Well, greetings to everyone, I've noticed that the story I'm currently posting isn't being received too well by the audience. Perhaps you liked the character portrayal in this story less than in previous ones - well, I understand this and plan to finish it in the same vein. However, in parallel I'll start posting a new fan fic earlier, it will be simpler - a light fairy tale where children will be children, they'll be inconsistent, make mistakes and forget things. I won't create supermen and geniuses, but they will know how to think, discover new things in themselves, in each other and in the world and - win, damn it.
***
The nights on Privet Drive were at first insane, terrible and painful --- his body ached in the morning, apparently his muscles were seized with cramps. He dreamed of the Basilisk, dead Ginny, dead Ron, sobbing Hermione nearby and... the laughing headmaster. This mad laughter was the last straw, and he would wake up and could no longer fall asleep, gasping for the bitter and heavy air until he finally remembered that he knew how to breathe. Harry could barely even eat breakfast, he felt so nauseous. And something had to be done about this...
He began trying to sleep as little as possible, for which he even started doing summer assignments, having stolen a small flashlight from Dudley, and then a set of batteries for it. And he wasn't at all ashamed or afraid that the Dursleys would suddenly "catch" him. But he carefully covered the crack under the door with rags, more precisely with his own clothes. The last thing he needed was to be distracted from his work... From exhaustion he felt almost like an old man, but switching his attention helped.
At first life was simply hard, and even his relatives seemed a lesser evil than these damned dreams. Then he began walking around like a sleepwalker altogether, his aunt even almost stopped loading him with household chores. And she didn't say a word if he suddenly passed out in the middle of the day, even (oh, sacrilege!) in the living room --- during the day he never, praise the universe, dreamed of anything. Harry was very grateful for this to both the universe and his aunt. He even began clearing the dishes after meals himself, paying no attention to how Petunia Dursley's thin eyebrows rose in a neat little house each time.
Dudley... no, he didn't continue to bully Harry, he wasn't completely an idiot. Because what was the point of picking on a log? And his cousin had incomprehensibly become that very log. That is, had become one. To understand this, it took big D just a couple of punches, which were ignored as if they hadn't happened at all. Getting angry, he tried again a day later, with exactly the same result: Harry was as if completely lifeless. Or like a machine, because how else to explain that when he pushed Potter, he stumbled, fell, got up and... went on his way. And most importantly, didn't even turn around to look at him! At first it was even a bit frightening. And then it simply wasn't interesting. And he forgot about his cousin with a clear conscience. Well, almost forgot.
Vernon Dursley over the course of three weeks went through all the same stages as his son. So life at the Dursleys for Harry became more or less bearable, compared to what it had been. Only he didn't react to this at all and was not in a state to properly appreciate it...
And then something seemed to burn out in him, and the dreams began to seem simply strange. Disgusting and strange.
And after some more time, curiosity awakened in him. And he began asking questions. And remembering. And again asking and asking himself --- how could this have happened at all? And why was it like that? And not like that, for example? And he couldn't answer them. But he could be surprised --- at himself, first of all.
Harry had been waiting for letters from his friends so much, from the first day he found himself again on Privet Drive, in the house of his hateful relatives... Any few lines from them would undoubtedly have brightened his existence. And the fact that he still hadn't received even a short note was hurtfully awful.
Yes, he would definitely find out the reasons as soon as he saw those who had decided that to call themselves his friends, it was quite enough to communicate with him at school. But writing in summer, when he was alone and at his worst, was completely unnecessary. He was again overwhelmed with hurt, but suddenly a thought crept in that no matter how much he sulked at Ron and Hermione, it wouldn't change anything. But there were other strange things. And probably he could still change something. Only what exactly?
He thought again...
***
He began with the simplest and most pressing matter.
"Why do my relatives treat me this way?
If I'm not a freak, not an idiot, after all the last year at school showed quite clearly that I'm a normal wizard. That's right. A wizard.
Are they afraid of magic? But is that how people behave when they're afraid?"
He remembered how someone had told him about a rat cornered. Who was it? Some adult... the headmaster? The dean? No, the face slips from memory... But he remembered the meaning!
And for some reason this knowledge about the rat seemed true to him. However, he also knew from somewhere that any statement could and should be tested in practice. Never mind where from, the main thing was that no one was stopping him from trying. At least in the garden or in the shed, exactly, in the shed, on mice, they're almost the same as rats, only smaller!
He didn't delay. He tried.
And was stunned. The mouse trapped in the corner resisted furiously, to the point that the beads of its eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. In the end, the tiny thing nearly bit through several layers of fabric he had wrapped around his hand. And it managed to twist free, jumping out, leaving pieces of fur and drops of blood on the rag, evoking involuntary respect from him.
"So that's how it can be... So this way... is possible?" --- Harry was shocked by his discovery. But questions, again questions... They would drive him mad so soon!
Did this mean that his relatives' behavior would change if he didn't threaten them with his magic? Or on the contrary, better to threaten them? And then explain, try to negotiate, but already on his own terms?
"And still it's better to never let yourself be cornered," --- he heard a vaguely familiar voice in his head.
But why, why hadn't he even tried to learn wandless magic, when it was possible!
Wait. Where did he know this from? And who could have taught him? Definitely not Dumbledore... The dean? The image of stern McGonagall also somehow didn't fit with this thought. Only bookshelves appeared before his eyes. The library? No, there were different ones, not behind glass... A bookcase. Where? Whose?
A revision of his own memory provided him with nothing but very bad suspicions, growing into an unpleasant certainty: someone had been doing something to his memory. And Harry suddenly understood what real anger was. Oh no, Malfoy couldn't even dream of pushing Harry so far that he would feel something similar. This new anger was incredible, filling him completely, warming him from within, bright and... cool. Because only now did he finally feel alive.
After all, he had nothing of his own except his memory and his body! This was his and only his, and no one was allowed... He wouldn't allow anyone!
Harry didn't see how his lips compressed and his jaw muscles tensed, and his face began to look older, with the hard squint of an experienced sniper. He simply continued his inner conversation either with himself or with an imaginary interlocutor.
The vault at Gringotts? Please, you still have to get there. Well, he'd grab some galleons, but where to go with them then? Although... he was probably completely stupid. These were money. He could buy anything, even rent a room. And that gold would probably be enough even for a house! Yes, he was completely abnormal not to have thought of such a thing in all this time.
But now something was clearly happening to his head. More precisely, in his head. And Harry liked it.
First, he calmly finished all the summer assignments they had given them at Hogwarts in a couple of weeks. And this turned out to be surprisingly simple, though when he picked up the pen, he hadn't thought so at all. Now he easily understood what he read and surprisingly remembered everything, without even trying specially. And this was simply great!
His head continued to work and generate questions.
He grabbed a notebook, thick, with a beautiful picture on the cover, but slightly torn. Dudley had simply thrown it away because of this, and Harry didn't care at all: there just needed to be somewhere to write, because he wanted to see this. Otherwise what was happening in his head would sooner or later drive him mad.
"As if there was anything to go mad from," --- suddenly familiar sarcasm flashed through his thoughts. --- "Is this me about myself? Did Snape slip me something unnoticed before the holidays?"
He chuckled, immediately recognizing this thought as completely insane, and opened the notebook. Mentally sticking his tongue out at the nasty potions master and answering: "Eh, no, there is something to go mad from. Now --- definitely is. But before... possibly you were right, professor."
A little less than two weeks remained until his birthday.
***
The first lines appeared in the notebook... Questions, his attempts to answer, one thing led to another and grew like a snowball. At least his head began to clear up a bit. And Harry had even started rereading textbooks to somehow distract himself from unpleasant thoughts, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that he remembered everything.
First he wrote down what was most surprising to him then, the summer before last.
Why send so many owls?
And next to it he left space where he immediately began inventing answers, which, alas, also turned out to be questions:
To anger the Dursleys? To frighten them? For what? So they would suddenly become kinder to me or the opposite?
To surprise me? Why?
He continued writing.
"The cupboard under the stairs" --- means the one who wrote the letter...
"Eh, no," --- Harry caught himself being inaccurate and crossed out the last two words.
The one who wrote the address on the envelope knew where I had been living all this time! Or not all the time? But somewhere my address was definitely known. By whom?
He didn't believe that wizards couldn't understand what it meant to live in a cupboard.
So someone who wrote addresses on envelopes couldn't not know that he, Harry, was simply unable to answer the letter! Then why? Were they hoping he would catch the owl or something? Harry laughed at such a supposition himself. Maybe they wanted to frighten him? Or... they wanted him to believe in magic? But maybe that was exactly it. So let's write it down...
... They wanted me to believe in magic... It worked!
Why did the Dursleys think they could hide by leaving?
And how did they find me? With what kind of magic? Why didn't I ask?
Because I'm an idiot.
Find out!!! But HOW? Who can I ask?
He immediately remembered the first person who had spoken to him about the forbidden topic. And was puzzled again.
Hagrid. At night. Why wasn't I scared? Or didn't I care about anything then?
And why Hagrid, and not McGonagall?
He remembered Hermione's story about how their dean had enlightened her and her family. He had even learned something useful for himself --- the Grangers had been given much more information. The dean was, of course, much more knowledgeable than the forester. Then why had they sent him, knowing nothing about the wizarding world, a not-very-smart half-giant? No matter how much he loved Hagrid, it was somehow stupid to deny the obvious.
McGonagall, who always dealt with Muggle-born students, doesn't go out in thunderstorms: cats don't like dampness? Harry chuckled at his own sarcasm that had suddenly kicked in. He respected McGonagall and was a bit afraid of her, but suddenly... Okay, but what would have prevented the Transfiguration professor from ensuring perfect conditions for herself with at least a banal umbrella, or generally any shield to cover her beloved self? And what prevented waiting until morning? In the morning there was already perfect weather... In general, who bursts in on strangers at night, and without an invitation? Complete nonsense.
Why at night? Again --- to frighten? For what? The Dursleys or... me?
Hagrid's appearance at that time was nonsense anyway! Who needed this and why?
Harry thought about how it all could have been...
The neat living room of the Dursleys, where the strict and composed McGonagall with her old-fashioned manners would have looked quite at home, he remembered the forester's behavior and once again doubted his own mind. Well, and memory, yes. No, with Hagrid he felt easy and simple, with McGonagall he definitely couldn't have felt that, but...
Hagrid was simple and sincere with him, but he really didn't know that much, especially as it turned out later: after all, he couldn't answer many questions that interested Harry, and... how much truth did he actually tell? --- a seditious thought flashed. The world swayed and began to lean ominously.
Why did I believe --- immediately and everything that Hagrid said?
Because I wanted to... But why did I want to? To learn the truth about my parents!
Sharp letters almost tore the paper... But below lay a new even line:
... and because Hagrid himself believed in it. And I liked him.
If I like someone, does that mean I believe them in everything?
Something scratched inside when Harry looked at the last line...
Harry drew a funny face with eyes squished together, chuckled, added glasses and a scar to it and turned the page.
Gringotts: why is my key with Hagrid? And who should have it?
And then it went by itself:
Why do I walk around in Dudley's hand-me-downs with such a pile of money in the vault? After all, exchanging galleons for pounds is a trivial matter!
Why didn't I go to Diagon Alley again, after all I remembered everything?...
So... And why do I continue sitting here like an idiot, instead of just going out on the street... "The Knight Bus," it seems, is ready "for use" at any time --- Hermione had told him. He once again envied her know-it-all nature a bit. Wait... the know-it-all nature of a Muggle-born girl who knew nothing about the wizarding world before, just like him? That is, she was able to... and he was doing what with his beak for two years straight?
No, enough, things need to be in order. By the way, how was he planning to call the magical bus, when his wand was locked up? Ah, locked up, what a tragedy...
Harry snorted, pulling out Aunt Petunia's hairpin from under the thin mattress. It was still useful sometimes to clean the house with your own hands. And there was benefit from Dudley with his idiot hangers-on, it turned out. It wasn't for nothing that they had once taken away his key to the school locker. After a week of their new entertainment, Harry had perfectly learned to do without a key. With a wire, a splinter, anything thin and hard.
Petunia Dursley was bustling in the kitchen, Dudley was sitting at his computer, uncle was at work... Beautiful. Even if aunt suddenly came out, he would find something to tell her. Harry quickly went downstairs and approached the cupboard. He didn't even need a minute to pick the lock before it opened. He went in, calmly lifted the trunk lid, took out his wand, thought a bit, took out all the remaining books there and quite peacefully returned upstairs to himself, to "the smallest bedroom." Now he would make a plan, and tomorrow...
Can I talk to the Dursleys without causing aggression in them?
He slammed the notebook shut, preferring to get at least some answers immediately. "Practice --- that's the most convincing thing," --- a foreign and at the same time very close voice sounded in his head. Male.
--- Father? --- Harry whispered. --- Teacher?
He naturally didn't wait for an answer, shook his head and hurried to the kitchen. Aunt was already calling for lunch.
***
--- Aunt, may I ask?
Petunia looked at her nephew, who had quickly finished his soup. Other food wasn't provided for him, but her hands jerked by themselves and put a portion of stewed meat with salad on the boy's plate. He was surprised, but quickly swallowed this too. Damn, why hadn't she noticed that he was so skinny? What would the neighbors say? And only then did she nod. Maybe it was even good that the boy had finally spoken, otherwise since he'd arrived, he'd definitely not been himself. She didn't even want to call him abnormal again, it was too much like the truth.
--- I'd like to go to the hospital... in London.
She pursed her lips:
--- There's a perfectly good clinic in our town.
And immediately caught herself: in an ordinary clinic it was hardly worth demonstrating what was happening with her nephew. Strictly speaking, it wasn't worth demonstrating him himself there. Although the boy seemed to have finally drawn the right conclusions from his condition. He really did need treatment. She sighed.
Harry was silent, gathering his courage.
--- Do you need to go to your special hospital?
No, she didn't want to make his task easier, she wanted all questions to finally be resolved, and quickly.
Harry nodded.
--- I'll talk to Vernon. Maybe he'll take you tomorrow. You'll come back by bus, the stop is near the station from which you travel to that school of yours.
Her nephew looked at her as if she had grown another eye in the middle of her forehead, and then rushed off to wash the dishes. Again. Himself. Hmmm, and maybe not treat him? Shoving this thought deeper, Petunia issued a couple of orders concerning the garden and preferred to leave the kitchen as quickly as possible. Something was wrong with the boy. Something was wrong with her when the boy was around.