Agitated by the long absence of her husband and nephew, Petunia met them at the very entrance. Dudley, as it turned out, wasn't sleeping either—he clattered down the stairs and rubbed his eyes gloomily. His mother looked at him, pursed her lips, but said nothing.
"Let's talk later," Vernon dropped. "I'm tired."
"Well, at least briefly: how did everything go?"
"Fine," Harry shrugged. "But..."
"...not without surprises," his uncle finished for him. "That's it. Everyone to bed."
In the morning, yesterday's events seemed like a pleasant and interesting dream to Harry. So at breakfast, to everyone's delight, he gladly and vividly described his visit, sometimes even forgetting about his food. Dudley immediately got excited about the idea of a hammock and where to hang it, not worrying at all that this household item hadn't even been bought yet. He... Harry would give it to him for his birthday, that's it! Just needed a big one, so both could fit. And Dudley deliberately crunched his toast loudly to avoid blurting it out right now. A gift was a secret for now. He frowned, counting on his fingers how many days he still had to wait: it turned out to be terribly long.
"Oh, why didn't I learn to drive a car?..." aunt suddenly regretted. "I would have taken Harry, and at the same time looked at this madam. What can a man understand about a woman? What can you say about her?" she addressed her husband.
If after his wife's first phrase Vernon Dursley somehow miraculously didn't fall into a stupor, the last question drove him into a dead end completely. Talk to her about a woman unfamiliar to her... well, well. He moved his pale eyebrows together, grumbled something disapprovingly and hid behind his newspaper, from behind which he angrily muttered:
"And who's stopping you from learning?"
It was Petunia's turn to be taken aback...
"But... isn't it too late already?"
"Oh really?" Vernon looked at his watch and folded the newspaper. "Ten o'clock. I'd say it's even a bit early. Sunday driving school is located, of course, at the other end of town, but classes start in an hour. And we have such a town that you could walk there twice on foot. Or shall I drive you?"
"Are you serious? I... This is so unexpected. I had plans for today..."
Vernon chuckled and looked attentively at his wife.
"I... I don't understand cars! I... don't like them and I'm a bit afraid of them."
He grinned and smoothed his mustache.
"Well, I don't like women either, except for my wife."
Petunia blushed.
"Forgive me, dear. I should have thought about what I was saying..."
Vernon chuckled once more, but said nothing. Women sometimes need to be put in their place, even one's own wife. Especially one's wife. But the main thing is—gently. Otherwise he knew how it could be... He sighed to himself. With Marge it was simpler: his sister was generally, you could say, one of the guys—too bad she and Petunia never got along...
Harry watched with wide eyes. It was interesting to him: he had never observed such things and hadn't thought about the relationship between the elder Dursleys. And perhaps, wrongly so... It seemed... this was how they expressed respect for each other? They... loved each other?..
He was quickly distracted from his thoughts by Dudley, who was kicking him under the table and making big eyes: this was exactly how his brother imagined a "meaningful look." In his opinion, it was high time to go and finally figure out how to make a magic sight for the slingshot. And then secretly find a place for the hammock, yes. How long could they sit there, he had already finished eating!
***
This time they settled behind the garage. There was no need to be particularly secretive: the older generation looked the other way at the "armament" and experiments of the younger, only Petunia worried, and Harry solemnly swore to her to make sure nothing threatened his brother. A completely sincere oath, by the way: with Dud, though sometimes tedious, was better than being alone.
This summer Harry had many reasons to be proud. Yes, he had mastered Aiming charms! It turned out not to be too difficult: add concentration, emotion, desire, slightly change the trajectory of finger movement, which he had learned to use instead of a wand, and—voilà, as uncle sometimes says. Everything worked out for him: pebbles of any kind flew straight into targets, so they soon had to be repaired with Reparo.
The hitch was with Dudley. He wasn't a wizard at all—how could he aim? Harry came up with an idea: the slingshot itself should aim. And for this it needed to be strengthened, because if it broke, all the work would be for nothing. He sighed, remembering the dust and splinters that the two experimental models had turned into. Yes, serious strengthening would be needed.
In "The Young Artificer's Handbook" he found a similar story about bows and arrows. It turned out that in old times wizards used muggle services without any embarrassment: for example, they hired ordinary archers for war. And enchanted their bows. So somewhere there must be a description of how to do this. After all, if you can do it with a bow, then with a slingshot too! He'd need to get out to Diagon Alley again... But money? No, he wouldn't ask anymore. They were already spending quite a lot on him. And he was eating hardly less than Dudley now. Eh... Maybe offer to do lawns for neighbors? He'd need to talk to his aunt.
***
At the end of lunch, the family again returned to discussing another trip to the psychologist. Petunia wouldn't give up.
"We'll go by bus. Dudley and I will take a walk, we can visit my friend in Didsbury, I called her today, she'll be happy: we haven't seen each other for a long time."
"Marge will also receive you..."
"She'll gladly receive Dudley. As if you don't know that she only tolerates me."
"As you prefer, Pet. Just keep it in mind."
"You know I don't like dogs."
"Yes. And my sister too," Vernon sighed. "She's certainly a simple and rather rough woman, but... She and her dogs could be very useful. Especially in our situation."
"And what situation is that?"
Petunia pursed her lips. She absolutely didn't want to communicate with the avid dog lover. A perfect housewife, she, to put it mildly, didn't welcome any pets, which caused a lot of trouble, much fur and dirt.
"Well-trained dogs can smell enemies perfectly, even if they're invisible, they can guard the house when we're not there; you can set them on someone, after all."
At the word "invisible" Harry's eyes widened and he gasped quietly.
"You want to? Oh, no..."
"I'm just thinking out loud. And I advise you to discuss this topic with Marge."
"Well, if only on this topic," Petunia sighed. There was definite sense in her husband's words. But dogs... on her lawn... Brr. And then she perked up, remembering something.
"By the way, Harry... people are asking me what fertilizers for grass I used? What should I answer them?"
Her nephew's green eyes widened... and he froze. The Dursleys had, of course, already learned to put up with this strange habit of his, but not for long. About five minutes. Fortunately, this time was usually enough for him to return to his surroundings.
As soon as Aunt Petunia asked him about fertilizers, it was as if lightning struck Harry's head. Hagrid. Dragons. Manure. Madam Sprout. Enchant the manure... and aunt would sell it in the gardening club? Magic fertilizers, simple and harmless. And no one would violate the Statute if they didn't blab, of course. And aunt wouldn't blab, that was certain. But Madam Sprout's greenhouses and the riot of greenery in them simply stood before his eyes. At this point those very eyes glazed over, and the boy froze.
"Time to take measures to return the boy from heaven to earth," Vernon decided and heavily rose from his place. When uncle shook him by the shoulder, Harry almost blurted out everything he was thinking, as if in confession, but braked in time: there was still the idea about the lawns! He shared this one.
The Dursleys pondered. Money had been flying away lately as if down a drain, but all expenses were really necessary! And if they could get back at least part of it with Harry's help... Why not? Vernon looked questioningly at his thoughtful wife.
Petunia was fighting with herself, and since she was a strong woman, the process wasn't quick. She wanted, of course, for Harry to finally earn for his own expenses, but to allow everyone around to have lawns like hers?.. And what if they turned out even better? However, the earnings could be decent. Decided: she would offer his services in the gardening club, and then talk to her nephew so that he, well... not too... didn't overdo it, in general! And she nodded affirmatively.
***
After all business with his cousin was finished, and he finally left him alone, going to his beloved television, Harry went to his room. This time he didn't even take a book: he just needed to think.
His head was spinning with thoughts about where to get money. And the first was about dragon manure. Oh yes, it would be an aromatic business. But if he couldn't scratch his galleons out of the goblins, this could be a way out. He once again remembered how he and Ron went behind the greenhouses when they were transplanting mandrakes, and those piles... Yeah. Well, if he couldn't scratch them out, then he'd get into it.
And he plunged into reading boring stories about inheritance rights with renewed enthusiasm, somehow casually forgetting that he was a wizard, and therefore could quite possibly try to somehow eliminate the smell. But reading and understanding ancient ornate expressions became somewhat easier.
Harry spent the rest of the day buried in books and periodically grabbing his treasured notebook. What didn't appear in it... He still couldn't get rid of memories from his first year, though his thoughts kept jumping to the past year.
We first-years passed the traps on the forbidden floor. Were they prepared for the strongest dark wizard? For him to have fun, or what? It was probably just a test, to see if I really was a hero. Some test, Quirrell really died! And I would never have passed the chess without Ron, or the potions without Hermione... Were they being tested too? So I'm not the only... experimental subject? Maybe something changed for them this summer too, like with me, that's why they're not writing?
Why did Hermione understand about the basilisk, but the wise and experienced headmaster didn't? He's the headmaster, he's been at Hogwarts for how many years? Need to find out. And how could he take that idiot Lockhart as a teacher?! And what would have happened to Ginny if we hadn't come?
The more Harry wrote, the less he wanted to return to school. He would gladly meet with his friends, despite their silence, but the headmaster's behavior just didn't fit in his head—too strange. At first Harry thought that in the first days of school he would ask Dumbledore for advice, take this very notebook, and he would help him sort everything out, but now he very much doubted it.
And then he remembered the potions professor and his very first potions lesson... And got angry. Oh, Harry didn't at all consider it shameful not to answer questions on the first lesson, what for? But why, he wondered, did he decide he could continue in the same vein? Hmm. So, need to remember... in the very beginning there was something... something... Harry closed his eyes, and the potions classroom stood before him, he and Ron at their desk, the flying black silhouette in a billowing cloak... What?
A voice sounded... "I will teach you to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I will tell you..." —further Harry couldn't listen anymore—his throat constricted. The voice was familiar. Very familiar, though different from the one that spoke to him in his memory. Very different. But his throat didn't constrict because of this.
"Bewitch the mind. Ensnare the senses. Was I... fed potions?" he wrote in his notebook. "Was it Snape? No, he never came closer than a couple of meters! Someone else? Only friends stayed close. No, it can't be. And why do I think I remember his voice too? Why is it not the same as in class? Does a memory potion exist? Trust? Or conversely, dislike? How could I not be interested in this for two whole years?!" Harry underlined the last words twice and pondered.
Recently he had read that charms cast over other charms either don't work at all, or give a completely different result than intended. And fall off quickly. But potions... Good thing he had decided to look through his last year's charms textbook.
What did he do at Hogwarts besides sitting in lessons, chatting with Ron, arguing with Malfoy and getting involved in all adventures? Who did he communicate with besides Ron and Hermione? And why only with them, after all... And Neville—he remembered the clumsy boy who had become something like a clown on the faculty and didn't even think to argue about it. And always remained alone. Was that fair? Was that... Gryffindor-like? Harry wrote down his thought about Neville.
"And awarding points at the feast table... is that Gryffindor-like?" he began a new paragraph. "What did we even get them for? We broke all the rules!"
He chewed his quill, bit off a piece, spat it out and added: "The headmaster is either really slightly abnormal, or playing with us. Playing... with us?"
Now he had something to talk about with Mrs. Fields. Good thing she had given an oath. And how lucky that she was a witch, albeit almost a squib... No, excuse me, what's this, almost a squib—and advanced transfiguration? If she didn't answer this question, their lessons were useless.
***
The second time to Manchester the whole family gathered. Intrigued by the stories of her husband and nephew, Petunia had such an effect on the general atmosphere in the car that even Dudley wanted to see the psychologist-witch. And they decorously entered the nice little garden as a whole family. Dudley, however, never understood what was so special about this Mrs. Fields: well, she's a lady, well... pleasant. What got mother so worked up?
Dudley rode the swings, then settled in the hammock, initially half-listening to what his brother was telling. Though he heard so much incomprehensible stuff that he wanted to come over and ask to translate THIS into human English. There were too many abstract concepts and generally incomprehensible words in this conversation for his brain. Unlike Harry, they didn't evoke any desire in him to learn and figure out what was what, but yawning—easily. So soon he just switched off and dozed.
Petunia Dursley, having barely seen the house and garden, understood: she would most likely like it here. The mistress of the house also corresponded to the image of a decent lady, though she seemed to Petunia to be a bit too young. But she went to work with Harry, introducing Petunia to her mother... Vernon felt superfluous for a while. But not for long: desserts... tea... and... his opinion of David Suchet as an actor who played Poirot?!
"Good. I'd say convincing and appropriate."
"Of course, Agatha Christie..."
"Don't you really like her Poirot cycle?"
"Not at all, it's magnificent... But Miss Marple, you must agree, is inimitable!"
Awakened, fed and almost asleep again, Dudley perked up: finally the conversation had moved into familiar territory. He knew many plots from Harry, and some things they all watched on television together. Dudley Jr. even received a compliment from the elderly Mrs. (what was her name?..), telling how much he liked the story "The Regatta Mystery." Having heard it performed by Harry, he eventually read it himself. It was a bit more difficult than about Indians, but also very exciting!
And Harry at this time, having talked it out, calmed and a little tired, received a lot of useful information. For example, about how you can restore and improve your own memory. And they confessed to him about persona amulets, yes.
He was surprised to learn that muggles had various interesting ways to protect the mind. The exercise "don't think about a white monkey" was worth something—after this Harry couldn't stop thinking about it! He even got a little offended when Mrs. Fields started laughing, but when she explained how it worked and how you could make protection from this, he laughed too. Everything turned out to be so simple!
And the idea of arranging a library in his own head, like at Hogwarts, with a Restricted section and even a Secret department appealed to him so much that Mrs. Fields had to stop him: he intended to get into this business right now. Well, or at least try.
And he also learned that Avada doesn't leave scars. And he'd probably have to visit Mungo's... If only he could get rid of his glasses there too... By the way... why hadn't anyone helped him with this?
They returned home again at dusk, and in unanimous silence. Everyone had received something very useful and pleasant. Petunia was taking home a unique recipe for absolutely fantastic cream, Vernon—"The Stratton-Park Millions," the latest Dick Francis detective novel, Harry was clutching three books to his chest: one on psychology of influence and two on esoterics... And only Dudley, having slept excellently, eaten deliciously and watched "Legend of Tarzan," was in the mood to share impressions. But since he, alas, wasn't distinguished by eloquence, after a few "He went like jump! And bam! And then bam!" he fell silent, deciding to first thing tomorrow persuade Harry to watch the film together. The cassette, given for temporary use, warmed the soul of the adventure lover.
***
Harry struggled through the jungle of the first book: for the first time it was so difficult for him to grasp the meaning of the text. The psychologist turned out to be a so-so writer, and no popularizer at all. But examples—bright pictures from other people's lives—diluted the text and really helped him out. After them you could at least understand something from what the author meant there...
And he also understood about himself that he was a bit of a neurotic and this... introvert. And also choleric, it seems, half and half with sanguine. And a drop melancholic.
And then he tried to understand who his relatives were. It turned out quite simply... And even some things in their behavior became clearer to him. If only he had learned this earlier!
Harry took the second book... and a new notebook, hoping to write down the most important things and use them. But from the very first pages he began to have questions. He decided to write them down too, to find out everything in order when he went to the psychologist again. Here, for example, "lead a healthy lifestyle"—how's that? Should he run in the mornings and douse himself with cold water? Or something else?
At "meet friends more often" he only chuckled sadly, and at "spend more time in nature" he laughed, remembering the Forbidden Forest... But Dud had said something like that recently, about shelter in a tree, it seems? Who's stopping him from trying? The local park was located nearby.
The next sentence briefly plunged him into stupor. "Do your favorite things"—he wrote and pondered: what were his favorite things? Flying!!! He sighed. Yes, here's how he, so handsome, would start cutting through the air over Privet... An unidentified flying object would be quickly identified, and there would be no getting out of it... Okay, that's all at school. It seemed he was starting to miss Hogwarts again. For now he had his second favorite thing—reading!
Wait, only two? Was he completely pathetic? What else?
Memories pushed an unsightly picture at him: earlier he practically didn't like to do anything. Cleaning the house, in the kitchen—couldn't stand it, hated garden work, school... so-so, lessons... they almost always passed by. Even ate without really tasting. He shook his head. What was wrong with him then?..
Well, there were no conditions for reading, they didn't give him books (and did he ask?), they forced him to work... And now what? "Now they ask," he answered himself. It turns out this is a big difference. And when they ask, he essentially likes everything. And even better if it's all by himself. The lawn, for instance. Harry glanced out the window at his own creation and felt that it was very pleasant for him to look at this. Maybe the thing was that he didn't like doing everything by hand? But he didn't know magic before. And the result... It's great—knowing that you made such beauty yourself.
He looked at the privet bushes that he had planted about three years ago, cursing under his breath and suffering terribly. They had grown. Beautifully. What didn't he like then? The saplings weren't heavy. He didn't have to haul water: they had extended a hose to him. He didn't need to dig deep either, so what was the matter? He couldn't understand his past self, so he finally shrugged and dove back into the book.
"...Tune yourself to spiritual growth—meditate, pray..." he'd need to ask his aunt about this. And there was something about meditation in the last book, and about techniques—he could read today and try. Pray... Hmm. How? And why?
Having read "...exclude undesirable people from your circle of communication," Harry smirked. He'd just take and exclude them, yes... Skipping potions lessons couldn't be called a successful idea, despite its obvious appeal. Potter even sighed. Dreamily.
And he certainly couldn't avoid daily meetings with Malfoy. Unless he stayed back a year or, conversely, "jumped" to the next course. Harry was sure that the second option was definitely not about him. Even if Hermione helped. And the first... Then he'd be left without friends. Although Ron might keep him company. But Hermione would kill them! Morally, of course, but with particular cruelty.
"Why do they usually write the most interesting stuff at the end?" Harry quietly complained, finally finding on the last pages something he could quite try.
"...Use thought-force protection techniques—imagine yourself surrounded by a strong cocoon that dampens negative influence..."
Finally. He pondered and decided to imagine himself... in an egg.
The egg for some reason seemed huge to him, such that he could fit there in natural size. "And what will I be there? An ostrich?" Harry thought: they had all recently watched a program about Africa together. "Maybe. They run great and kick hard. And... oh, what if a dragon!"
He began to imagine his thoughts as ribbons that wrap him in space, forming in his imagination how they create the outline of an egg, starting from his feet. It worked out quite well. That's how he fell asleep, forgetting to change clothes, but automatically wrapping himself in a blanket.
***
In the morning he woke up from strange sounds and shaking. Something was ringing over his ear, as if someone had put a pot on his head and started banging on it...
Dudley, who had decided to go into his cousin's bedroom to share... ah, he'd already forgotten what... immediately came to horror. Instead of his cousin, something round lay on his bed, resembling a huge egg. Yes, he also remembered about ostriches, but immediately dismissed this assumption, because what laid this "little egg" should have been about twice the size of the room where he was now.
He approached the bed and called his cousin, feeling like a complete idiot...
And then he touched the Egg. It looked like a frozen blanket, even little folds were visible, but the surface felt smooth and hard.
Dudley knocked...
The Egg grumbled something, apparently still in Harry's voice, and then... knocked back at him from inside. Dudley sat down beside the bed, gasped and cracked the nasty Egg harder. There was a dry crack and his cousin's scream, who stared at him wildly with a black eye that had been hit once again.
***
Harry, finally coming to his senses, lay on the bed. His cousin, who had literally saved him and was now incredibly pleased about it, shared on leaving that he understood—it was good that he himself wasn't a wizard. Harry was terrified. What had his magic done?.. he couldn't have imagined! And what would have happened if he had woken up alone... in this? He would have gone mad, probably.
Good thing he at least breathed normally. Still interesting though, how did he... manage? Harry carefully touched the blanket broken into pieces. There, more expenses again... Although aunt had brought a blanket, it seemed, from somewhere in the storeroom. And nevertheless... But it was still interesting, what properties did... this have? He turned one of the smallest fragments in his hands. Inside was a soft layer, practically the blanket itself. And on top it turned out quite strong and completely smooth.
"Should I take it to school... Show it to someone?" he thought. "But who to show?" Harry sighed heavily. There were no experienced wizards among his friends. Maybe... Perhaps Mr. Weasley? Or at least Bill? Exactly...
He lay down more comfortably—today for some reason he felt completely exhausted and had absolutely no objections to aunt's demand to stay in bed—and opened the book.
"...The signs of energy vampires are quite simple. They can be distinguished from other people by their level of aggression. They are constantly on edge and literally looking for scandals and quarrels, or provoke others. This is one of the simplest ways to get the victim out of themselves, disrupting their internal balance. To avoid becoming a victim, use these recommendations..."
Harry chuckled, immediately remembering... someone blond and terribly nasty: the description was—well, exactly like him. And what do they advise there?
"...Don't enter into conflict with the person..." What, should he be silent when this Slytherin brat carries all sorts of crap, and also offends his friends? Well... No way!
"...Avoid looking him in the eyes..." he could try, but... why did this seem cowardly to him?
"... Try to get away from the unpleasant person..." uh-huh, and don't have breakfast, and also don't lunch and don't dine. And don't go to some lessons. And you'll have happiness, yes. Especially in Potions.
"...Smile and laugh more often..." and what... maybe it's an idea. Malfoy will strain himself with all his might, and he'll laugh in his face! Exactly, he'd have to try.
And then he almost choked on a roll he'd saved from breakfast.
"...Agree with everything said"... There were no words. None at all. Even when he finally coughed it up... No, what a completely strange book. And the author was also... strange. Doesn't know life. He was about to put the book aside, but very little remained, and he decided to finish reading anyway.
"...Don't lose your temper"... Good advice. And how to do this, not even a hint! Pff!
"It's known that getting a person's energy is not so easy, so the interlocutor will definitely provoke you to emotions."
And then Harry imagined not Draco, but his dean, and loudly sucked in air. Of course... He ran his eyes over what he had just read... Well, there you have it. So it turns out Snape is an energy vampire?!