Puzzled by his brother Harry, he couldn't fall asleep for a long time. The militaristic Dursleys caused strange leaps in his consciousness. They manifested most vividly in dreams, and he would wake up each time either screaming in horror or laughing. The latter happened more often, so Big D soon stopped reacting and no longer knocked on his wall. He knew that in the morning at breakfast he would also laugh his fill, and didn't even get offended by the sudden wake-ups. His cousin's dreams were fantastic, he knew how to tell stories, and Dudley's imagination, after he started first listening to and then reading stories, had become surprisingly vivid and bright.
But this case turned out to be special. Responsibility lay on Harry's shoulders: his brother believed that aiming charms were within his capabilities, and for some reason he really wanted to justify those hopes. So tonight he dreamed of a huge slingshot. Or maybe it was a catapult after all?... And Uncle Vernon was shooting from it. With ball-projectiles in the shape of Quirrell's heads. Each successive Quirrell would grimace when uncle's hand brushed against his ear or nose, and curse Harry with bad words for missing the target again.
In the morning, Harry finally had an idea, strangely enough.
"If in Carpe Retractum I transfer the starting point from the wizard to the stone and direct it at the target... I need to try!"
The first result was a black eye and a considerably swollen green eye, as well as glasses that flew into the grass, not breaking only by miracle. For his carelessness, Harry received some educational thrashing from Uncle Vernon, and from Aunt Petunia - a cold compress and a sandwich with meat and cucumber. Swallowing it in three bites (lately he had been eating like he was possessed), Harry carefully pretended to be a good boy and acted like he would go lie down as his aunt advised. He really did lie down in the living room, but as soon as she moved away, he immediately snuck outside, into the bushes near the garage, where his cousin was waiting for him with two sturdy freshly-carved slingshots.
The second result was broken slingshots. Both of them. One - hopelessly: to splinters. But on the other one (which was in pieces) Harry risked demonstrating his Reparo skill, delighting his brother and surprising himself, so they decided to continue...
The third result was again a broken slingshot that no longer responded to any Reparo, plus, unfortunately, a solid bump on Dudley's head. Fortunately, it was almost invisible under his hair, and they initially hoped to hide this from Mrs. Dursley, but then Harry thought and thought, and decided to take care of his brother himself. Especially when a picture appeared before his eyes of uncle gently patting his beloved son's head... And the latter's reaction. At least Dudley absolutely didn't care what method was used to remove his bump - Muggle or magical.
But what to do, Potter didn't really know: he had naturally read about healing charms, but he couldn't take his wand - surveillance, and to imagine, as usual, that someone was taking his book away... He felt sorry for Dudley. Still, although he had gotten quite good at wandless magic - he still controlled it too poorly. Especially the strength.
When cleaning the house and watering the lawn, this didn't matter much, but Dudley... He sits, sniffles, his eyes... yeah, no longer crossed - that's good. How to do this, right on him... No. He's alive! Need to do it differently somehow. And if he went into the house for a compress, aunt would immediately come running!
Harry remembered the sensations from the compress, sighed and imagined cold on his palms. It seemed to work. He carefully placed them on his brother's head. The latter exhaled contentedly. "Aha, it works!" Holding his hands a little longer, Harry felt his fingers suddenly start moving by themselves. They somehow cleverly stroked the bump and the head around it, the lump, so big and painful at first, gradually decreased, and the patient sighed relaxedly.
"Doesn't hurt?"
"No, not a bit. How do you do this? Wow," Dudley marveled, carefully feeling the injury site and finding nothing. "Won't you feel bad? And your black eye got smaller!"
Harry slowly stood up.
"Well, seems... everything's fine. No dizziness."
"Probably hungry, right?" his brother grinned. "I'll be right back! Just don't do anything without me!"
And immediately rushed to the kitchen. His favorite place in the house, naturally.
And Harry closed his eyes: he wanted to concentrate, to understand something - unclear what, but seemingly important... And again the familiar voice arose in his head:
"Pull yourself together, concentrate, Harry. Straighten your fingers, open your palms. Like that. Imagine their coolness. Imagine them among the winter sky, with a cloud between them, and you want snow to fall from it. It will make the earth white and beautiful. Come on..."
He sat down in complete bewilderment, holding two handfuls of real snow, which almost immediately began to melt. July, heat around thirty... And snow, yeah. He washed his face with the remains. Awesome! Interesting, can he do heat too? If he imagines that it's hot...
Oops...
A pair of fire balls tore from his palms with a quiet hiss, and a second later Harry jumped up, frantically stamping out a burnt piece of lawn that represented a fairly neat figure eight.
"Oh-ho-o-o... Co-ol!" Dudley appeared surprisingly quietly for his build. "That's a real fireball! How do you do this?"
"Haven't figured it out yet," Harry frowned, thinking about something. But he grabbed the huge sandwich made from half a loaf that his brother offered like it was his best friend.
"You... aren't you happy or something? What's wrong?..."
"Mmm-hmm..." Harry was already chewing, and it became clear they'd have to wait.
"Tasty? I made it myself!"
Harry made big eyes, showed his cousin a thumbs up and finally swallowed.
The latter chuckled:
"You stretch over them like an anaconda, you know?"
"Over what?"
"Sandwiches! So you've never made fire before? And... I'd be jumping to the ceiling, this is... This is awesome!"
"Yeah, I'm happy, happy. If only I could understand what that was and how to fix it..."
"Ah-h-h..."
Two boys with philosophical expressions examined the burnt patches about a meter in diameter each. Words were unnecessary... Finally Harry drew the correct conclusion from the authorship of the sandwiches.
"Where's aunt?"
"They went to the Garden Center."
"...Damn..."
"Yep. And I'm supposed to watch you, imagine that," Dudley poked his cousin in the side with his fist. "So we'll both get it."
Harry bent over and groaned loudly.
"What's wrong?" Dad gaped at him.
"Figg is watching. Come on, kick me or wave your hands... and I'll grimace."
"Yeah... Heh!" his brother pretended to hit Harry in the stomach, and exhaled for him as if in pain. "Wave to the lady."
Harry bent over, holding back laughter, and leaned into his fist.
"Th-ere. More rea-lis-tic," Dad puffed, depicting a series of blows. "Run already, idiot... At least I'll get some exercise. Otherwise this fool won't leave. Found herself a free circus..."
He hissed all this in his face, holding him by the shirt front. Harry twisted, almost tearing off his shirt collar, and rushed behind the house. Everything as requested...
***
Behind the garage they could only be seen from the back door of the house. An excellent place.
"Stupid... cow! Bloody sheep! What does she want from you? Just kept staring and didn't say a word, old bag," Dudley, having run around, was puffing and indignant to his core.
And Harry was laughing... Just a month ago his cousin would sooner have been indignant if Mrs. Figg had raised a fuss and not let him kick the hell out of that moron Potter. How quickly everything had changed, and yet - why?
"Where did you pick up such words? At your college?" Harry finally laughed.
"For your information, I'm already thirteen, and I'm older than you!" he snorted like a walrus, just like Vernon. "And why are you laughing so much?"
When it finally dawned on Dudley why Potter found it so funny, he felt very bad... But Harry immediately put him to work making a new slingshot, and simple hand work had a very beneficial effect on Dursley Junior. For some time each of them was busy with his own business.
Harry's concentrated examination of his palms led to only one smart thought: the lawn, or rather, the burnt grass on it, had to be tidied up somehow. Restored. And preferably done before the elder Dursleys returned. Because just imagining how Aunt Pet returns from the Garden Center and first sees THIS...
Harry immediately shared his considerations with Dudley, who nodded meaningfully and immediately suggested just watering everything. Which was done.
Instead of two dry burnt patches, they got two disgustingly dirty black holes in the lawn...
The cousins stood near them and scratched their heads in unison.
"If we get it this time, it's deserved..." Harry sighed.
"We'll both get it..." his cousin supported him.
They exchanged glances.
"What if we cut a piece from someone?"
"Are you crazy?! Everyone will see!"
"I'd chop it from Figg's..." Dudley wanted to get back at the nasty neighbor for recent unpleasant memories and harmful cats that wouldn't let you touch them and scratched terribly. "But they'll see. Eh!"
Harry looked at his annoyed cousin, and five minutes later they were already scraping the lock of the cupboard: something held him back from using Alohomora. But he had lock-picking skills - something clicked inside, and the door opened. Harry rushed to his trunk, calling himself a juvenile moron. Why did he need invisibility charms when he had an invisibility cloak lying here? Had he really gotten so used to prohibitions that... But he had already gone for books. Write in the notebook...
***
Updating auntie's lawn dragged on, and they were still caught - fortunately, at the end of the process. Petunia Dursley, with a large basket filled with new seedlings, watched as the lawn in her garden seemed to become a wonderful even color by magic, the kind that only young healthy grass has. A lump rose in her throat from tenderness: her boys are preparing a surprise for her! However, the pink syrup was immediately diluted by her life experience, which hinted that at this age children usually do such things for a reason.
Scold them? Nothing to scold for, really. But she must find out what's happening.
"And what do we have here?"
The boys started in unison.
"And we're here... Uh... I'm trying the grass... that..."
"We're updating the lawn here," Dudley announced. "Everything's honest. I'm supervising."
Harry held back a giggle. The great Big D. He'd remember how to supervise...
"Well, since you're doing so well..."
The garden epic lasted until evening.
Harry tried all types of watering he could imagine. He liked the shower from a small but angry cloud the most: dark gray with tiny lightning bolts. This is how he can now... wow! Oh-ho! Hermione will bug her eyes out, and Ron will probably eat something, like his hat. Well, fine. His mood was just excellent!
But when Harry suggested to his aunt, who had finally finished work and was admiring the neat young bushes, to grow them magically, he heard an unexpectedly firm response:
"No, don't touch the roses! I also want to be proud of something of MY OWN," the aunt declared and sent them to the kitchen to make tea.
Harry thought... and was moved.
And at dinner... how does aunt manage to make this amazing deliciousness? Maybe he should learn too?
The treacle tart with nuts and whipped cream was...
WAS. Not for long.
Harry licked his lips and exchanged an understanding look with his cousin. Life was good. But when Aunt Petunia brought out another almost identical one... uncle went to the living room and closed himself behind a newspaper. And they...
"Oh no. Small portions, slowly, so there's still some left: I want to take a piece to Mrs. Figg..."
Harry choked. Dudley loudly clicked his teeth - he dropped a piece from his spoon.
Mrs. Dursley smirked, watching how her reddened nephew pretended nothing had happened, and her beloved son carefully licked a clean spoon. So-o. She was on the right track.
That evening Harry understood: Veritaserum was nothing compared to his aunt's pie!... In that case, of course, if the pie came with her. Cutting small pieces, carefully asking questions, she extracted everything from them.
"She should work in the Auror office," he thought. "But I want to learn to make such a pie." He shared this last part of his thought.
"Oh Gosh, Harry, I don't mind at all if you do this instead of me sometime. Even next week. But you tell me finally what's happening with you. I would ask to read that notebook of yours, but that wouldn't be very nice, would it?"
Harry blushed. He couldn't even imagine that anyone but him would read his notes. Nor could he guess that for Petunia his sincere confession, or at least part of it, was much preferable to untangling the scrawls left by his quill.
"Writing with a quill. Ugh, what nonsense," Petunia thought every time she saw her nephew diligently forming ugly letters. "And this when fountain pens have long been invented, and the cartridge can be filled with anything, wizards really!"
Well... Harry took a deep breath, and shared his thoughts about the "voice." The Dursleys tensed.
"Do you hear it or remember it?" uncle asked.
"I can't even say exactly. And sometimes there are two voices. And they talk. But that only happened once."
The adults exchanged glances. Dudley snorted sympathetically. Harry tensed.
"We don't have that," aunt said firmly.
"So, to Manchester..."
***
Harry liked the place they came to. A neat little house with a small flower garden and yard, where swings were tied to trees and even a couple of hammocks. The lacy shade near a small artificial (yes, Harry could tell - with such an aunt!) pond beckoned with freshness... He would have gladly swung in that hammock, eh...
"Mr. Dursley? Harry?" called a pleasant female voice from the gazebo.
And in a few minutes Harry was lying down with pleasure, looking at the sun-pierced crowns, and then began to slowly rock while uncle settled some business matters with the psychotherapist. Obviously what kind: payment, probably, would ask for a good one... He sighed. Sitting on uncle's strong neck was uncomfortable, especially now when he knew perfectly well that there was a pile of money in the safe, and his guardians hadn't seen a penny from there.
Nearby there was a rustle of grass, and Harry, raising his head, smiled broadly. The young woman apparently stayed with uncle, and a brisk plump completely gray lady with a benevolent smile approached him. At his unsuccessful attempt to get out of the hammock, she just patted his shoulder with a small palm.
"Lie down, boy. You're Harry, right? You can call me Mrs. Fields. How do you like it here?"
"Great. But... could you tell me what..." Harry hesitated.
"What a psychologist will do with you?" she smiled sunnily, settling on the swing. "Nothing special. Just talk. Here, like you and I. Want to try?"
"And... how?"
"Well... for example, if I ask you to tell me how you and uncle got here, will you tell me?"
"Well, first nothing, and then it was very hot, especially when we stood for a long time in Manchester at a broken traffic light. So many cars gathered there!"
"Where you live, are there fewer?" the old lady was surprised.
"Yes, of course, we're from Little Whinging."
"I think I've heard. Such a small quiet town?"
"Exactly."
"I would like to live where there are few cars and no chance of getting into such a traffic jam. Would you recommend your town to me if I wanted to move?"
"Well... Probably yes. It's nice, but..."
"A bit boring?"
"Yes. You see, there..."
He got so carried away talking that he almost forgot that uncle had paid for this psychologist's work, and not at all for his pleasant chat with the grandmother, who probably keeps house or... maybe she's the mother of this... psychotherapist?
And then the old lady burst out laughing, so cheerfully that Harry couldn't help but laugh back.
"Harry, forgive me... I must admit we're already working!"
"So it's you?.. And who was there with uncle, your secretary? How did you know, can you read minds?! But that's forbidden!"
"It's all written on your face! If you want, I'll teach you too how to read faces."
And then he was so surprised that he almost fell out. From the hammock, yes, which isn't so easy to get out of.
The gray granny spun around herself a couple of times, and now a rather young woman was standing before him, with the same pleasant features, obviously a relative, although...
"Aging potion?" Harry blurted out.
And received an affirmative nod.
"But why?"
The woman laughed, and he recognized the voice of the one who had talked with Uncle Vernon.
"And also Polyjuice? Why? Oh, you're a witch! Great! Although... How can this be?"
"You're right, Harry, but not quite. I'm a Squib. Well, or a very weak witch. With such power they wouldn't have taken me to Hogwarts."
"Oh... Sorry."
"For what?" Mrs. Fields raised her eyebrows in surprise. "What are you guilty of? Or is this a way to express sympathy? Don't you like my house?"
Harry shook his head vigorously.
"My work?"
She smiled when surprised green eyes stared at her.
Well now... She had moved away from the wizarding world so long ago, and still it caught up with her. She'd have to read more about this boy, but for now she would ask what he himself thought about it. Harry Potter, the infant hero. Who did this to him?
"Will you give an oath that you'll never tell anyone anything, never write or give memories?"
"Oh... But you're right. All doctors take an oath not to harm their patients. And you're registered with me precisely as a patient."
"And if they convince you that all this is exclusively for my benefit?"
Madeline Fields squinted. Yes, there had been people in her life who had taken care "exclusively of her benefit." The result was precisely her "almost Squibness." Could this boy also have someone?..
"I, Madeline Fields, bastard of the Pruett family, swear that..."
And Harry told...
Uncle Vernon waited for them a whole two hours, but wasn't too angry: the nice old lady (this time real), as it turned out, really was Mrs. Fields' mother, offered him a phone to warn Mrs. Dursley about the delay. And then tea. And entertained him excellently, especially with her culinary talents.
"I simply must introduce you to my wife," he said goodbye when Mrs. Fields and Harry finally approached the house.
"I apologize for the delay, Mr. Dursley. Since it happened through my fault - you owe me nothing beyond what we agreed upon. I'll be waiting for you and Harry the day after tomorrow at the same time."
In the car both were silent for a long time. Harry had really talked enough for today, but couldn't resist being first.
"Uncle, how did you find her... this... psychologist."
"She was recommended to me by acquaintances."
"Which ones?" Harry became alert.
"Acquaintances of my sister."
"Ah."
They were quiet while uncle didn't turn onto the road to Little Whinging. It was getting dark. "Aunt Marge and wizards," Harry compared in his mind. Didn't match. "So, ruled out. Coincidence."
"Well... how is it overall?" Uncle Vernon decided to ask after about ten minutes. "Normal?"
Harry shrugged. He still couldn't get used to the fact that he was simply interested in him like this.
"We just talked. I didn't understand myself. And then it turned out she was a witch. Weak."
The brakes squealed. Vernon barely managed to slow down, so the car swerved harmlessly for itself, others and passengers.
"And how much did you manage to tell her?"
"She gave an oath. Magical. Such that if they ask about me, she'd rather die than tell."
"Hmm. Well, maybe you'll finally get lucky..."
And they fell silent for a long time.
And they drove up to the house already in darkness.