Harry was bleeding.
He squeezed his right hand with his left hand, swore silently, and pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder.
There was a sudden crunch of broken porcelain under his feet: he had not seen a cup of herbal tea on the floor outside his bedroom door, and he had stepped on it.
"What the —?"
Harry looked around, but there was no one on the landing.
Dudley probably wanted to play a prank on him by making this cup of tea.
Holding his bleeding hand high, Harry picked up the broken pieces of the cup with his other hand and threw them into the now full dustbin behind the bedroom door.
Then he crossed the room into the bathroom and put his finger under the tap to wash it.
Four more days without using magic. It was stupid, unreasonable, irritating...
But he had to admit that the deep cut on his finger must have made it difficult for him to use magic.
He had never learned how to mend wounds, and now that he thought about it — especially when he thought about his next plan — this seemed to be a serious flaw in his magical education.
Deciding to ask Hermione about this next time, he wiped the tea stains off the floor with a wad of paper towels, then went back into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
In the morning, Harry completely emptied his box for the first time since he had packed it six years ago.
In the past, every time school started, he would replace and update three-quarters of the things on the top of the box, leaving behind a messy layer of junk at the bottom of the box — old quill pens, withered beetle eyes, and mismatched socks that could no longer fit in them.
A few minutes ago, when Harry put his hand into this mess, he felt a sharp pain in the ring finger of his right hand. When he pulled it out, he saw that it was bleeding.
Now he was more cautious.
He knelt down by the box again, groped carefully at the bottom, and pulled out a tattered badge, on which flashed the faint words supporting Cedric Diggory and Potty Smelly Dung.
Then he pulled out a worn and cracked speculum and a gold locket, in which a note signed R.A.B. was hidden. Finally he found the sharp blade that had cut his finger.
He recognized it at once. It was the two-inch-long shard of the magic mirror that Sirius had given him.
Harry put it aside and carefully searched the box for other fragments, but all that remained of the Godfather's last gift was bits and pieces of glass, clinging to the bottom of the box like glittering grains of sand.
Straightening up, Harry examined the jagged shard that had cut his finger, and saw only his own bright green eyes in it.
He put the broken lens on the bed next to the unread copy of the Daily Prophet, which had just arrived that morning, and turned to deal with the rest of the garbage in the box, trying to hold back the sudden surge of painful memories, the gnawing regret and yearning caused by the broken lens.
It took him another hour to completely empty the box. He threw away the useless things and divided the rest into several piles according to whether he needed them in the future.
The Academy robes, the Quidditch robes, the crucible, the parchment, the quill, and most of the textbooks were stacked in a corner and left at home.
He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them. Perhaps they would burn them in the middle of the night, as if they were evidence of some heinous crime.
His Muggle suit, the Cloak of Invisibility, his potion-making tools, a few books, the album that Hagrid had given him, the stack of letters, and the wand went into an old knapsack.
In the front pocket of the knapsack was the map of the Portals and the gold locket containing R.A.B.'s note.
The locket was so important, not because of its preciousness--it was worthless--but because of the price that had been paid for it.
Or rather, because of Dumbledore.
He had thought he knew Dumbledore well, but at the same time he had to admit that he knew almost nothing about Dumbledore.
He had never imagined Dumbledore's childhood and youth. It was as if Dumbledore had suddenly become what Harry had known him to be, old, virtuous, and silver-haired.
It was always strange to think of Dumbledore as a teenager, like trying to imagine a dull-witted Hermione, or a friendly Spot-tailed Snail.
It had never occurred to him to ask about Dumbledore's past.
It would have seemed awkward, even presumptuous, but Dumbledore had participated in the legendary duel with Grindelwald. It was a well-known fact, and Harry had never thought to ask Dumbledore about it, or about his other famous achievements.
They had always talked about Harry, about Harry's past, Harry's future, Harry's plans...
And now Harry felt that, although his future was indeed precarious and uncertain, his lost opportunity was irretrievable: he had not asked Dumbledore more about himself, and the only personal question he had asked the headmaster was the only one he suspected Dumbledore had not answered honestly:
"What did you see when you looked in the mirror?"
"Me? I saw myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks. "
After a few minutes of contemplation, Harry tore the obituary out of the Daily Prophet, folded it carefully, and clipped it to the first volume of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Counter to the Dark Arts.
He threw the rest of the paper on the trash heap and turned to look at the room.
It was much neater, the only thing that was out of place was the Daily Prophet, still spread out on the bed with the broken lens on top of it.
Harry walked over, shook the broken lens out of the day's Daily Prophet, and unfolded the paper.
In the morning he took the rolled-up paper from the owl postman, glanced at the headlines, found no mention of Voldemort, and tossed it aside.
Harry believed that the Ministry of Magic had pressured the Daily Prophet to block any news about Voldemort.
Only then did he realise that he had missed something.
A new report.
The interview with Rita Skeeter about Dumbledore, which was obviously heavily fabricated, but no one cared. Voldemort put too much pressure on everyone, and everyone wanted a chance to relax.
Dumbledore's anecdote might not have been the best choice, but it was certainly a good one.
Harry was in a bad mood, but no one cared what he thought.
At that moment he began to miss Dumbledore immensely, because Dumbledore had always been so kind and patient, so much better than the people he now faced.
It was a sad thing. He was staring at the broken lens when he heard a muffled thud.
The front door slammed shut upstairs, and a man shouted, "Hey! You! "
Harry had been yelled at like this for sixteen years. He knew who his uncle was calling, but he did not answer at once.
He was still staring at the broken lens, and for a moment he thought he saw Dumbledore's eyes in it.
Until his uncle bellowed, "Boy!" Harry got up slowly and walked towards the bedroom door, pausing to stuff the broken lens into his knapsack, which was already full of things he was going to take with him.
"What are you waiting for?" Vernon Dursley shouted angrily when he saw Harry appear at the top of the stairs. "Come down, I've got something to say!"
Harry put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked slowly down the stairs.
He found the Dursleys in the drawing-room, all dressed for a trip: Uncle Vernon in a fawn zip-up jacket, Aunt Petunia in a simple light orange frock, and Harry's big, blond, muscled cousin Dudley in a leather jacket.
"What's the matter?"
"Sit down!" ordered Uncle Vernon, making Harry raise his eyebrows.
"Please!" added Uncle Vernon quickly, wincing as if the word had struck him in the throat.
Harry had more or less guessed what it was.
He thought of it when his uncle began to pace up and down the room, and Aunt Petunia and Dudley followed him with their eyes, and appeared to be worried.
But he said nothing, waiting for the other man to speak.
At last Vernon stopped in front of Harry, his big reddish-purple face scrunched up, and he spoke.
"I've changed my mind."
"What a surprise."
Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes, but it was clear that his tone was not much better.
"Don't use that tone of voice -"
Aunt Petunia shrieked, and Uncle Vernon silenced her with a wave of his hand.
"It's all nonsense," said Uncle Vernon, staring at Harry with his piggy eyes. "I've decided not to believe a word of it. We're not going anywhere."
Harry looked up at his uncle, annoyed and amused at the same time.
For the past four weeks Vernon Dursley had changed his mind every twenty-four hours, and every time he changed his mind it took a great deal of effort to get the luggage into the car, out of the car, and into the car again.
Harry thought it most endearing of all when Uncle Vernon tried to get the luggage back into the trunk of the car, not knowing that Dudley had packed the dumbbells into the luggage, and was thrown to the floor and swore in anger and pain.
"So you say," said Vernon Dursley now, pacing the room again, "that we - Petunia, Dudley and myself - are in danger. Danger from - from - "
"Some of 'our kind', that's right."
"Well, I don't believe it," repeated Uncle Vernon, stopping again in front of Harry. "I stayed up half the night thinking about it. It must be a plot to take over the house."
"The house?" said Harry. "What house?"
"The house!" shrieked Uncle Vernon, the veins in his forehead beginning to throb. "Our house! The house prices are going up around here!
You're going to send us away and play some trick, and before we know it, the name on the deed will be yours - "
"Are you out of your mind?" asked Harry. "A plot to take over the house? Are you as stupid as you look? "
"How dare you -!"
Aunt Petunia shrieked, and Vernon silenced her again with a wave of his hand, as if a little insult to his looks was nothing compared to the danger he saw.
"I'm afraid you've forgotten," said Harry. "I've got a house already. My Godfather left it to me. What do I want it for? For all the good old days? "
There was silence.
Harry thought he had subdued his uncle, and said nothing more.
"You claim," said Uncle Vernon, beginning to pace again, "that this Lord -"
"- Voldemort," said Harry impatiently. "We've been over this a hundred times. Not claim, but fact. Dumbledore told you last year that Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Weasley - "
Vernon Dursley arched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that he was trying to get rid of the memory.
It was a few days into Harry's summer holidays, and the unexpected visit of two adult Wizard's.
The appearance of Kingsley Shackleton and Arthur Weasley at the door gave the Dursleys a most unpleasant shock.
Harry had to admit that Mr. Weasley, who had reduced half the parlour to rubble, could not have pleased Uncle Vernon with his reappearance.
"- Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Weasley have explained," Harry went on, unperturbed. "As soon as I turn seventeen, the spell that keeps me safe will break, and you and I will be exposed.
The Phoenix Society believes that Voldemort will target you, or torture you to find out where I am, or think that by taking you hostage I will come to your rescue. "
Uncle Vernon's eyes met Harry's.
For a moment, Harry was sure that they were both thinking the same question.
Then Uncle Vernon began to pace again. "You must hide," said Harry. "The Phoenix Society is willing to help, to provide you with the best protection possible."
Uncle Vernon said nothing, but continued to pace.
Outside, the sun was hanging low over the privet hedge, and the next-door neighbour's lawnmower had died again.
"Isn't there a Ministry of Magic?"
"Yes."
"Why, then, can't they protect us?
It seems to me that we, as innocent victims, have done nothing wrong except to adopt a suspect, should be protected by the government! "
Harry laughed aloud.
He could not help but laugh. His uncle had always pinned his hopes on the powerful, even in a world he viewed as hostile and distrustful.
"You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said," Harry replied. "We think the Ministry of Magic has been infiltrated."
Uncle Vernon strode to the fireplace and then came back, panting heavily. His thick black mustache was also moving up and down, and his big face was still flushed with purplish red.
"Well," he said, stopping in front of Harry again. "Well, let's say we accept the protection, but I still don't see why we can't have that big Kingsley protecting us."
Harry had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, for he had raised this question half a dozen times already.
"I told you," Harry said through clenched teeth. "Kingsley is protecting you - your Prime Minister, I mean."
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