carpet. You rest your head back against the wall just as he had before, and close your eyes, and from the sharp screech of glass slicing through air, you can tell the top is spinning faster.

It's a few minutes before you hear Harry turn around and walk back upstairs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had wanted to scare Dudley, and he knew it wouldn't be hard. Dudley was already scared of something, but this wasn't just about getting back at him for all the bruised arms and broken glasses that came with schoolyard fights. He wanted to startle and shock and shake him out of the safe little world he built around himself, and show him what was really out there, not just out there-- he wanted Dudley to realize what was going on inside too, what magic he was doing without even realizing it. He didn't want to terrify him necessarily, but when he finds him crouched on the floor, shivering with his knees clutched to his chest, he can't help but smile. "Sleep well?"

"Shut up," Dudley growls. "Be quiet."

"What? What are you--"

"Stop talking," he says grabbing Harry by the waist and pulling him onto the floor. "We don't know if they can hear us, remember?"

"Yeah but--"

"It stopped."

"What?" Harry asks quietly, feeling lost. "What are you talking about?"

"This thing," Dudley says, pointing to the sneakoscope. "When the sun came up it stopped spinning." When he speaks next, Harry can hardly make out the words through his sputtering. "The--the m-stuff that was m-making it spin was what k-kept them out, and it's stopped now. D-don't you see?" He manages to pick up the sneakoscope in one badly shaking hand and shove it under Harry's nose. "It's stopped."

"That's alright," Harry says slowly.

"W-why did it stop spinning?"

"It only does that if people who shouldn't be trusted are about. It stopped when they went away. They tend to leave when it gets light out-- you know, daytime."

Dudley nods and tentatively peeks out the window. Then, nodding again, he takes the sneakoscope between his thumb and index finger and spins it across the floor like a top, but it doesn't slow after a few moments like a normal top would. It spins faster, impossibly fast until it starts rising a few inches from the carpet.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks.

"I don't trust you," Dudley snarls, and Harry notices he's not shivering so much anymore.

"Stop it." Harry angrily bats the sneakoscope out of the air with the palm of his hand and watches as it rolls across the floor, and stops with a soft, hollow thunk when it hits the wall. "Stop being ridiculous. I'm nothing like them."

"You're all freaks!"

"Really?" He walks over and picks the sneakoscope up off the floor. "Lets just see how much I can make it twirl."

"Sod you," Dudley says, pushing him out of the way as he stumbles to his feet. "I'm going to get breakfast."

Out of long-forgotten habit Harry follows Dudley into the kitchen and pours him a bowl of cornflakes before fixing his own. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed when Dudley doesn't notice.

"So-uh who are they?" Dudley asks, looking oddly thoughtful.

"Death Eaters." Harry says. "They are--we're Voldemort's servants. Voldemort was--"

"I know who he was," Dudley snaps.

Harry can feel his eyes widening in shock. "You do?"

"Yeah," Dudley says. "Yeah, the Dark Lord, an evil wizard who sought to take all the world under his power. You brought an end to him." He stops to take a deep breath and his lips twist somewhere between a smile and a sneer. "Am I right?"

"How do you know all that?"

"Read it somewhere," he says and shrugs to make it look like he hasn't started shivering again. "Why are his ruddy servants in my lawn every night?"

"Well," Harry says, running a finger over the handle of his spoon. "I guess they want to get even with me because I killed him and because of everything that happened after, not being able to do magic and all." He drops the spoon and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Dudley anymore. "There were battles between us and them. There was a whole war, even if you never heard about it on the news, even if you never cared enough to bother watching the news or reading papers. It was about power and bloodlines, but it was also personal. It was also about people hating you enough to kill you-- to enjoy watching you die. They're mad, partly at me, partly at themselves, partly because people they knew are dead or hurt--"

"Or trapped," Dudley whispers.

"What?" Harry's eyes snap open to take in the unreadable expression on Dudley's face for just a second before he turns questioning again.

"But they can't get in?" he asks. "You told me they can't get in."

"No," Harry says, hoping it's true. "No, they can't."

"So if I kicked you out, you'd probably die, right? They'd probably kill you?"

Harry's tired, as if he's the one who spent the whole night shuddering on the floor. His throat is raw, and it almost huts to keep his eyes opened. "Yeah, probably."

Dudley nods and takes a deep breath. "Oh," he says, and Harry waits, but he doesn't say anything more than that.

The silence grows thick between them, and the air becomes thicker still, but even as Dudley sits quietly across from him without moving, Harry can see goose-bumps rising on the skin of his arms and his hair being ruffled by some unfelt breeze. His large hands clutch the table, as if it's all he has left to hold onto, and he starts to shiver again, but this time, something's different. This time, he shakes only for a second before swallowing hard and closing his eyes, and Harry watches as his knuckles change from their normal pink to bone-white.

Through the window behind Dudley, Harry can see out into the street, and he watches as the streetlamps start flickering on one by one. "Hey," he says, tentatively prodding Dudley in the arm with his spoon. "Snap out of it."

"What?" Dudley asks, looking too confused to be angry. "What are you on about?"

"It's breakfast time," Harry says, "Normally you start to eat now."

"Oh right."

"And normally you don't stop until just a bit before midnight," Harry adds in a quieter voice.

Dudley glares, but then notices his place set in front of him, which quickly draws his attention away from Harry. "What is this stuff?" he asks, pointing to the cornflakes.

"Cereal," Harry says rolling his eyes and giving a relieved sigh. "And that thing it's in is called a bowl."

"I know that,"

"Well, I just forgot how smart you are," Harry says with a smile. "Your parents must be so proud." As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he's made a mistake. "I-- Uh-- I. . ."

Dudley growls slightly and clenches his teeth. "I meant why is it in front of me?"

"It's food. You eat it. You usually eat a lot of it."

"Shut your face," Dudley says, and when he stands, Harry's sure he's about to either punch him in the face again or stomp back up to his bedroom, but instead he waddles over to the refrigerator and takes out a large bottle of chocolate syrup and proceeds to pour its entire contents all over his breakfast. After eating a few spoonfuls and managing to smear large drops of chocolate down the front of his shirt, he looks back up at Harry. "It's alright, I guess."

Harry makes a few exaggerated gagging noises, but before he can tell Dudley that he's going to make himself sick, there's a sharp tug on his hair. On instinct, he shakes his head back and forth fast, and after a few seconds, Pig drops to the table with a letter tied to his leg and a large clump of Harry's hair in his beak. Across from him Dudley's shoulders start to shake. "It's okay," he says softly. "It's just a regular owl--no magic to him. He convinced my godfather to let it take a letter to me once, and now my friend uses him-- nothing to be scared of."

But when Harry looks up after grabbing the letter, Dudley isn't shivering-- he's laughing. "You-you," he stammers. "It was pecking at your head, and then you started twitching all about. You should have seen your face!" He slaps the table with the palm of his hand and tips so far back in his chair that he nearly falls over. He doesn't seem to notice Pig hopping across the table to examine him. "And-- and your hair's such a mess wild animals are trying to makes nests in it."

"Shut up," Harry mutters.

Dudley somehow squeezes himself out of the chair again without breaking it. "Fine, but that was hilarious." He grabs a few handfuls of candy from one of the cabinets and shoves them in his pockets. "You totally freaked out."

Harry raises his eyebrows questioningly, before opening the letter. "Something you've never done, I'm sure." He looks down at Ron's jumbled handwriting and starts reading, ignoring the display Dudley puts on trying to fit as many chocolates as possible into his mouth and Pig, who still watches him closely.

Dear Harry,

Some reply you sent, only two sentences, and you had to go and tell me I was right about things. Do you have any idea how much trouble a bloke can get into if he starts to think he might really know what he's talking about? I don't know anything, Harry. Just this morning I nearly cut off my own hand with an electric can opener, and when I told Hermione that she should warn people about the bloody thing she told me to grow up and stop being such a child. The problem is I don't know when I'm going to grow up. I thought I would get a job after school and that would be the start of it, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen now. Percy was always grown up, and I always knew the twins never would be, but I'm somewhere in between, and I haven't got it all figured out just yet.

I think you've been rubbing off on me, Harry, even if you're not here. I can't sit still and do nothing, but when I try to help I just end of getting in the way. Neville is great at this stuff-- a real natural. He was the one who managed to fix the can opener after I broke it, and the Grangers love what he's done with their garden. He figures it's because he never really had that much magic to begin with and was probably better suited for being a muggle all along, which I think is complete rubbish, and Ginny agreed to try and beat some sense into him. He's not the one I'm worried about, though.

Hermione says she feels useless without magic, which is bloody ridiculous because she knows everything there is to know about muggle things. I'm the one who doesn't have a clue how anything works here, but she's upset-- really upset, and everything I say just makes it worse. I'm trying to take care of her, but I can't talk about it like that, and you have to promise not to tell her I even wrote it. I'm the one who always needed taking care of. It's a lucky thing I was friends with her and with you or I would have never made it through school alive, and I always had my mum and dad and my brothers there if I needed anything, even Ginny helped out after what went on at the ministry until I got my brain working right again. I feel like I owe so much to so many people, and there's no way I'll ever be able to pay it all back.

Sorry to lay this all on you. You know I'm no good at this sort of thing. I just wanted to make sure that you're still there, and I wanted you to know that I'm still here and that you're not going to be able to get rid of me just by ignoring a few letters.

~Ron

Harry carefully folds the letter and puts it in his pocket before swallowing hard. Ron isn't the only one who owes people things, and having been shortchanged so often, he doesn't have any clue what he's owed. Harry knows he's only alive because all of his friends and teachers protected him when he needed it the most-- Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, professor McGonagall, Remus Lupin, even Snape, and then there are the others-- Sirius and his parents-- the ones he'll never be able to thank, and even if he could, nothing would ever be enough.

He rakes a hand through his hair, and it lingers over the bare patch on the back of his head. He sighs. None of them are here. They're scattered across the country, hiding away, waiting for things to get better and hoping they really will someday. Here there is only Dudley, sitting across from him, stuffing his face with candy, slurping chocolate milk from the bottom of his bowl, and somehow, impossibly doing magic and shielding the house from whatever monsters find their way to the doorstep and keeping him safe.

Harry waits, and when Dudley finally raises his eyes to meet his, he doesn't seem at all afraid.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~