Realizations

Chapter 9 - Plans in the Making

Wednesday, July 12, 1995

The old Riddle House stood on a hill overlooking the village of Little Hangleton with all the grace and warmth of a hungry vulture. About fifty years ago, it had been a grand manor house, home to Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, and their grown son, Tom. Now it was a mere shade of its former self, with broken windows, missing roof tiles, and ivy spreading unchecked in the gardens and on the exterior walls.

The Riddles had not been popular with the other Little Hangleton residents. They were aristocratic, and class-conscious, and kept mostly to themselves, but their story, or parts of it, were well known in spite of this. It was a beloved piece of local folklore, known to all the locals, and it's legend grew with each retelling. It was a most compelling saga, after all, which included many of the best story elements: love, tragedy, betrayal, mystery, and unexplained death.

The Riddles, it was said, were not the friendliest of sorts. All three of them had no patience with anything or anyone different or unusual, and they considered themselves a cut above the other villagers. The parents were considered snobbish at best, and Tom was worse if that was possible. All of Little Hangleton had always been assumed that he would be married off in some huge pre-arranged affair to one of the more well-to-do girls from Great Hangleton or some such place. It had been a huge surprise to the locals, then, when Tom hit young adulthood, and began seeing a local village girl. Not once in their wildest dreams had the villagers ever suspected that Tom Riddle would fall for one of their own...or that his parents would tolerate such a relationship.

Sadly, it had not turned out well. The residents of Little Hangleton had been disappointed, but really not that surprised, when the Tom had abruptly severed relations with his young lover, and refused to even acknowledge her existence. His parents had never approved of her, after all. Humiliated and heartbroken, she had eventually left Little Hangleton, and had never been heard from again.

The whys of the relationship always provided ample fodder for the speculation mill. Even after nearly seventy years, people still wondered why Tom Riddle cast her aside so coldly. Some thought she might have been pregnant. Others speculated that his parents put pressure on him to end it. Still others guessed that he might have just tired of her, like a little boy might abandon an old toy in favor of a shiny new one. Blame was almost always laid at Tom's door, and not the girl's. She had been gentle soul, sweet and well liked if somewhat unorthodox. The villagers did not think she broke it off, and could not envision her cheating on Tom, or doing anything at all to deserve such callous treatment. Her fate was also the topic of much debate. A few practical individuals thought she must have picked up the pieces and gotten on with her life. Others with a more romantic or morbid bent, insisted she had died--in childbirth, by her own hand, or wasting away from a broken heart.

There were some grains of truth in the rampant speculation. The girl had indeed been pregnant, but that was not the sole reason her relationship had crumbled. Tom had, in fact, cut all ties, and violently rejected her after discovering she was a witch.

One of the few times it was permissible for witches and wizards to purposefully reveal the magical realm to a muggle, was when the witch or wizard was about to forge some kind of familial bond with the muggle in question. Marriage was the most common circumstance, others included engagement, adoption, legal guardianship, and sometimes fostering. Most magical folk waited until they had some sort of promise, either legal or verbal, before sharing their secret, but the young witch Riddle was seeing did not. They had casually discussed marriage, and she had assumed he would be as pleased about the child as she was.

Unfortunately for her, Tom had not been supportive of her heritage, or the pregnancy, even going so far as to accuse her of infidelity. Repulsed and disgusted, he had abandoned her, advising her to get rid of the child, and leaving her to bear the burden alone. Secure in the knowledge that he was the injured party, Tom had returned to his parents, and his ancestral home. She had misrepresented herself to him, after all, and since she was a witch, surely she should have been able to prevent such a mistake. He never knew or cared that she had died shortly after his son was born, only living long enough to name the squalling, dark-haired baby after his father, whom she still loved in spite of everything. Since his mother had seemed to be quite alone in the world, the attending midwife had turned little Tom Marvolo Riddle over to the authorities. From there, he had been placed in a muggle orphanage.

The villagers hadn't been privy to these details, so they had invented their own. Eventually, the furor over Tom's disastrous love affair had settled down, and other topics began to pop up in local gossip. The villagers generally agreed that the Riddle's were cruel and heartless as well as snobbish, but they had thought that before, and life in Little Hangleton had returned almost to normal.

Years had passed...some said fifteen, others insisted that it was closer to twenty. If nothing else had happened, Tom Riddle's little dalliance might have been forgotten altogether, but all chances of that had flown out of the window when Tom Riddle and his parents had been found dead one morning.

The town had broken into fearful, excited whispers, but no one had felt any true remorse. The townspeople were far more concerned about the capture of any mad killers running about than they had been about the deceased. Frank Bryce, the Riddle's gardener, had been arrested, and taken in for questioning, all the while claiming he had seen a stranger--a pale, dark-haired teenage boy--the night the family had died. His story had not been widely believed, but there had not been sufficient evidence to charge Frank with any crime. He had been released, and had continued to live in the gardener's cottage on the Riddle property until his death the previous summer.

The villagers now regarded the old house with suspicion, and refused to go anywhere near it. The practical villagers pointed out the shaky condition of the structure, the impractical ones insisted it was cursed or jinxed or haunted. Perhaps the vengeful spirit of the unfortunate girl lurked there. Maybe the Riddles themselves or Frank Bryce wandered the halls. People began avoiding going anywhere near the old residence. Even the village boys abandoned their ways of breaking the house's windows, and daring each other to enter it. The old timers who remembered when the Riddles had died were asked to re-tell their stories. Frank's death had brought it all back, since he had been found in the same house, in the same condition as the Riddles had about fifty years before. That was the scariest thing of all. There had been no mark or injury on any of the bodies. They appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be perfectly healthy--except for the horrified looks on their faces. Was it possible to be scared to death?

Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, sat by the fireplace in the Riddle House. His snake, Nagini, was at his side, and his servant, Peter Pettigrew, also known as Wormtail, cowered in the shadows, awaiting orders or instructions.

The house, Voldemort had decided would serve as an acceptable base of operations, for now. He remembered the first time he had come to this place--the first time he had laid eyes on his filthy muggle father and grandparents. He had not killed them immediately, of course. He had wanted his pound of flesh for his mother's desertion, and all the miserable years he had spent languishing in that horrible institution before getting his Hogwarts letter. It had felt good to lash out...to hear them scream and beg. He found he liked being the tormentor, instead of the tormented. Growing up in the muggle orphanage had been a wretched, miserable experience, and when he came into his power, Voldemort had decided that the world in general should pay for not saving and protecting him. He hatred, especially for muggles, mud-bloods, and the wizards who tolerated them, knew no bounds.

The Dark Lord sneered as he unobtrusively watched Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye. The man was a coward--a weakling both physically and magically--but for now, at least, he was necessary. Voldemort had managed, with Pettigrew's help, to construct another body for himself, using bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy. Voldemort wished he could have seen the look on Wormtail's face when he had severed his own hand, and Potter's when his blood had been harvested for the potion. Instead he had to content himself with the memory of his servant's anguished sobbing, and the boy's pain and dawning horror when he realized his mother's protection had been effectively nullified as far as Voldemort was concerned. The ceremony had been successful, but initially his new body had tired easily. The night of his rebirth and subsequent duel with Potter had taken more out of him than he would have liked. It had taken the better part of the last two weeks to build up his physical and magical stamina.

His Death Eaters hadn't suspected his infirmary, though. They expected him to bark orders, and were accustomed to waiting on him hand and foot. No one had commented when he took a purely "supervisory" role while the Riddle House was repaired and fortified with wards, protective spells, and Muggle Repelling Charms. He was Power Supreme. The Ultimate Dark Wizard of Recent History. As such he was not expected to dirty his hands with such mundane tasks.

Still, he had required the services of a full time servant, at least for the time being, and although he was a sniveling, incompetent, traitorous coward, Pettigrew had been the logical choice for that task. He was supposed to be dead, so he had no job to return to, no family or friends to notice his absence. Voldemort's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. His condition was improving daily. Once he got his strength back, he could always dispose of the annoying little parasite if he chose. For now, he would let the other wizard stay. Besides, Peter Pettigrew had information that would lead him straight to Harry Potter. As soon as the Snape's memory potion was finished, he could set events in motion.

Voldemort seethed a moment in frustration, as he remembered how his other carefully laid plan had been thwarted by a mere slip of a boy. Before, he had meant to rid himself of Potter quickly. A clean, surgical strike to show the wizarding world how foolish they'd been to pin their hopes on an untried youth. Now he intended to make his enemy suffer dearly for his humiliation. Yes, he would plan a much more...satisfying demise for the Brat-Who-Lived-Just-To-Annoy-Him.

Casually, he stood, and turned to face Wormtail, enjoying the way the man's eyes involuntarily widened in fright. "The hour of our meeting is nearly at hand," Voldemort said silkily. "I require your assistance in summoning the rest of my loyal Death Eaters."

Stifling a resigned sigh, Peter murmured an obedient "Yes, Master, it is my honor to serve you," and approached the dark wizard. Knowing what the other wanted, he knelt and stretched out his left arm, exposing the Dark Mark. God, but I hate this, Peter thought, bracing for the icy, long-fingered touch, and the pain that would inevitably follow. He suspected that the Dark Mark could be made to serve its purpose without having to hurt so damned much, but his master thrived on the suffering of others. Even when the tatoo was not in use, it itched and burned maddeningly. A little warning to the foolhardy that they were under the Dark Lord's scrutiny, and disobedience would not be tolerated.

"Death Eaters, answer my call," Voldemort intoned, laying his spidery hand on Pettigrew's left arm, and activating the Dark Mark with his magic. Peter winced, and cried out sharply as the tattoo burned under his master's touch, and the anti-apparation wards flickered slightly, allowing entrance. For a few minutes, nothing happened, then witches and wizards dressed in black Death Eater robes and masks began to arrive. With practiced ease, they formed a half-circle, before Voldemort, kneeling and bowing their heads in submission.

"Welcome Death Eaters," Voldemort spoke, finally removing his hand from Peter's arm, and facing them. Without preamble, he faced the Hogwarts Potions Master. "How is your potion progressing, Severus?" he asked, ignoring Pettigrew, as he whimpered, and rubbed his arm with his new silver hand.

"Preparations are nearly complete, Master," Snape's voice answered from behind his mask. "The potion will be ready by the week's end."

"Very well," Voldemort replied. He muttered a spell, and created a glass sphere, similar to a Rememberall. "Use this portkey to come here immediately when the potion is completed, then we can begin finalizing plans for Harry Potter's demise." Voldemort handed the portkey to Snape, then smiled cruelly. "And be sure to keep a better eye on your ingredient stores. I do not want to be inconvenienced again. Crucio!" he hissed, flicking his wand in Snape's direction, and holding him under the Cruciatus Curse for a few seconds as a warning. Satisfied that his message had been received, Voldemort turned away from Snape, and snapped, "Malfoy!"

"Yes, my lord?"

"What is going on at the Ministry?"

"The minister still denies any knowledge of your resurrection, my lord," Lucius Malfoy reported. "Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory have been sniffing around, trying to garner support for Dumbledore, but many are reluctant to oppose Fudge without proof."

Voldemort nodded, then narrowed his eyes speculatively. "What was reported about the TriWizard Tournament?"

"A very small article, Master. Harry Potter was named victor, and that was all. A great many details were hushed up."

"The boy who died was not mentioned? Not at all?" Voldemort pressed, cackling evilly when Lucius shook his head. "Excellent! The Ministry of Magic is doing our work for us." He rubbed his hands together, a look of unholy glee on his face.

"But, master," one Death Eater ventured timidly, "Don't you want the world to know of your triumphant return? Aren't we going to continue Slytherin's noble work?"

"Patience, Avery. You'll get to torture muggles and mudbloods soon enough," the dark lord sneered. "For now, we will be silent, so that when we do attack we will have surprise on our side." He glared at each of the Death Eaters in turn. "We would be unwise to tip our hand."

Saturday, July 15, 1995

You know, I think this may be what is meant by 'too much of a good thing,' Harry Potter thought distractedly as he pounded up Diagon Alley toward the Leaky Cauldron. Some of the merchants noticed as he passed, and friendly greetings floated in his wake.

"Alright, Jim?"

"Hey, Jimmy!"

"Hi, Sparky!"

The Gryffindor grinned and waved cheerily as he went by. His current job situation was a little difficult to describe. Harry supposed "shared asset" came about as close as possible. The Leaky Cauldron was still his primary place of employment, but at Tom's urging, he had started doing odd jobs around Diagon Alley as well.

Initially he'd been a little nervous about leaving the safety of his nocturnal routine, but Tom had insisted. "It'll do you good to get out, lad," the innkeeper had encouraged, when Harry had hesitated. "Don't think I haven't noticed you moping around the old place."

Harry had been shocked at that statement. He hadn't realized he'd been so obvious. Then it occurred to him that he hadn't been. Not really. Tom was just sharper and more observant that most witches and wizards gave him credit for. He played the parts of "harmless old man" and "kindly bartender" perfectly. Harry had noticed quite a few patrons of the pub area of the Leaky Cauldron having serious, sometimes personal discussions with his boss...just as he had that first Sunday. Harry grinned wryly. Tom probably had the latest dirt on most of the wizarding community, including the Boy Who Lived. Fortunately, Tom respected his patrons' confidentiality, and, in most cases, genuinely wanted to help them with their troubles. Harry had picked up on this when he had tried to explain his circumstances to Tom that first day.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Harry had been able to get a sense of a person's trustworthiness and motives since...well since always, really. He didn't understand it, and he couldn't always get a clear "reading," but over the years he had learned to trust whatever information he could glean from it. Tom was definitely okay in his book.

The brick wall that stood between the Leaky Cauldron's back yard and Diagon Alley now loomed in front of him. Harry skidded to a halt, and whipped out his wand, so he could tap the necessary bricks, to open the secret archway. While he waited for the bricks to separate, Harry walked in a slow circle, and took a few deep breaths. He supposed he hadn't really needed to run the length of Diagon Alley, but, stupid as it sounded, he loved the feel of his new trainers.

Size problems aside, by the time Dudley's old sneakers came into his possession, the soles had lost a lot of their springiness. Of course, his cousin probably compressed them faster than the average wearer because of his immense size, but that was beside the point. In a way, Harry had actually been sort of grateful for Dudley's weight issues. Dudley Dursley was heavy and strong, and a mean bullying git, but he'd never been what one would call physically fit, and he'd never had the stamina to run fast or far. Yep. Definitely his father's son. Harry, on the other hand was light and speedy, and could run like the wind, which gave him a definite advantage. They couldn't hit what they couldn't catch, after all.

The Gryffindor frowned thoughtfully as he crossed the yard, looking back to make sure the archway closed itself behind him. He hadn't thought of the Dursleys in days, and it wasn't because he had been trying not to think of them, either. No, he knew what that felt like. He was still fighting with all his strength to keep the memories of the Third Task at bay. Unfortunately, even if he was successful in pushing them aside while awake, the maze, Voldemort rising from the cauldron, Cedric's vacant gray eyes, and the Cruciatus Curse were all frequent visitors in his nightmares.

Harry found it rather ironic that he could grieve so for a boy he'd barely known before last year, a boy who he considered a rival for the affections of Cho Chang, when the loss of his last blood relatives, and childhood home inspired only intermittent pangs of regret. After he'd gotten over the initial shock, he found he just wished things could have been different between them, and that was all. Of course Cedric Diggory was dead, and the Dursleys were just gone, but what did that say about him? He'd been part of their household (at least on a part time basis) for almost fourteen years! Shouldn't he be more upset? Didn't he care? Harry twisted his mouth a little to one side as he entered the tavern. He knew very well that if Professor Dumbledore had granted his request to stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays when he'd asked back in second year, he would have never willingly set foot on Privet Drive again.

Staying close to the wall, and trying not to be obvious about it, Harry skirted the perimeter of the dining area, and ducked into the kitchen, catching Tom's eye as he did so. The innkeeper was tending to some late breakfast/early lunch customers, but the bar and dining area were mostly empty. Good. He needed to nip upstairs and wash up before preparing and serving food.

Patches blinked sleepily at Harry as he entered his room a few seconds later. The calico cat was stretched out on his bed, napping in a nice warm sunbeam. She had been in his room quite a bit since Hedwig had been gone. Harry strongly suspected she missed his snowy owl and was waiting for her to return. The two animals hadn't gotten on initially, but now they seemed to enjoy each others' company enormously. Harry supposed they must have bonded while exchanging mouse hunting tips. Now if he could just convince them to stop leaving him "gifts." The boy shook his head in gentle exasperation, touched and a bit embarrassed by their extravagant generosity.

The cat purred contentedly and closed her eyes, when he paused to scratch her ears and stroke her coat. "She should be back soon, you know," he told the cat. "Today, I reckon, maybe tomorrow." Patches looked haughtily at him, affecting an I'm-sure-I-don't-know- what -you're-on-about attitude before beginning to casually wash her face.

Taking the hint, Harry chuckled lightly. "All right, silly thing, have it your way," he said, giving her one last pat. "You're only in this room because the sunbeam that falls across that particular bed is clearly the warmest and brightest one the Leaky Cauldron has to offer. Dreadfully stupid of me to have thought otherwise."

Ducking into the bathroom, Harry quickly checked his appearance in the mirror. He had been stocking shelves at Quality Quidditch Supplies that morning, so he wasn't all that dirty. It wasn't like a couple of days ago, when he'd returned to the Leaky Cauldron covered in mud. The apothecary had an extensive garden and made fresh ingredients available in warm weather. When Harry had shown up for work, he'd been tasked with weeding the garden and harvesting some common ingredients to refill depleted stores. That day, he had been forced to leave early, so he'd have time to shower and change before reporting to the kitchen for the dinner crowd. In spite of that, he had earned quite a few of the less costly refills he needed for his potions kit, and he'd already earned three of his fifth year texts at Flourish and Blotts. If this kept up, he would have no problem earning his school supplies before the start of term.

Peering curiously at his reflection, Harry tried to see what was so different as he hurriedly washed up. Truthfully, he hadn't expected this little ruse to work. To him, the change didn't seem all that dramatic. Yes, the startling green eyes he'd inherited from his mother were now hidden behind brown color contact lenses, yes, thanks to Hermione's mum, he was outfitted in clothing that fit properly, yes, his unruly mop of dark hair had actually stayed the way the barber had arranged it (for once), and yes, his famous lightning bolt scar was hidden from view, but how could such small things make such a huge difference?

Harry touched the thin strip of black cloth fastened around his head, amazed anew that something so simple could be such an effective disguise. As it was it had been a last ditch effort. Tom had tried without success to cast a Glamour Charm on his scar. It had also proven stubbornly resistant to general use concealers, both magical and muggle. Tom had even made a trip to Knockturn Alley to purchase a jar of the only 24-hour, guaranteed-to-cover-anything waterproof, sweatproof, won't-come-off-until-you-take-it-off concealing potion, a concoction known as the Mark Remover.

The Mark Remover wasn't exactly illegal, but it had a dubious reputation. Because it eliminated all traces of freckles, scars, birthmarks, tattoos and other skin irregularities, it was popular with magical folk who found such distinguishing characteristics to be inconvenient--fugitives from the law, and Death Eaters for example. The proprietor on Knockturn Alley wasn't surprised or suspicious when Tom came to see him. Although the Mark Remover was an excellent product, lots of stores refused to carry it, stating that it was something no decent witch or wizard would use. Those who did, even for strictly cosmetic purposes, never openly spoke of it. This wasn't the first time, or the last, that Tom would walk into the little potions shop on Knockturn Alley to purchase a jar of Mark Remover for an anonymous guest at the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry spared the medicine cabinet an annoyed glance, while drying off. The Mark Remover, once purchased, had to be charmed to match the user's skin coloration, and was therefore non-returnable. The potion had worked as promised, erasing all traces of his trademark scar, but Harry had turned out to be mildly allergic to it, and couldn't wear it more than a few hours at a time without breaking out in a rash. It would do in a pinch, or for short appearances, but a better solution had to be found for day-to-day use.

Using the headband actually came up by accident. Harry had been doing a particularly hot and heavy job at the Leaky Cauldron the day after his shopping trip. Frustrated with having to mop his face every few seconds, and heartily tired of drops of stinging perspiration finding their way into his eyes, the teen had torn a strip off the bottom of the old muggle t-shirt he was wearing and wrapped it around his head. He'd kept some of Dudley's castoffs--the ones that were his approximate length--for dirty jobs. When Tom came to check on him, he'd immediately grinned, and pronounced himself an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

So Harry now had a package from the "Workout Wear" section of Quality Quidditch Supplies containing a dozen strips of black cloth. Similar to muggle sweatbands and bandannas, but far thinner and lighter, the wizard headbands were designed to be extra absorbent, and let the skin breathe, with only one layer of cloth on the skin. They also sized themselves to the wearer, and closed in the back with a hook and eye, so one didn't have to worry about loosening knots, or slipping. Harry also noticed the black cloth blended in with his hair quite well, especially if he tucked it under his unruly strands. If he wore it high on his forehead, just barely covering his scar, it wasn't horribly obvious even in front.

As an extra protective measure, Tom had offered to cast a mild charm on the whole lot to make them seem unimportant and beneath anyone's notice, but it hadn't really been necessary. The shoppers and merchants who did notice Harry's new headgear thought little of it. "Jim" was doing a lot of manual labor around Diagon Alley, after all, and the weather had been quite warm.

Harry grinned as he bounded back down the stairs, to the kitchen. Tom had arranged for some of his colleagues to come to the Leaky Cauldron, and meet "Jim" Sunday afternoon, after they closed. At Tom's gentle summons, Harry had come over to the table they were seated at, almost sick with nerves. He was certain someone was going to catch on, and identify him as Harry Potter, but amazingly no one had. He'd gotten a few contemplative don't-I-know-you-from-somewhere frowns, but those had disappeared almost immediately when Tom had proudly presented "Jim Patterson."

The last week hadn't been easy. The proprietors of Diagon Alley had been impressed with the Leaky Cauldron, but wanted to put Harry through his paces just the same. He'd started out at Flourish and Blotts Monday morning, trying to make sense out of their hopelessly disorganized storeroom. The manager there was known to be notoriously particular and hard to please, so he got to "try Jim out" first. Before the end of the day, his lavish praise of the boy had spread through Diagon Alley, and Harry now had more odd jobs than he could manage.

"Hello, Sparky. About time you got back," Tom teased, tossing Harry an apron, and chuckling at the way the boy rolled his eyes and grinned at his newly acquired nickname. Harry had picked it up a few days ago. He'd been shining the glass that covered Florean Fortescue's ice cream display, when the first customer of the day, a little old witch named Mrs. Talridge had come in.

She had smiled brightly at Harry's work, and reached up to pat his hand. "Very nicely done, dear," she had enthused, "The place just sparkles! " Florean, of course, had thought this was the funniest thing he'd ever witnessed, and started addressing Harry as "Sparkles" when no customers were about.

The whole thing probably would have blown over and been forgotten, if "Sparkles" hadn't been shortened to "Sparky" sometime during the course of the day. Harry couldn't remember who had used it first, but the name had caught on, and now it he seemed to be stuck with it.

Harry gave a mental shrug as he quickly began dishing up and serving orders. He supposed if he was to have a nickname "Sparky" wasn't so bad. It beat the heck out of "Boy" and "Scarhead" and "Worthless Abnormal Freak" at any rate.

I wonder what Sirius will think of it. Harry thought with a quiet snicker, then arched an eyebrow as he remembered how the Marauders had come by their nicknames. I wonder if I have an animagus form, and if it would fit my nickname? That would be so cool--but what kind of animal does "Sparky" imply? Harry worked a few more minutes, then stopped short with a derisive snort. Oh, yes. I can see it now. Harry Potter the firefly. Now that's a right manly form, that is. I'm sorry I asked.

Tom smiled, pausing a moment to watch Harry work. He'd been right on two counts. Getting the boy out, and around people again seemed to perk him up, and alleviate some of the gloom from his demeanor, and he'd come back from his outing in London looking nothing like he had when he'd left. Tom hadn't been able to believe it. The withdrawn and rather scruffy-looking boy who'd left to go shopping had vanished.

Harry had proven that he was able to work unsupervised, but Tom suspected he had been brooding over his recent misfortune as he made his solitary rounds at night. A daytime routine which demanded that he interact with others provided a way to keep the boy's thoughts focused on the here and now instead of the past...or the future. Harry didn't complain, but slight shadows under his eyes showed he still wasn't sleeping all that well. Tom hadn't questioned the boy about it, because he didn't know if that was caused by nightmares, or trying to change his sleep pattern again. He'd finally decided to give it a little time before bringing it up.

He was pleased about all the positive reports and compliments he'd received about his new employee, however. Harry had only been "freelancing" for a few days, but he'd already established quite a reputation for himself. The lunch rush was winding down. Soon diners would just be trickling in two or three at a time. Tom smirked slightly as he hurried over to set the tables Harry had just cleared. He couldn't wait to see the looks on everyone's faces when this charade was over and they all found out who "Jim Patterson" really was. He was so absorbed in his task, he didn't notice the Hogwarts owl gliding gracefully toward him until it dropped a letter on the table he was setting, wheeled around, and left as silently as it had come.

Tom frowned thoughtfully, then went into the kitchen where he found Harry placing dirty dishes in the huge sink, while his charmed brush and dish towel washed and dried busily. Tom turned the letter over in his hands, mystified. He had no idea why the headmaster or Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be writing him. Perhaps Harry had mentioned something in his letter to Dumbledore. The boy had sought him out and shown him a handful of neatly addressed envelopes before sending Hedwig off the previous Friday.

He'd been about to catch Harry's attention and ask if he knew anything about it, when Hedwig had swooped through the open kitchen door, and grabbed a double talonful of the teen's shirt.

"Hedwig!" Harry yelped in surprise, as the snowy owl hooted and flapped her wings furiously, trying to drag him in the general direction of the stairs. "Hey! Stop! Have you gone mental?"

Tom found himself worried, and wanting to laugh at the same time. The bird was obviously agitated about something, but the look on Harry's face was priceless! Taking pity on the boy, he hurried over to Harry, and tried to calm the owl. "Hedwig! Here girl," he called, hoping to distract her. "Don't worry, he'll go with you. Stop now, or you'll tear his shirt!"

Finally, Hedwig settled somewhat, and glided over to the back stairs, hooting at Harry when he didn't follow immediately. "Go on," Tom said to a thoroughly confused Harry. "We're almost done here."

Harry nodded and ran after Hedwig. Tom seemed to think that something was wrong, but Hedwig wasn't upset, she was excited. She was waiting at his door, diving and swooping and playing with Patches, who had evidently heard, and come through the cat-flap to greet her.

Harry shook his head and smiled in amusement as he watched the two. When he didn't open the door fast enough, Hedwig swooped over to him, and screeched her agitation, Hurry up! Hurry up! communicating clearly in her demeanor and body language. "Okay, okay," Harry said, fumbling with the door, and opening it. "I do wish I knew what your problem was..." he grumbled, then trailed off, staring in amazement at the sight in front of him.

Several letters were piled on his bed, and Ron's owl, Pig, was whizzing happily around the room, but what had Harry's undivided attention was a largish box, or rather the bird that was attached to it. "Fawkes??! he finally gasped.