Without Wand or Wire

WolfenMoondaughter

Story Summary:
Summer after the Trio's fifth year. Ron and Hermione get closer, while Harry grows distant from everyone -- including himself. Snape is reunited with someone from his past. Draco's life spirals out of control. Love blooms, and strange alliances are made. Black wings bring strange dreams. What wonders can wireless music and a little wandless magic work? HP/GW, RW/HG, SB/RL (slashy), DM/PP, BW/FD, NT/OC (slashy), PW/PC, SS/OC, AW/MW. Snape, Petunia, Draco, and Pansy redemption. Songfic. Illustrated. WARNING: includes graphic descriptions of self-harm. This fic DOES NOT encourage such behavior, but if you are bothered by the idea of Harry harming himself, even when it's portrayed as something he has to *overcome*, then do not read this fic.

Chapter 02

Chapter Summary:
Vernon and Dudley plan a trip, Petunia acts a bit strangely, Draco meets Voldemort, and Privet Drive gets its own dark visitor. ... Some light HP/GW
Posted:
07/22/2004
Hits:
4,239

Harry forced himself to take one last bite of his dinner and pushed his plate away. Dudley, of course, wasted no time in reaching for his leftovers; as far as Harry was concerned, the two-legged pig was welcome to them. Aunt Petunia's cooking was never what anyone would call a culinary masterpiece anyway; even if had been, everything seemed to turn to ash in Harry's mouth these days. He mumbled "Excuse me," and moved to leave the table.

Petunia watched him get up, a pensive look on her face. In a normal household, one would have assumed she was showing concern for the boy, but Harry knew better. She was actually worried for her own family (of which, despite their relation, he was most certainly not a member of ), after the warning the members of the Order of the Phoenix had given her and her husband at the start of the summer. They'd informed Harry and Dursleys that if their members hadn't heard from him at least once every three days, and if he didn't report back to the Order that he was being well treated, then they would come to investigate. They didn't specify what they would do to the Dursleys, but having needed to get a pig's tail surgically removed from Dudley, having had a set of window bars ripped out of Harry's room by his friends, having had their living room demolished and their son's tongue grown long enough to wrap several times around his body (which, with his girth, was quite an accomplishment), they weren't very eager to have any more wizardly visitors. It was bad enough living with one; they knew Harry wasn't allowed to perform magic out of school, but that didn't mean he couldn't just snap and curse them, the way he'd made Vernon's sister float away like a balloon a few summers back.

Harry didn't look well at all; if one of his mentors came to the door that moment, doubtless they would find the Dursleys guilty of neglecting him or worse. But the truth of the matter was they had treated him like … well, like they usually treated Dudley! They'd gotten him a small television set for his room (Vernon justified it by figuring this would mean they'd see less of him.) Harry was always served first at meals, to make sure he got enough to eat (except that he just picked at his food most of the time now, anyway.) They no longer made him do any chores (although he still helped out quite a bit, voluntarily.) They'd even bought him new clothes, rather than continuing to give him some of Dudley's (although this was mostly because Dudley's stuff was now like a three-ring circus tent on Harry.) Considering all that, Petunia couldn't imagine what was ailing the boy, and for the first time in the fifteen years since taking him in, she found herself truly concerned for his welfare.

Well, maybe not for the first time. There had been that scare last summer when some horrid monster had waylaid Harry and her dear son. When her husband had decided that Harry was to blame and tried to throw the boy out, a letter in a bright red envelope had been delivered to her by one of those filthy owls. The letter had literally screamed at her, telling her to remember the contents of another letter, the one that had been left with the baby Harry on their porch. That previous (blessedly silent) letter had explained that her sister, Lily, and her brother-in-law, James Potter, had been murdered, and that it was highly likely that the killer would be after their son. It went on to explain that Lily had, with her dying moments, done something magically that had protected Harry from their attacker, even nearly killing him. The writer of the letter, Dumbledore, went on to explain that he had placed a charm on Harry, one that would protect him from any future attacks by drawing on the last gift Lily had given her son. But for the charm to work, he had to live in a home that bore the blood of his mother -- and as she was his only living relative, that meant he needed to live with Petunia. The letter explained that, if she chose to take him in, she would be completing the charm -- and that she should not do so unless she was willing to offer her home to Harry always. There would be no changing her mind; if she was to accept him, she must also accept the life he would lead, as a great wizard, and the danger her family might be in because of it. And however Petunia told herself she felt about her sister, whatever airs Petunia put on, deep down she actually cared. There was no real question that she would do the right thing, and take the baby in.

Still, she had a lot of resentment built up towards Lily. Petunia had told herself that her weirdo sister had gotten what she'd deserved, associating with that sort of crowd and practicing … well, Petunia couldn't even bear to even think the word "magic". But, that horrid night the previous summer, reality had finally hit home for her. Her sister had been brutally murdered, and her nephew, her last living blood relation aside from Dudley, was a target for the same fate. Most of her was enraged that Lily had done something that had put Petunia's own family at peril; that large part of her agreed with Vernon and blamed Harry for whatever dreadful thing it was that had happened to her son that night in his company. But another part of her, a very small, deeply hidden one, actually felt afraid for Harry. Felt sorry for the little boy who'd never asked for this attention, never asked to have his parents killed or have monsters and murderers after him. The small part that had taken him in, rather than leaving him at an orphanage; Dumbledore had never actually threatened her, regardless of what his tone had implied in the more recent letter, but had only impressed upon her the need to take Harry in for his own safety.

But Harry would never know that. He'd never believe that the worried eyes his aunt watched him with harbored real concern for him, not just her husband and son. She wouldn't have believed it either, if not for the times she'd caught herself of late wondering what was wrong with him. For most of his life, she hadn't thought of him at all, except to be irritated at the interruptions to her own life that he represented. But now … well, if pressed, she couldn't deny that he did more than his share around the house -- especially since they had stopped asking him to do anything at all. If she dropped something, her own son would only point and laugh, but Harry would help her pick up with a look that was somehow kind and understanding. It was strange, having him cook and clean at her side without her yelling at him to do it first. And it occurred to her that he hadn't usually even needed to be told to do it all those times before; she'd just yelled at him because she'd wanted to. And now that she wasn't spending all her time screaming at him for the simple crime of his existence (for fear that he might report it as abuse to those wizard guardians of his, she insisted to herself), she found herself actually seeing him, without being blinded by a constant haze of anger, and hearing him without being deafened by the sound of her own voice.

And right now she saw a young man that was obviously in despair. Seeing him like this, walking about listless and distracted and yet still helping out without complaint, sort of put her own life into a new perspective. It was hard to get flustered about a spot on the table when you knew the parents of the person you were griping to about it had been murdered. Especially when that person's actions indicated they had recently undergone another traumatic experience of some kind, yet they never spoke of it, never cried or complained. She could see the tears behind his eyes when she looked at them -- something she found herself doing more and more often now -- and noted that he never let them fall in front of her family. She wondered if he cried at night -- she thought she heard him through the walls. A couple of times he had even woken them up with his screams; while she had berated him alongside Vernon for disturbing them, she felt a twinge of guilt while she lay there after, trying to fall back to sleep.

"Oh good, you're all here!"

Vernon's cheerful -- if perhaps a bit forced -- greeting startled Petunia back into her tried-and-true role of doting mother and housewife. She returned Vernon's greeting just as cheerfully -- and falsely. It wasn't that she wasn't happy to see him, but rather that she simply was too worried to truly feel so jovial.

Harry wouldn't normally be happy at all to see his Uncle Vernon, but his own greeting was decidedly even-toned; in point of fact, it was quite polite -- and entirely void of emotion. Vernon noted his nephew's response with some relief; he too had lived in daily fear of Harry's ire since the day they'd picked him up from outside the hidden platform at King's Cross.

Oddly enough (or perhaps not, given his usual manner), Vernon's son's own greeting to his father was considerably less friendly.

"Well? Did you get the time off or not?" Dudley bellowed.

Harry reconsidered his opinion of his cousin. Perhaps the boy was better likened to a cow than a pig.

Vernon gave Petunia a peculiar look, sort of half nervous, half apologetic, before answering Dudley with more of his faked cheer. "Ah, yes, if fact I did, my boy! I've even stopped to pick up a few supplies on the way home from work, which is why I'm late."

It took no further prompting to send Dudley hurtling his massive frame with shocking speed out the front door. The idea of presents was as sure a thing to get him moving as the promise of food.

Harry noticed with only a small surge of pleasure that being tardy had cost his uncle his dinner; Dudley had, of course, cleaned the pot out. There was a time when Harry would have taken great delight in the circumstance, but it was hard to smile about anything anymore. Vernon might be a bully, but there were far worse people out there. In the grand scheme of things, such meager comeuppance towards such an insignificant individual didn't seem nearly so satisfying.

"I, ah … I don't suppose you had wanted to go?" His uncle's voice was unusually high, his usually ruddy face pale as a sheet. It was clearly a great agony for him to even ask the question.

Dudley had wanted to go on a week long, Saturday-to-next-Sunday father-son camping trip with his friends. Uncle Vernon, unable to refuse his son anything and yet leery of the idea of leaving his poor wife alone with Harry for a week, had promised to see if he could take the time off from work, while half hoping that his boss would say no.

It had occurred to him, though, on the way home from the camping supply store, as he tried to cheer himself with the thought of a Potter-free week, that his nephew might actually want to come along. And, he thought, if he didn't at least ask the boy if he wanted to go, Harry might get angry at not having been invited and sic his weirdo friends on them! Which led to this moment of waiting with baited breath for the boy to answer.

Harry was certainly a bit thrown by the offer. Was he expected to say yes? The idea of a week in the wilds with Dudley as a tent-mate was less appealing than the prospect of being eaten by a shark. "Ah … thanks, but no."

Vernon didn't hide his relief. "Well, jolly good, then!" He paused, and looked apprehensively at Petunia.

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "You and Dudley go have a wonderful time!"

Vernon was a bit nonplussed by her reaction, and decided she must just be putting up a brave front. Then he got an idea. "You know, you could come along, dear." He looked askance at Harry. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to stay with Mrs. Figg for the week? Or maybe that family you always go to see might be able to take you a bit early this year?" he asked hopefully.

"Don't be silly, dear!" Petunia interjected, patting her husband lightly on the cheek. "Me, out in the woods! Why, the very idea of it! No, I'll be all right here, darling."

"O-oh, ah … well, if that's what you want dear." He clearly thought she was a nutter. "I … reckon I'd better go pack, then." He paused to speak lowly to Harry, "Still, if you decided you wanted to leave early, I wouldn't say no." Concern for his family superseded his usual desire to prevent Harry from knowing any happiness.

Harry didn't answer, but moved to help his aunt as she began to wash the dishes, watching her with great curiosity out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

"You know how to get there?" Dumbledore asked the young woman.

She smiled, and nodded. "Yes, you know I've done patrols there!"

He smiled back warmly, and patted her on the shoulder. "Have at it then, and don't forget to do the one at Grimmauld Place as well."

She smiled mischievously. "As if I would. Honestly, old man, not all of us are as senile as you." And with a flurry of black feathers, she was gone.

The smile faded from the headmaster's eyes. "I only pray this senile old mind of mine has made the right choice. …" he told the retreating figure as it faded from view.

* * *

Draco shuddered, stifling a whimper as his mother screamed yet again.

"Please, Master, I beg of you! It was not I! I did as you bade -- AIIIIEEE!" When the latest bolt of the Cruciatus curse was quelled, Narcissa Malfoy fought to breathe through her sobs.

"Come here, boy," the Dark Lord commanded.

Draco jumped and did as he was told, kneeling before Voldemort, digging his nails into his palms to keep from trembling. He didn't dare look up into the man's eyes. Draco had never been so afraid in his life, not even of his father, who was a formidable man. Was being the key word; Lucius Malfoy had been murdered. When he'd first heard, Draco had firmly believed it was an act of cowardice by the Blood Traitors, but he now knew better. Voldemort himself had seen to the man's death, the ultimate punishment for his failure at the Ministry of Magic. Crabbe the Elder had been slain as well -- along with his whole family, Draco's age-mate included. Draco had never seen his brawny companion, Goyle, cry before. ...

"Bare your arm."

Draco gasped, and almost looked up. No! He didn't want this! Not if it meant he might someday meet his father's end! He didn't care one way or the other about the damn Mudbloods anymore, he just wanted to be far, far away from this lunatic!

Draco's hesitation cost him dearly. Voldemort turned his wand towards him, and, uttering the incantation once again, sent the familiar red light the younger Malfoy's way. Draco had never imagined anything so intensely painful in his whole life before this night -- and considering the horrific beatings he had suffered under his sire's hands, that was saying something. Finally, the pain ebbed, and he could breathe; he hadn't even realised he'd stopped in the first place.

"Give me your arm!" the Dark Lord snarled again.

"No, please, he's just a boy!" Narcissa pleaded, reaching out her hand to her son even as she lay doubled over in pain on the floor. Draco felt a twinge of guilt, hot and sharp as a knife, for not having come to her aid. But he'd also never seen this side of her before, never seen anything that had really approached true affection -- only aloof pride or disgust, depending on the day and his performance.

"I grow tired of your whimpering, woman. Silencio!"

Her face was still screwed up with her cries, but they could no longer hear them. Draco thought it was the most disturbing sight he'd ever seen. If he could have seen his own ashen face on the mirror, screwed up similarly in pain, he might have changed his mind.

"YOUR ARM!"

Draco quickly obeyed. It was all he could do not to recoil from the gnarled hand that dug its claws into his skin and held him fast.

Voldemort aimed his wand at Draco's wrist and said an incantation. Then, in a voice that promised awful things if disobeyed, he told Draco, "Swear your loyalty to me!"

"I-I …"

"SWEAR IT!"

"I swear!" Draco croaked, shivering now. With those words, his arm began to burn terribly, and the Dark Mark materialized on his skin before his very eyes.

When it was done, Voldemort threw him down on the ground, his lip curling. "You only obey because you are terrified, you sniveling coward! Don't forget that fear, for if you fail or betray me, your pain will last for months, until I finally let you die." With that, he Disapparated.

Draco sat there for long moments, too weak with fear to move. He jerked violently as a hand touched his back, then breathed a sigh of relief as he realised it was only his mother. She'd crawled over to him, but was still unable to speak. He took out his wand and spoke the incantation to end the spell. He almost wished he hadn't, each of her sobs like a blow as he gathered her suddenly fragile form gently in his arms and carried her to her bed, gritting his teeth against his own pain. There he gave her a sleeping drought, then sat vigil by her bedside, trying not to picture his father's face calling him weak and undeserving, as their world seemed to come tumbling down around them.

* * *

Harry started at the flutter of wings at his open window. If he had been asleep, as he should have been, it would have woken him; as it was, he hoped it hadn't woken his aunt or uncle. He was in no mood for a confrontation.

It seemed Hedwig, however, was more than ready. She snapped viciously at the dark intruder. Unintimidated by the larger, snowy bird, the raven fluttered its way past, hopped onto his radio alarm clock, and began to croak. Baffled, but really too tired to think much of it, Harry joined Hedwig on trying to shoo the bird back out. A few squawks and flaps later, it obliged.

[Harry's wake-up caw.]

What Harry didn't know, though, was that it had simply flown into the next room, landing similarly on the clock on Petunia's nightstand, with the same pattern of squawks and wingflaps. Luckily Vernon snored so loudly that no humans in the house heard a thing. But Hedwig did. She flew into their room as well, and clacked her beak menacingly at the unwanted guest. When it flew off into the night, she followed it for a mile or two before turning back, only to find another unwelcome visitor on her perch in Harry's room, his beak buried in her water dish.

"Leave Pig be, Hedwig!" Harry whispered to her as she harassed the tiny owl.

For his part, Pig seemed perfectly pleased to see her, and wasn't at all put off by her grouchiness. He flew circles about her, twittering happily. If Harry didn't know better, he'd say the little bird's chest was puffed out in an attempt to impress the larger female. He came close to laughing, but stifled it and went back to reading the letter Ginny had sent to him.

It hadn't been much different than the letters he'd gotten from Ron or Hermione, although Harry detected a note of loneliness in it. He fought the smile that threatened to cross his lips when he thought of all the time she said Ron and Hermione were spending together. Ginny had put into words the suspicions he'd had creeping, unrecognised, at the back of his brain for a while now: that there was something more than friendship brewing between the those two. Harry was a bit shocked, though, at how blatant Ginny was about it, mostly because while he's sensed something was up, he'd never really considered it before. Had they always been so obvious? Ginny insisted that the duo didn't even seem to realise what was developing between them, which put Harry at ease a bit; it meant that they hadn't been sneaking around his back, nor had he been the only one too dense to figure it out.

Overall, the whole scenario left him with a rather unsettling mix of emotions. Part of him was thrilled that his best friends seemed to finally be getting their act together: now that he recognized what was between them for what it really was, he thought their was no pair of people in the world, save maybe Ron's folks or his own late parents, who had ever belonged together more. But it also left him feeling profoundly alone himself. If Ron and Hermione got together, where did that leave him? Would he suddenly be a third wheel? Would they want him around at all?

It seemed Ginny was feeling a bit like that around them now herself -- and she wasn't even as close to them as he was, even if Ron was her brother. Which undoubtedly was why she'd deigned to write Harry.

Or was it?

The gears in Harry's tired mind were starting to turn in strange directions. Her letter had also mentioned that she was bored because all her friends were busy with other things, including her ex-boyfriend, Dean Thomas. Harry had felt himself bristling at that, but he wasn't sure which aggravated him more: the idea that Dean would dump Ginny, or the fact that he had gone out with her in the first place. Harry was surprised at how much the thought of that particular coupling bothered him. Why? She had gotten over her crush on him; why shouldn't she see someone else? Then he realised that the idea that she had gotten over him seemed to bother him as well. But again, why? And why was he thinking such bizarre thoughts as We could be third wheels together; then when we hang out with Ron and Hermione, we'd make a whole car!

Harry felt the long-familiar twinge of his scar begin, and quickly squashed his thoughts, clearing his mind. If his train of thought continued on the current track, they might lead him to a destination he'd not contemplated before. And while part of him was intrigued at the idea of this new journey, he knew this wasn't the time in his life to take it. Nothing that stirred his emotions up was a good route for him now, for strong bursts of emotion earned him unwelcome attention from Voldemort.

Sure enough, right on cue, the twinge developed into full-blown agony. Harry managed to fold the letter up and put it in his trunk, not even allowing himself to think of it again, much less answer it.

* * *

Molly looked in surprise at the great black bird that flapped into the kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. As she watched, the raven landed on the wireless, croaked and flapped its wings a bit, and flew off again, having difficulty getting it's great span through the doorway.

"Well, that was an odd little visit," Lupin remarked.

Molly nodded as she stared, perplexed, at the now-empty doorway. She shrugged and went back to her cross-stitch.


Author notes: I know I said that these images would just be coloured sketches, but I was having fun trying out a new colouring technique with this one. Don’t be surprised if the next one is just a pencil sketch , heh. ...

Next up, a whole chapter o' exposition. Not for the squeamish. Did I mention this series features a Harry that's getting into cutting (self-harm)? The next chap explains all that.