Save One Thing

Save One Thing

Chapter Six

I really think you can do it, you know, find your parents.

You try to stop Harry's words from echoing in your mind, but that proves more difficult than it should. You tell yourself he's mad, and you tell yourself just because he thinks something doesn't mean it's true, and you tell yourself you were stupid to ever have believed him.

Messing about with Harry was fine for a bit. It was odd, of course, but no real damage was done. You know it can't keep going, though. Even Harry knows it's wrong, and you can't really be making the magic happen. It's twisting your mind around, and it's leading you to think you feel better and believe you're in control, but you know that can't really be possible. You're sure of it.

You remember the letters, no matter how you try to forget-- the five that you read and the sixth that stays in the shoebox in your bottom drawer. In the past few weeks, Harry came close to seeing it two times. It's all that letter's fault, really. If you hadn't saved it you wouldn't have started looking for other things in Harry's room, and if you hadn't had them maybe the magic would have left you alone. You wish you'd thrown it away when you had the chance years ago. You can't now. You're sure the magic won't let you, but maybe you can give it back. Maybe you can give all of it back and that'll put things right again.

You start with the jar labeled armadillo bile and the page of newspaper with the moving picture of the band on it, and you put them in the trunk he keeps full of all his freak things between a funny looking pair of binoculars and a picture of his parents, who wave to you, looking slightly confused. Then you take the twigs into the kitchen and lay them on the floor beside Harry's broom. They twitch for a few moments then roll around on the floor before growing upwards and rooting themselves back onto the handle.

That night, while Harry is downstairs looking out the window, you sneak into his room again and slip the feather between the bars of the owl's cage. It doesn't squawk or jump or try to claw at your hand like it did when you took it. It just turns its head round and stares at you with its big yellow eyes, and you can't help but stare back. "It's yours," you whisper, feeling rather foolish and tilting your head down towards the feather. "I guess I shouldn't have taken it, huh?"

It flaps its wings a few times and pecks at the door of the cage.

"Stop it," you say. "I can't have him finding me in here again," but it doesn't stop hopping or kicking at the bars, and a few seconds later, it starts to squawk. "Shhhhh. Stop it, owl." You find a few small pieces of candy on the floor and tentatively stick one into the cage. "Would you like some chocolate?"

It peers down at the unwrapped lump of chocolate and then turns its eyes up to you, giving you the same type of look Harry gives you when he's calling you names for a few seconds and then starts pecking at the door again.

"You want out?" you ask, only half aware of how you must sound talking to a ruddy bird, but it seems to nod back and then squawk just a bit more. The latch is tricky to undo, but your hands aren't shaking nearly as much as they had before, and the owl only pecks at your fingers twice before the door springs open and it zips out the window into the night sky. "You'd better come back," you call after it, doubting it will actually listen. If you could fly, you probably wouldn't want to come back to a place like this.

The next morning-- the morning of the last day of July, you're woken up by sounds of the owl moving about in its cage, and you smile to yourself before turning over and falling back to sleep. You dream of stone passageways and thick paper and reading books like the ones Harry keeps hidden in his trunk and under the floorboards. When you get up, it takes a few seconds for you to recognize your own room. It feels too stuffy and small and close to the ground. You walk into the kitchen, which seems much too still, and find Harry sitting at the table, picking at a bowl of cereal. "I-I have something for you," you say.

He drops his spoon onto the table and looks up. "What?"

"Something that's yours." You brush your pocket with your hand to feel that the thick paper's still there. "Something that's m-magic."

Harry's eyes widen and he stands up from the table, still holding his bowl. "Why?"

"I'm trying to make it stop," you say, arms going stiff at your sides. "I thought if I gave it back . . . and maybe if I think about it hard enough I could--"

"Idiot!" Harry shouts at you taking a few steps closer. "You stupid, bloody idiot, you have no idea what you're dealing with here." He lets the bowl fall out of his hand, and it shatters against the floor tiles.

You jump slightly from the sound. "I-I was just--"

"Just what?" he hisses, "just trying to get us both killed?"

"N-no."

"We'll that's what'll happen if the magic stops, and I'm sure the Death Eaters would have a good time with you."

"I'm not a freak," you whisper, clenching your fists, and as a freezing wind tears through the air, you're surprised to find your voice getting stronger. "I am normal! I will not be a freak!"

Harry tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, and you stare down at the floor so you don't have to see the way he looks at you. "You liked it."

"What? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes," he says, grabbing you by the chin and tilting your head up to look at him. "Yes I think you do. You're doing it. You know you are. It's not just happening around you. You're making it happen."

"I'm not!"

"You are," he says softly. "You're doing magic now, Dud, and you like it."

"I don't!"

He shakes his head back and forth slowly and moves his hand so your head shakes along with it. "You could find me halfway across the country with your eyes closed," he says, and his lips twitch upward slightly on one side. "You could do that, and you'd still keep saying you're normal. I don't believe you. You don't even believe yourself anymore."

"You-- you're not normal. You kissed me."

"I bet you liked that too."

He tries to pull your face a bit closer, but you manage to push his hand away. "Get off."

"No," he says, this time grabbing you by the arms with both hands.

"Get off," you breathe, and for a second, you wonder if he's heard you, but then he whispers back, "What if I don't?"

You try to flex your arms under his hands, but they hurt too much. He's making them hurt too much. "I-I'm stronger than you."

"Are you?" Harry asks, taking a small step forward so you're as close as you can possibly get without being pressed up against each other. "Are you really? You don't look very strong right now." He moves one of his hands away from your arm and presses it flat against your chest as if trying to find your heartbeat. "What are you so scared of? Don't want your mummy and daddy to know what you really are? I promise I won't tell." He kisses you as you try to pull away, an awkward, lopsided kiss that only gets the corner of your mouth and somehow makes you feel a lot more normal than you had before he started talking about magic. He gives a few angry huffs as you take a step back and feel yourself starting to smile.

"You're rubbish at this, aren't you?" you ask him, biting your lip to keep from laughing "I mean, that was terrible. What's the matter, no other freaks want to touch you? Are you too weird even for them?"

"What do you want here?" he asks expressionlessly, walking back and taking his usual seat at the table. "Besides to eat and get us both killed, I mean?"

"It'll be August tomorrow, you know," you say pulling the letter from your pocket. "I was just going to give this to you. It-it says your name on it-- at least it did at first."

You slide it across the table and he touches it in the corner before you have a chance to let go. "Going through my things again?" he asks, looking down at the thick paper.

"No, I--"

"It doesn't matter," he says sharply, nodding in the direction of the letter. "It's not mine anymore."

Your eyes follow his to the address.

Dudley Dursley
First floor
Kitchen
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey

"It didn't change," you whisper. "I mean, it did change, but it didn't change to your name."

"No," he says. "It won't do that. Not for me. Not anymore." He roughly pushes it back to you, wrinkling the paper.

"Oh--Uh . . . Oh."

"Oh?" he says, raising his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses. "Back to talking in grunts then, are you?"

"Shut up," you say, shoving the letter back in your pocket and walking out of the kitchen as fast as you can manage. It's not until you get back to your room and shut the door that you realize you forget to have breakfast.

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

Ron, Harry writes, hand shaking slightly. You know how you said I was going mental?
I think you're right.

That's all Harry can think to say, so he signs his name and sends the letter off with Hedwig, who looks just a bit perkier than she did the day before.

He sits on he sofa and tries to get comfortable, but that proves impossible, and he looks at the few newspapers he can finds to see if there are hints of odd things happening anywhere else, but that proves futile, so he goes back to his room and shifts through his things and notices that there's an old picture of the Weird Sisters beside his omniculars that's somehow still moving.

He sleeps through the night, though not particularly well, waking up only occasionally to check that the Death Eaters are still wandering aimlessly through the lawn, and when morning comes, he stretches his legs and stumbles into the kitchen to make breakfast.

He's halfway through a crumpet when Dudley plops down across the table from him with a giant cup of hot coco and uses the remote to turn on the kitchen TV and fumbles with a package of biscuits. Harry can tell he's trying not to look at him, so he decides to make it easier and leave, but Dudley's voice stops him. "Uh-- I . . ."

"What?" Harry asks without turning around. "What do you want?"

"D-do you really think I can do it?"

Harry doesn't need to ask what he's talking about. "Who knows?" he says. "Maybe." He turns around halfway to face Dudley, who forces back a shiver. "But I don't think you will, and I don't think I'm going to bother with it anymore."

"What?!" Dudley shouts, standing up from the table.

"There's no point, is there?" Harry asks.

Dudley's face is rapidly turning a brighter shade of pink. "What do you mean no point?!"

"Well you won't. You won't do freak things, even if it means saving your family, will you?"

"I-I can't! I'm normal!" As he screams, the ceiling lights flash and flicker out, and as he slams his fist into the table, the TV explodes and sends white sparks zipping around the room.

"Oh yes," Harry says, shaking the sparks from his hair and watching as they fizzle out on the floor below him. "Just look how normal you are."

Dudley slowly sits back down at the table and draws his arms in close to his chest. "I-I didn't do that."

The sparks are still raining all around them, and if Harry narrows his eyes, he can almost see the magic rolling off Dudley in waves. He wants to shout. He wants to lose control like Dudley does so easily and scream out all his anger and frustration. There's a whole world out there, he wants to say to Dudley, a world of people who are sick and lost and dying. There's a whole world that's faded beyond reach, and you're the only one left who stands a chance of bringing it back, but instead, you stay holed up here watching TV and playing video games. He tries to focus his stare, but Dudley refuses to meet his eyes. Your parents are locked away, he thinks, and every night madmen come into your yard with clubs and knives and guns. You could stop them, if you tried. You could rescue your parents and bring the world back to normal again, but you won't even start. You won't even save one thing.

"Quit it," Dudley says through his teeth, still looking down at the table. "Quit watching me." And at that moment, Dudley's the most disgusting thing Harry's ever seen.

I hate you, he wants to shout, I hate you, and I would give everything I have to be you for just a few seconds, but Harry doesn't say it. He doesn't say anything, instead he grabs Dudley by the shoulders and pulls him up from his chair and kisses him hard.

"Get off," Dudley says pushing him away. "Don't touch me." There are white sparks spattered down the front of his shirt like biscuit crumbs and pale light flashing in his eyes.

"You don't understand, Harry says, poking him in the chest with his finger and watching as some of the sparks fall to the floor. "You don't understand anything."

"No!" Dudley yells, shoving Harry's hand away and taking a step back. "You're the one who doesn't understand. I'm not like you," he says, voice getting softer. "I will never be like you. Why don't you get that?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. You're wrong. You have to try harder." He doesn't know whether Dudley hears him or if he listened to anything he said before or if he remembers the times he really did get it to work, but over the next few days, Harry keeps hiding, and try as he might, Dudley never finds him. After a week it gets too hard to hope anything will change, and he decides not to bother anymore.

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

When you were younger, storms terrified you, especially the storm you faced in the hut in the middle of the sea-- something about the loud booms of thunder and the bright flashes of lightning and the water pouring from the sky that seemed like it would never stop until it swallowed you up. You could hardly ever sleep through it, so you would walk downstairs to the kitchen, and your mum would be there, just waiting for you, and she would hug you and sit you down at the table and give you tea and lemon cakes with chocolate icing.

This night, you tell yourself it's the memories, not the rain and winds that keep you awake as you walk down the stairs to the lounge and find Harry on the floor with his forehead pressed up against the window.

"Are they here again?" you ask, but he seems lost in the world of his own thoughts and slowly moves his hand up to the glass, showing no sign of having heard you. "Are they?" you repeat a bit louder.

"Every night," he says angrily without turning to look at you. "They're here every night. What don't you understand about that?"

"It's raining," you say, wondering if he's too stupid or strange to have noticed.

You see his sneer reflected in the glass of and watch as his fingers begin beating against the windowpane to match the rhythm of the raindrops. "Really, you think?"

"That's loony, I mean every night they come to the same house, and they can't even see it."

"That's the way they are." He brings his hand back to his side and turns to look at you, and you can't read the expression on his face "That's the way they always have been," he says with a sharp edge lurking beneath the softness of his words, "and people don't ever change, not really."

"They're stupid, you mean. They're stupid like all you ruddy freaks," you say, and he glares at you like he wants to be properly angry but is too tired to manage it. "They're not ever going to give up, are they?"

"No. They want something. They won't stop until they have it."

"They want you."

"Maybe." He shrugs.

"They want you," you say to him, "and I-I'm about to go out there and tell them they can have you."

"No, you're not," he says, voice calm.

"I could."

"You won't."

You don't know if something of him is rubbing off onto you, but you don't feel up to arguing anymore, so you sit down beside him and turn your head to look out the window and watch the busy movements of drenched black robes, illuminated by the streetlights and the odd flash of lightning. "I guess that's what you have to do then," you say after a few minutes have passed, "to find something, I mean. You have to be willing to go out in the rain to get it."

"Not what I have to do," Harry says sharply, and you nod because you don't know what else to do.

"I still don't see what's so special about you that makes them keep coming here."

"Neither do I," Harry says, nodding his head in agreement, and then he starts touching your face, even though you're sure you don't have any chocolate on it, and then he runs a hand down the back of your neck, even though you try to shove him away, and then he kisses you-- again.

This time something about it is different. Harry's hands are grabbing your hair and your arms and your back. You're both on the floor, and you're leaning against the wall and digging your fingernails into the plaster, trying to hold on as everything starts tipping upside-down.

By the time you and Harry finish kissing, he's somehow lying halfway on top of you, and you're somehow wearing his glasses. You blink and make out the blurry mess that must be his hair and give it a hard a tug. "Get off."

"Stop that," he says, and tries to pull himself up using the windowsill, but he can't seem to find it enough to get a decent grip. There's not that much light coming from outside, and the rain is getting louder. On the third try, he pulls himself up enough for it to hurt when he falls back down and elbows you in the chest.

"Ouch!"

"Shhhh."

"Right," you breathe, and he looks up at you. At least, you think he's looking up at you. It's dark and neither of you can see very well. He presses into the spot he elbowed with the palm of his hand, and you wince. "Stop that."

His face is too much of a smudge for you to tell if he's actually smiling, but he sounds like he is. "I got you good, didn't I?"

"Yeah, now get off," you say, pushing him away as much as you can manage.

He starts feeling around on the floor and in his hair and on the front of his shirt. "You haven't seen my glasses, have you?"

"I'm wearing your ruddy glasses," you say, "and I can't see a thing through them. You must be completely blind."

He fumbles to take his glasses back, getting a few fingers tangled behind your ear in the process and kisses you before putting them on again and smiling. "When I'm doing this, it helps."

"It's not their fault, you know?" you say backing into the wall, and he backs away too so you aren't touching anymore. "My parent's, I mean. It's not their fault that you can't see. Your dad wore glasses."

"You saw pictures of him then?" he asks, looking at you without really turning his head, and you nod. "Stop going through my things, Dudley." He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back against the wall, trying to get comfortable. "They're not yours. You shouldn't be--"

"Freak," you say, cutting him off, but you can't make it sound like a proper insult while half yawning. "They're yours because you're a freak." Harry's looking at you again, and you hate the way he looks at you, even when he's not trying to be insulting. "I was only looking for those fizzy candies, anyway, and I didn't find any chocolate flavored ones, so you can keep your stupid freak stuff. I don't want it."

"You know it's not forever, right?" He asks, giving you a light kick. "Real witches and wizards will be able to do magic again. Then I'll-- I'll take care of it. It won't be forever."

"Nothing's forever," you say, trying to look back at him, "but you'd have to be stupider than I thought to think I would trust you." You don't say anything to him after that, and he doesn't say anything to you. You both move a few extra inches away from each other and rest your heads against the wall, listening to the rain and thunder until you start to fall asleep.

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

Harry doesn't sleep much that night, but Dudley does, and he watches. They're both still on the floor next to each other, and for the first few hours, Dudley jerks about and wakes up periodically and tells Harry to go away and stop being weird, but Harry doesn't listen. By the time the rain's stopped, Dudley has settled down and become very quiet, and Harry finds himself holding his hand a few inches above Dudley's mouth to make sure he's still breathing.

Shortly after sunrise, Hedwig flies through the window with a piece of paper tied to her left claw, another letter from Ron.

Dear Harry, he reads.

You sound like you're going a bit stir crazy, not that I blame you, really, but it's best not to let the little things get to you so much, at least that's what Charlie keeps telling me. I think He's just glad he doesn't have to cook for himself anymore now that he can't find any dragons to study.

Things are good here, though. I set up a Quidditch pitch in the Granger's back yard. We had to lower the goals, of course, on account of not being able to fly anymore, and instead of bludgers Fred and George just throw tennis balls at people, and instead of a quaffle we use a football, and instead of a snitch we hide a galleon in the grass for the seekers to look for, so they have to crawl around, and tend to get stepped on a lot. It's really a great game, Harry. I got Hermione to play yesterday, even though she kept going on about how ridiculously childish it was, and she'll never admit to it, but I think she had fun. She's been feeling loads better lately, not so confused, which is good, because seeing Hermione confused is terrifying, like it goes against nature or something.

You should come over, Harry, or at least call to let me know what's driving you mental. I'm sure it can't be as bad as listening to Percy blather on, and I can use a telephone now. Besides, it would be good to hear more than two sentences from you.

~Ron

Harry writes a letter back. It says:

Dear Ron,

I've been snogging my fat, muggle cousin.

He decides not to send it, and leaves Dudley sleeping on the floor to go look for Hermione's phone number, but he can't find it anywhere in his trunk or under the floorboards.

He misses them-- his friends and teachers, the people who he doesn't have to prove himself to, who understand him without having to say anything at all. Without the promise of being together at Hogwarts in a few short weeks, he misses them worse than ever.

Harry used to think it was a problem that once he got an idea in his head he couldn't push it away no matter how hard he tried, no matter how stupid or dangerous it seemed, but there's not so much danger now, at least not in the daylight, and he doesn't have to worry about losing house points or getting detentions. So he packs a small bag, and he swipes the bit of money he finds scattered about in Dudley's room, and he promises himself he'll be back before dark.

He's stopped in the front hallway by Dudley's voice. "Hey!"

"What?" Harry asks, turning around to see Dudley's fat, pink face blank and obviously confused.

Dudley's small eyes narrow, and he takes a step towards Harry. "Where are you going?"

"None of your business,"

"Are you coming back?"

"Yes."

"When?" Dudley asks, pushing Harry to the side and moving past him to get between him and the door.

"I don't know," Harry says, becoming increasingly annoyed. "Get out of the way."

"No." Dudley shivers for a second and takes a deep breath. "I know where you're going?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you're going to see your freak friends, and you shouldn't. You shouldn't be allowed to."

"Why not?" Harry asks incredulously. "Why are you acting like this?" It's not like you want me here."

"They--I could lock the doors after you leave," Dudley says, straightening his shoulders. "I could let those guys in masks have their fun with you."

Harry looks at the door and searches for the best way past Dudley, who is very effectively taking up the entire width of the hallway. "How do you even know it's me that they want?"

"Who else would they be looking for?" Dudley asks with a hint of disgust, and Harry rolls his eyes.

"Never mind. Just move over so I can leave."

"You can't. You haven't washed the dishes yet or swept the floor."

"Do it yourself," Harry says shrugging and taking a step forward. "It's not my fault you've made such a mess."

"The laundry? You haven't washed clothes in over a week. My mum and dad would never let--"

"But they're not here, are they?" Harry snaps before Dudley can finish. "They can't make me do anything where they are, and you said I could leave whenever I'd like."

"I never said you could come back," Dudley growls. "I could lock the doors. I could, and I just might."

"You won't," Harry says, knowing it's true. As much as Dudley hates him, he won't shut him out, even if it's only so he has someone to clean up after him and bother when he gets bored with his toys and video games. Harry keeps walking, and Dudley moves to the side to let him by.

He watches Dudley wince as the screen door snaps shut behind him, and he smiles.

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