The nights on Privet Drive were at first maddening, terrifying, and painful — his body ached come morning, as if his muscles had seized in cramps. He dreamed of the basilisk, a dead Ginny, a dead Ron, Hermione sobbing beside him, and… a laughing headmaster. That insane laughter was always the final straw. Harry would wake, gulping at the bitter, heavy air until he finally remembered that he knew how to breathe. He could barely eat breakfast, so sick did it make him. And something had to be done about that.
He started trying to sleep as little as possible, going so far as to work on his summer homework — having pilfered a small torch from Dudley, and then a pack of batteries to go with it. He felt no shame or fear at being caught. He did, however, stuff the crack under his door with rags — his own clothes, specifically. The last thing he needed was to be pulled away from what he was doing. Fatigue made him feel ancient, but keeping his mind occupied helped.
At first, life was simply hard, and even his relatives seemed like the lesser evil compared to those wretched dreams. Then he began walking around like a sleepwalker, and even his aunt nearly stopped piling chores on him. She said nothing if he suddenly switched off in the middle of the day — even, heaven forbid, in the sitting room — because during the day, praise be to the universe, he never dreamed anything. Harry was deeply grateful for that, both to the universe and to his aunt. He even started clearing the dishes himself after meals, paying no attention whatsoever to the way Petunia Dursley's thin eyebrows arched into a neat little peak each time.
Dudley… no, he hadn't continued tormenting Harry. He wasn't a complete idiot. What was the point in bullying a log? And his cousin had, in some inexplicable way, become exactly that — a log. That is, turned into one. It had taken Big D only a couple of shoves to understand, both of which were ignored as though they hadn't happened at all. Annoyed, he tried again a day later, with the exact same result: Harry was as though he weren't alive. At first it was a little unsettling. Then it was simply boring. And so Dudley quietly forgot about his cousin entirely. Well — almost entirely.
Vernon Dursley, over the course of three weeks, passed through all the same stages as his son. So life at the Dursleys' became, for Harry, more or less bearable compared to what it had been. It was just that he wasn't in any state to appreciate it.
Finally, something seemed to burn out inside him, and the dreams began to seem merely strange. Unpleasant and strange.
And then… curiosity woke in him. He began asking questions. And remembering. And asking himself again and again: how could any of this have happened? Why had things been one way and not another? He couldn't answer. But he could wonder. Most of all — about himself.
Harry had waited for letters from his friends from the very first day he'd found himself back on Privet Drive, in the house of his despised relatives. Even a few lines from a friend would certainly have brightened his existence here. The fact that he still hadn't received so much as a short note was offensive to a degree that was almost unbearable.
He would certainly find out why, as soon as he saw the people who had apparently decided that seeing him at school was enough to call themselves his friends — that writing to him over summer, when he was alone and worse off than ever, was entirely unnecessary. The hurt swelled in him again, but then a thought slipped through: however much he stewed over Ron and Hermione, it wouldn't change anything. There were other strange things to consider. And perhaps he actually could change something. The only question was — what, exactly?
He thought again.
He started with the simplest and most pressing.
Why did they send so many owls?
And beside it he left space where he immediately began inventing answers — which, unfortunately, also turned out to be questions:
To anger the Dursleys? To frighten them? What for? So they'd suddenly be kinder to me — or the opposite?
To surprise me? Why?
He kept writing.
"The cupboard under the stairs" — meaning whoever wrote the letter—
"Hang on," Harry caught himself being imprecise and crossed out the last two words.
Whoever addressed the envelope knew where I had been living all this time. Or perhaps not all this time? But my address was somewhere. With whom?
He didn't believe that wizards couldn't understand what it meant to live in a cupboard.
So someone who addressed that envelope couldn't have failed to know that he, Harry, was simply incapable of writing back. Then why? Maybe they wanted to frighten him too? Or… they wanted him to believe in magic. That was possible. Let's write that down, then.
…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? What kind of magic? Why didn't I ask?
Because I was an idiot.
Find out!!! But HOW? Who can I even ask?
He immediately thought of the first person who had spoken to him about the forbidden subject. And puzzled over it again.
Hagrid. At night. Why wasn't I afraid? Or had I stopped caring by then?
And why Hagrid, and not McGonagall?
He recalled Hermione's account of how she and her family had been informed by Minerva McGonagall herself. He'd even learned a few useful things for himself — the Grangers had been given far more information. The Head of House was, of course, far more competent than the gamekeeper. So why had they sent a not-especially-well-informed half-giant to him — someone who knew nothing about the wizarding world? Were they afraid of overloading him with information? As much as he loved Hagrid, there was no point in denying the obvious.
He recalled the stormy night on the island, the tempest, the damp-soaked clothes.
McGonagall, who always dealt with Muggle-borns, doesn't venture out in thunderstorms — cats don't like getting wet? Harry snickered at his own unexpectedly surfacing sarcasm. He respected McGonagall, and was even a little afraid of her, yet here he was. All right, but what would have stopped the Transfiguration professor from ensuring perfectly dry conditions for herself — a simple umbrella, or any kind of shield? And what would have stopped her from waiting until morning — the weather turned lovely by then, after all. Who goes barging into strangers' homes in the middle of the night, uninvited? What for? To fry sausages, eat them, lie down, and sleep? The whole thing was absurd.
Why at night? Again — to frighten someone? The Dursleys, or… me?
Hagrid's arrival at that time and in that manner was nonsense! Who needed it, and why?
Harry sat imagining how it might have gone instead.
The neat sitting room of the Dursleys — where the strict, composed McGonagall with her medieval manners would have fit perfectly — then he recalled the gamekeeper's actual behavior and doubted his own sanity. And his memory, while he was at it. No, it had been easy and simple with Hagrid; he never could have felt that way with McGonagall, but…
Hagrid had been straightforward and sincere with him. But he genuinely hadn't known all that much, it turned out — hadn't been able to answer many of his questions, and besides… how much of what he'd said was actually true? — a dangerous thought flickered. The world tilted and began to list unpleasantly.
Why did I believe him — immediately, and completely?
Because I wanted to. But why did I want to?
To learn the truth about my parents!
The sharp letters nearly tore through the paper. But below them came a new, even line:
…And because Hagrid himself believed it. And I liked him.
If I like someone, does that mean I believe them in everything?
Something scratched at him inside when Harry looked at that last line.
He drew a funny face with crossed eyes, snorted, added glasses and a lightning bolt to it, and turned the page.
Gringotts: why did Hagrid have my key? And who should have had it?
The rest came on its own:
Why, with a vault full of money, am I walking around in Dudley's cast-offs? Exchanging Galleons for pounds ought to be trivial.
Why didn't I go back to Diagon Alley on my own — I remembered the way perfectly well.
Right then. And why was he still sitting here like an idiot instead of simply stepping outside? The Knight Bus, if he recalled correctly, was available at any hour — Hermione had mentioned it. He found himself, not for the first time, slightly envious of her encyclopedic knowledge. Wait — how exactly was he planning to summon it if his wand was locked away? Oh, it's locked away — what a tragedy.
Harry snorted, pulling from beneath his thin mattress one of Aunt Petunia's hairpins. It really was useful sometimes to tidy the house by hand. And Dudley and his gang of lackeys had their uses too — it hadn't been for nothing that they'd gone through a phase of stealing his key to the school locker. After just a week of that particular game, Harry had learned perfectly well how to manage without a key. With a bit of wire, a splinter, anything thin and firm.
Petunia Dursley was bustling in the kitchen. Dudley sat at his computer. Uncle Vernon was at work. Perfect. And even if his aunt stepped out, he'd find something to tell her. Harry slipped quickly downstairs and went to the cupboard under the stairs. He didn't even need a full minute of working the lock before it gave. He stepped inside, calmly lifted the lid of the trunk, took out his wand, thought for a moment, then took out all the remaining books as well, and quite serenely went back upstairs to the "smallest bedroom." He'd draw up a plan now, and tomorrow—
Can I talk to the Dursleys without triggering their aggression?
He snapped the notebook shut, preferring to get at least some answers right away. Practice is the most persuasive thing there is, said an unfamiliar yet somehow very close voice in his head.
"Father?" Harry whispered. "A teacher?"
No answer came, naturally. He shook his head and hurried to the kitchen. His aunt was calling for lunch.
"Aunt Petunia, may I ask you something?"
Petunia looked at her nephew, who had quickly finished his soup. No other food had been set out for him, but her hands moved of their own accord and gave the boy a portion of braised meat with salad. He looked surprised, but ate that too quickly. Lord, why had she never noticed how thin he was? What would the neighbors say? Only after that did she nod. Perhaps it was even a good thing the boy had finally spoken — since he'd arrived, he'd clearly not been himself. She didn't even feel like calling him abnormal anymore; it was far too close to the truth.
"I need to go to hospital… in London."
She pressed her lips together:
"There's a perfectly good clinic in our town."
Then she caught herself: showing what was happening to her nephew at an ordinary clinic was probably not a good idea. Strictly speaking, showing up with him there at all wasn't wise. Although it seemed the boy had finally drawn the right conclusions from his condition. He really did need treatment. She sighed.
Harry was quiet, gathering his nerve.
"Do you need to go to your special hospital?"
No, she had no intention of making it easy for him — she simply wanted all these questions resolved, and as quickly as possible.
Harry nodded.
"I'll speak with Vernon. He may take you tomorrow. You can come back by bus — the stop is near the station you take to school."
Her nephew stared at her as though a third eye had sprouted in the middle of her forehead, then bolted to wash up the dishes. Again. By himself. Hmm — perhaps she shouldn't let him be treated after all? Burying that thought as deep as it would go, Petunia issued a pair of instructions regarding the garden and made haste to leave the kitchen. Something about the boy was not right. Something about herself was not right when she was around him.