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It started with spray paint. The front door of the Dursley’s house vandalized by a green skull and snake. When Harry had seen it he’s felt like a shadow had walked over his grave – watched and in danger. When Uncle Vernon had asked him to paint the door back, he had without complaint. And that night he’s had another nightmare full of mirrors and veils and curses flying everywhere. He watched Sirius die again.
Next came a brick through the front window. Aunt Petunia had gone ballistic and Kingsley Shackelbolt had shown up on the front step. They were muggle attacks, he’d said. They were probably going to get worse. Uncle Vernon had yelled. Aunt Petunia had looked truly frightened for the first time in her life, and Dudley had secretly thought it was brilliant.
By the time the kitchen door had been forced, the Order had found a place in muggle London for them. As long as Harry stayed with his aunt, the magical protections would stay in place. It was time to go into hiding.
Which was why Harry now found himself lugging a box up two flights of stairs to the second floor and their temporary flat. To be fair, the Dursleys hadn’t brought much since they would be returning to Privet Drive as soon as Harry went back to Headquarters at the end of the month. The small flat was already furnished thanks to the Order so it was only everything else that needed moving in. As Harry came up the final steps, he could hear Dudley arguing again with Uncle Vernon.
“But Dad, how am I going to see Piers? We had plans for this summer!” Dudley wailed.
“Dudley, I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous with those . . . people,” said Uncle Vernon. The two of them were standing just inside the door sorting out a box for the living room. As Harry puffed up to them, Dudley fixed him with a hateful stare.
“It’s all his fault! We should have just let the burglars take him!” Dudley spat. Harry just stared mildly back.
“I need to get in,” was all he said. “And I’ve still got letters to write,” he looked pointedly at Uncle Vernon who scowled but said nothing at the not so subtle reminder that there were people looking out for Harry.
“Dudley, move,” Uncle Vernon said gruffly. “We need to get the unpacking done. You can go visit Piers this weekend.”
Dudley grudgingly moved out of Harry’s way. The young wizard gave his cousin a triumphant smile that served to piss off Dudley more. Unfortunately there was nothing that he could do about it with the threat of letters in the air.
Harry shoved in and was maneuvering around his hefty uncle and fat cousin in the entranceway when he heard a startled “Oh my,” from the hall. From behind Dudley, Harry couldn’t see a thing beyond Uncle Vernon straightening. “Hello.”
“Hello. Vernon Dursely,” said his uncle holding out a hand Harry could only see the arm of. “And this is my son Dudley.” The lug moved forward giving Harry a partial view of a tweed jacket.
“Rupert Giles,” said the mostly invisible soft spoken man. Harry heard the rustle of sleeves as they shook hands. “It’s a pleasure. Just moving in today?”
“Yes, yes,” said Vernon. “It’s all boxes and clutter at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I quite know what you mean. I’ve been here a year and I still haven’t unpacked everything.”
“Yes, well, we won’t be staying long. Repairs to the old house, you know,” said Vernon as if it were a great secret. “Just here temporary.”
“I see,” said the new neighbor noncommittally. “Well, welcome to the building.”
Harry couldn’t help but snort. He was sure the Dursleys wouldn’t be welcome for long. Uncle Vernon turned and glared at him. “Don’t you have boxes to fetch?” he demanded harshly.
Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed past Dudley and went back on out, not bothering to argue. He only had one left and just didn’t have the energy for another fight. Snubbing was nothing new, and he was sure that as soon as he was out of earshot, Uncle Vernon would give the juvenile delinquent speech. Even with the threat of wizards, his relatives weren’t past badmouthing him behind his back. The neighbor – about Arthur Weasley’s age with brown hair going gray – looked at Harry in surprise, then at Uncle Vernon who was beginning to purple. Undisguised loathing was reflected in his beady eyes at the faux pas created by Harry’s mere presence.
No longer amused, Harry glared at both adults briefly before stomping down the stairs. He paused long enough just past the landing below to catch “St. Brutus’s . . .” drift down.
Once the flat had been unpacked, Harry discovered the double edged sword of being ignored by the Dursleys. One the one hand, his aunt and uncle no longer made him do chores all day and they fed him decently. (Harry took a great pleasure in asking for seconds while Dudley was force fed another diet.) However, without chores to fill the day, Harry was bored. There were no books to read as he owned none and the few the Dursleys owned had remained at the house. Under the new truce, Harry was allowed to watch the tele if no one else was, but Dudley, separated from his friends, had made camp at one end of the couch and Harry had no desire to join him.
Left in his room, the smallest of the three in their flat, Harry’s activities were limited to writing letters to his friends, doing his schoolwork, or rereading Quidditch Through the Ages. After three days of getting a start on homework, leafing through memorized pages, and catching up with his friends, Harry was utterly bored. And boredom only led to thinking. And thinking led to thinking of Sirius.
Thinking of Sirius hurt. It hurt like burning shame until the guilt and anger threatened to smother him. Sometimes Harry wanted to bang his head into the wall for his own stupidity in falling for Voldemort’s trap. Sometimes he actually did and then Uncle Vernon would yell at him and he could yell back. But the pain in his head didn’t make the pain in his heart any less.
The muggle attacks three days into the holiday had helped ironically, by giving him a focus other than himself to hate for a few days. However, now that that had passed, Harry was back to oscillating between making Dudley squirm and sitting in his room desperately trying to stop thinking about his godfather. Harry was getting tired of it, running from his thoughts. When he couldn’t run any longer, he opened himself to the self loathing, mercilessly going over again and again how he had been an utter idiot and gotten Sirius killed for no reason. He never cried.
Over that first week, Harry found himself spending more and more time in the courtyard behind their building. High walls closed it off from the street but there was grass and a few trees to sit under in the sweltering heat. It actually wasn’t that bad; the sunshine felt good on his skin and it got him out of the oppressing glares of his cousin and aunt. In some ways the sun and sky and grass helped clear his mind, the brightness banishing the dark shadow of the Veil in his mind.
The days passed slowly. Harry made his daily escape soon after breakfast, only to return briefly for lunch and then trod up slowly in time for dinner. Aunt Petunia had made it quite clear that she was not responsible for him going hungry if he was late. The second evening, Harry met their neighbor on the stairs. As Harry had passed, Mr. Giles smiled absently, his eyes burning into Harry’s back. When he’d looked over his shoulder however, the man had simply given another polite smile.
Harry kept seeing him on the stairs before dinner – when Mr. Giles was returning from work, if his briefcase was anything to go by – and each time, something in the man’s manner bothered Harry. It wasn’t as if the man actually did anything odd or strange, he simply didn’t seem to care that Harry was there. It was as if Harry was nothing more than one of the fixtures lighting the stairwell.
It wasn’t until a few days later that Harry realized that that was exactly what bothered him. Mr. Giles didn’t stare like a wizard or frown disapprovingly like the old neighbors on Privet Drive. He didn’t see an insane dangerous wizard or an incurable criminal delinquent or a neglected child. To him Harry was simply a teenager going home to dinner. And while Harry once would have felt relief at the lack of judgment, he now only saw a stupid mindless man who couldn’t see the truth that was spitting in his face. Mr. Giles thought Harry was innocent. He wasn’t. He’d wanted to kill Bellatrix Lestrange; he’d as good as killed Sirius. Death stalked him, within and without, and beware to those who dared cross his path.
That night, Harry scowled at the man as he passed. Mr. Giles just glanced at him dumbly before heading off to his door without a second thought.
“And what’s wrong with you!” demanded Aunt Petunia when Harry stormed to the table. “Don’t think you can bring your nasty attitude to the table, threats or no threats!” she went on before he had a chance to reply.
“Never stopped you from bringing yours,” Harry bit back with a glare.
“Don’t you talk back to your Aunt like that!” snapped Uncle Vernon shaking a beefy finger at Harry. “As long as we’re forced to accommodate you, you will show some respect when you open your mouth!”
“In other words, shut up!” Harry shouted back. “Right. I’m just the freak! Shut up and act like I don’t exist! That’s what you want!”
“Yes, that’s what I want!” shouted Uncle Vernon, his face beginning to purple in anger. “Now, shut up and sit down or get out! Go crying to those freaks of yours, and let them put up with you!”
“Are you sure you want me to do that?” Harry dared him, his tone dangerously close to a sneer. Uncle Vernon’s fear of magic was the only thing that kept Harry from being locked up, and sure enough, the threat in Harry’s question caused his uncle to pale. He opened his mouth twice to say something, but ended by not saying anything at all. Aunt Petunia and Dudley stared at Harry fearfully. No one moved until Harry scowled at his plate.
He hated this. His life. He hated them, and some part of him hated that he’d baited Uncle Vernon and gotten away with it. It left him feeling cold and empty because in the end, the people who cared about him existed here only as a threat.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon quietly broke the uncomfortable silence. Their over-cheerfulness sounded harsh in the tension of the room. Harry felt his uncle’s eyes darting to him, but otherwise he was ignored. Sinking into himself, Harry fiercely ignored them back.
The next day, the flat door was locked. A note on the door explained that the Dursleys had been invited out to dinner last minute and they hadn’t been able to find Harry in time. That was of course untrue since Aunt Petunia knew he spent time in the garden. Not that he would have gone with them had they asked. Still, it was just like them, and oddly ironic, that he was locked out and left to starve.
With a sigh, Harry let his head fall against the door with a dull thud. Now what? He was just so tired of all the petty hatred and of trying to fight back against his relatives. It never did any good. They continued to make his life miserable any way they could. No matter how many times Harry had won before, now he felt nothing but exhausted by it all. Like Voldemort, his relatives were a fate he couldn’t escape from unscathed.
Harry closed his eyes and ignored the footsteps of his neighbor behind him. He closed his eyes and willed away the shame that burned up his neck and over his cheeks at being caught locked out like this. He listened as Mr. Giles fumbled for his key, heard the lock turn, the door open, and as he was about to move, a mild voice ask, “Are you all right?”
Harry froze. “Fine,” he said shortly.
Mr. Giles made a sound of acknowledgement but Harry could feel his eyes crawling over him, feeling suddenly like a bug under inspection. He turned and gave his neighbor a glare Snape would have been proud of.
Mr. Giles looked away as if embarrassed to be caught staring but nevertheless stammered. “Of course, it’s none of my business, but you don’t look particularly fine.”
“Well, I am,” snapped Harry. He didn’t say ‘go away,” though he thought it loud enough in his head that it should have been heard. It worked, and Mr. Giles disappeared into his flat without another word. Irrationally, Harry almost wished he hadn’t given up so easily, then immediately chastised himself for wanting someone to care just how far from fine he was. People did care; the letters from his friends and Professor Lupin were full of concern for him. He had the bloody Order of the Phoenix threaten his relatives for him. But Harry, locked out for the evening, only felt the emptiness like he had last night, because here he was, alone. He gently pulled the note off the door and stared at it. He wondered if the loneliness would ever go away.
He was still staring at the stupid piece of paper when the door next door opened again. Harry glanced up and saw Mr. Giles taking out his trash bin to the chute on the far wall. He stopped when he saw Harry. Feeling stupid and embarrassed for being still out on the landing like an idiot, Harry waved the note. “I got locked out. They forgot to leave the key.” It was a lie but it felt better than admitting it had been done on purpose.
Mr. Giles blinked at him, his eyes focusing on the note while Harry blushed and looked away. He heard his neighbor continue to the chute, the flap open and the rubbish slide away. “I’m afraid your uncle never told me your name,” he said.
“Harry.” He looked up, not sure where this was going. Mr. Giles, no longer uncertain or embarrassed, smiled.
“Well then, Harry. I was just going to fix dinner, if you’d care to join me?” He nodded to his door, and Harry, surprised by the offer nodded. Then stopped, a thousand warning bells going off in his head about Death Eaters, trustworthy imposters, tricks and traps, and just the plain cruelty he expected from his relatives and their friends. But the wards encompassed the whole building, and Mr. Giles had never talked to the Dursleys beyond that first day.
“I’m not a criminal,” he said, this at least he wanted to set straight now. “I know Uncle Vernon told you I was, but I’m not and I don’t go to St. Brutus’s either.”
Mr. Giles looked confused for a moment then said, “Goodness, I’d forgotten all about that.” He looked at Harry with a long searching look that was somewhat unnerving, but not threatening. “You’re still welcome for dinner, of course,” he said quietly. When Harry didn’t move, he added, “I don’t bite.” And with that startling reassurance, Harry went into the flat next door.
His first impression of Mr. Giles’s place was one of warm clutter. A large bookcase dominated the wall to his left behind an old brown, comfortably plump couch. The coffee and end tables were covered in magazines, papers, more books, and little decorative pieces valiantly poking their heads up through the rest. Behind the armchair that was opposite the couch was a small wooden chest, also covered in books. Hermione would have had a field day in here.
Paintings and other pieces of artwork covered the walls tastefully. They were quiet pictures of landscapes and abstracts but none were overpowering. Taking it in, Harry saw a home and a well lived in one at that, which made his heart ache a bit because it was something he didn’t have. He’d been locked out of the one he was entitled to, and Dumbledore had denied him the one he wanted. In fact, the Headmaster would hate it that he was in a stranger’s flat, potentially putting himself in harm’s way. The thought made Harry smile. And then frown. And then not wanting to think about Dumbledore at all, he went to take a look at the books on the chest.
“I was planning on a stir fry. I’ve some leftover chicken to use up,” Mr. Giles said as he followed Harry in. Harry, not seeing the thrill in The Key to Successful Management* or The Power of We: Succeeding through Partnerships, followed him into the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen was another host to paper clutter alongside the spice rack, bowl of fruit, and various other normal kitchen necessities including a string of garlic hanging from a hook over the window above the sink. But it was the refrigerator door that drew Harry’s attention as Mr. Giles bustled about gathering things for dinner.
It was covered in postcards from all over the world. The Great Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Vatican in Rome, the Cleveland Indians baseball team, Lake Michigan, Moscow, the Amazon River, the Eiffel Tower, the African savannah, The Great Barrier Reef . . . there were almost too many to look at. Some of them were photographs of people several years older than him. One was a blond guy in front of a church in Lego Land, another of two girls, one blond and one brunette sitting on a statue of a horse. There was one of a redhead and another brunette in big round straw hats, laughing, and one of a white one-eyed man standing in front of a newly built house with a whole bunch of black people, grinning proudly.
“Would you rather have rice or pasta to round it out?” Mr. Giles startled Harry out of his exploration. He turned to where his neighbor was chopping garlic and onions by the stove.
“Oh . . . uh . . . pasta,” said Harry awkwardly, out of the habit of giving his opinion again. He wanted to ask about the pictures and postcards, but brought back to reality, didn’t feel comfortable doing so. These people were obviously important to Mr. Giles, and he to them by the look of it. It reminded him of how Aunt Petunia had pictures of Dudley all over the house in Little Whinging – and how there had never been any of him, anywhere.
“Do you like pesto?” Mr. Giles asked to which Harry nodded. He moved out of the way so Mr. Giles could get into the fridge where he pulled out vegetables, a tin of pesto, and the leftover chicken.
Feeling awkward and useless, Harry said, “Would you like help?”
Mr. Giles turned to him a little surprised and smiled faintly. “No, I think I’ve got everything under control. Thank you.”
“I can cook,” said Harry defensively.
“You help your aunt?”
“Sometimes.” She usually had him chop and dice, not trusting him near the stove.
“Well, if you would like to help, you can finish chopping the squash and chicken,” said Mr. Giles indicating the cutting board he was working on. Harry gratefully took over the task while Mr. Giles turned to the pasta. They worked in silence till both were done then Mr. Giles took charge again with the stir fry which seemed to simply be mixing everything together in the hot frying pan with a little oil. It smelled very good.
“So your family went out to dinner without you?”
The question made Harry stand up straight from where he’d been leaning against the counter. He shrugged carefully. “They said in their note that they couldn’t find me in time. It was a last minute invitation.”
“Where were you?”
“In the back garden.”
“Do you usually go out in town?”
“No.”
Mr. Giles looked at him at that, and feeling embarrassed again, Harry wished he hadn’t said so much. It was painfully obvious that if his relatives had wanted to find him, they would have.
“I see,” was all Mr. Giles said however, and Harry wondered how much he did see since he’d ignored Harry’s existence until today. He didn’t know anything, Harry thought with a resurgence of his earlier anger. And yet he’d offered dinner. How was Harry supposed to feel about that?
He looked at the floor with not quite a scowl on his face, and Mr. Giles went back to the stir fry. The silence between them this time was heavy. After a few more minutes, Mr. Giles turned off the heat and grabbed plates from another cupboard.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I’m afraid I don’t have much variety.” He opened the fridge and sighed. “I’ve water and orange juice.”
“Orange juice, please,” said Harry quietly. Mr. Giles poured him a glass, getting water for himself, before serving the pasta and stir fry onto two plates. Harry accepted his with another ‘thank you’ as they sat down at the table by the far wall. The stir fry was every bit as good as it had smelled, much better than the steamed vegetables that Aunt Petunia always fixed.
They ate in a silence Harry was grateful for, but after a while it began to be too much. Oddly Harry found himself wanting to talk after weeks of being ignored. The only problem was he didn’t know what to say. How did one go about making small talk with a complete stranger who knew nothing about him? How did he talk about muggle things when he had no idea what was going on in the muggle world? The pictures on the fridge were interesting, but Harry didn’t feel like talking about people he didn’t know. Or be reminded that no one had pictures of him up anywhere, so he didn’t say anything.
After another minute though, Mr. Giles did. “So Harry, are you staying with your aunt and uncle long?”
“I live with them.” His abrupt answer made Mr. Giles look up. Harry could see understanding pass across his face, that horrible look of sympathy that Harry neither wanted nor needed.
“Your parents. . .”
“Died when I was a baby.” It was odd explaining something everyone knew in the Wizarding World.
“I’m sorry.”
Harry shrugged and poked at his plate. Everyone was said they were sorry, but no one really was. “I didn’t know them,” he said. Not like Sirius. Sirius who loved him, wanted him to live with him . . . died because of him. A tight welling seized Harry’s throat and he took a sip of orange juice to make it go away. Embarrassed by his weak showing of emotion, Harry blushed on top of it, but if Mr. Giles noticed he gave no indication.
“How has your holiday been?” he asked instead.
Bloody brilliant so far, thought Harry. “Fine.”
“Done anything interesting?”
“Not really,” said Harry.
“Any plans for later on?” Mr. Giles tried again.
Harry shrugged this time. He would end up at Grimmauld Place undoubtedly, and he really didn’t want to think about that now.
“You know, it’d be easier to have a conversation if you actually spoke,” said Mr. Giles with a hint of exasperation. Harry looked up quickly, but found that his neighbor appeared challenging rather than angry.
Harry resisted squirming and tried to stare back defiantly but found that it didn’t really work when Mr. Giles just went back to his dinner while he waited. “It’s been a boring summer,” he finally said with another shrug. “My relatives ignore me and besides the day we moved here, I haven’t had anything to do. I even started my schoolwork, though I can’t stand the thought of that anymore.”
“Where do you go to school?” asked Mr. Giles.
“A small place up in Scotland. You probably haven’t heard about it.”
Mr. Giles smiled, “Probably not,” he agreed. “You board there?” Harry nodded and took another bite of the stir fry. “Do you like it?”
Harry paused in his chewing and looked away, thinking of his last conversation with Dumbledore. Would the wards care if he said it was home? Not wanting to tempt the Fate that had already screwed him over he said instead, “I love it there. There’s my friends and . . . sports,” he quickly caught himself, “and other stuff.”
“You’ll be in your fifth year?” asked Mr. Giles.
“Sixth,” said Harry.
“I take it you have no clue what you want to do after matriculating?” said Mr. Giles, accepting the correction easily.
Harry took the easy out and shook his head. He was not about to explain the Auror’s Program. “What do you do?” he asked before the questions became harder to dodge.
“Oh, I manage a historical society.”
“That sounds nice,” said Harry wondering just what a historical society did. Sounded pretty boring.
Mr. Giles smiled at his tone. “Yes, and I’m sure you’d be utterly fascinated by the antics of the English court.”
Harry did smile at that. He didn’t know much about muggle history, but if it was anything like that in the magical world, he knew he wouldn’t care that much. “I’m not much for history,” he said, his eyes wandering to the bookshelves in the other room. “Though at this point, I’m so bored I’d read just about anything that didn’t have to do with school.”
“Well then, I might be able to help you out there. What do you like?”
“Sports?” Harry suggested but he could tell from Mr. Giles’s expression that that wouldn’t pan out.
“If you like non-fiction, how about music? They’d be a little dated, but I do have a few excellent books on the Beatles.”
Only vaguely knowing who the Beatles were, Harry nodded. “What else have you got?”
What followed was Harry’s first true introduction into the world of literature. And for the first time, Harry had to concede that there was someone who knew more about books than Hermione. Mr. Giles told him about so many authors that Harry couldn’t remember them all. He described plots of the ones that sounded more interesting and after dinner dragged Harry to his collection of Shakespeare when he learned that Harry had barely even heard of him. “Buffy liked the movie of this one,” he commented as he pulled off A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “It will take a little getting used to the language, but it is well worth it. Now . . .” Mr. Giles turned back to the shelf, pulling a few more books here and there, putting some back. He added one of his books on the Beatles and a mystery involving a chess set that looked pretty cool.
“That should do for a start,” said Mr. Giles as his eyes continued to roam his shelves. “You’re of course welcome to pick anything else out.”
“Thanks,” said Harry even though he knew he would never be able to find anything on his own. Who knew that muggles had written so much? He sat on the couch to give the books a look over. The Shakespeare was intimidating and barely comprehensible, but the other two looked promising. When Mr. Giles returned to the kitchen to clean up, he shooed Harry back to the couch.
“It’s quite all right,” he said. “Go have a look and tell me what you think.”
Harry sat back down, and after another hesitation at not helping in the kitchen, he opened the Beatles book and flipped through the pictures before setting it aside for the mystery called The Eight. He started the first chapter but kept getting distracted by Mr. Giles in the kitchen. He wondered why he was being so nice to him when he didn’t know Harry at all and hadn’t taken any interest in him before. He’d barely known he’d existed. And then he’d cooked him dinner, and now the books. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all. Did he want something? If it weren’t for his very mugglishness, Harry would have suspected it was another ploy by the Death Eaters to win his trust.
“Harry? Something wrong?” Mr. Giles caught him staring. Quickly Harry shook his head and returned to the book. He could feel is neighbor’s eyes still on him but he didn’t dare look up.
A few minutes later, Mr. Giles finished and came and joined him in the living room with a book of his own and a notepad. It had a leather cover with no title that Harry could read. It looked more like a book from Hogwarts’s library, but then Mr. Giles had said he was a historian. It actually made Harry feel a little better and he was able to settle down and read past the first few pages. A little while after that, Harry lost track of time.
When the floor began to shake, Harry knew the Dursleys had returned. Glancing at the clock, he was surprised to learn that it was half nine already. He met Mr. Giles’s gaze as he put down his book.
“I should probably go,” he said wanting to do nothing of the sort.
“Yes,” Mr. Giles came back to himself. “Yes, of course.” He put his book down and stood with Harry who set the book onto the coffee table. “You’re welcome to borrow the books.”
Surprised, Harry smiled lightly, glad he wouldn’t have to give up a way to pass the time. “Thanks,” he said.
“Not at all. And when you’ve finished there’s plenty more,” said Mr. Giles with a self-deprecating smile of his own.
The round about invitation to come again made Harry grin wider. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or simply the normalcy of a polite conversation, but for whatever reason, Harry picked up his newly borrowed books feeling lighter than he had in months.
Unfortunately, reality came crashing back down around his ear as soon as he stepped through the door of the Dursley’s apartment.
“Just where have you been!?” Uncle Vernon rounded on him as he entered the living room.
“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly concerned,” Harry snapped, his good mood evaporating. “You locked me out, remember?”
“We looked for you!” snapped Aunt Petunia shrilly with more than a hint of fear in her eyes. “You can’t tell those . . . those people we didn’t.”
“It is not our fault that you can’t be bothered to come in at a decent hour!” Vernon shouted.
Harry bristled angrily. He couldn’t be bothered? “So it’s my fault that you didn’t look for me? I’m sure Moody will love to hear about that!”
Vernon’s face turned a satisfying purple as he scrambled for a reply that could overcome his fear. “You were not where you were supposed to be!” he finally shouted which made no sense at all since Harry wasn’t supposed to be anywhere except inside the grounds of the apartment building.
"I was only where I've been the whole time I've been here," Harry shot back sarcastically.
"And how should I know that?!"
Harry’s breath caught. The casual admission that they didn’t care only fueling more anger. And only anger he told himself sharply. They had never cared. “Who will Moody believe?” Harry said, chillingly quiet before turning in disgust for his room. He slammed the door satisfyingly behind him.
Through the door he could still hear Uncle Vernon yelling at him about wandering off to who knew where but Harry quickly tuned him out. It was always his fault that he was ignored, his fault that he was yelled at, his fault that the bacon burned in the morning, his fault that he had to be locked up or out or in. Harry dropped his books on the small table that was serving as his desk and grabbed a piece of parchment.
"Dear Professor Lupin,
"I got locked out by the Dursleys tonight," he began his letter.
The following day, Harry slipped out to the courtyard as soon as breakfast was over with his borrowed books. For once, he was able to forget about the Wizarding World and everything except the novel in front of him. Nothing else mattered when the main character was caught up in intrigue in Algeria and the fate of the world seemed to be resting on her shoulders instead of his. For the first time since returning to the Dursley's Harry felt like the knot in his stomach was loosening up. He didn’t even mind when Aunt Petunia glared at him over lunch since he knew he had another world to escape to once he left the flat.
When he went up for dinner, he met Mr. Giles on the stairs and this time Harry grinned when he saw him.
“Hallo, Harry,” Mr. Giles smiled back. “I see you’re getting on,” he gestured toward the slip of parchment that Harry was using as a bookmark.
“Yeah, it’s brilliant,” Harry replied. “Never thought I’d end up reading a day away.”
“Amazing how a good book can suck you in,” said Mr. Giles clearly pleased. They continued up the last flight to their landing, splitting off to their respective doors. “Have a good evening,” said Mr. Giles. Harry doubted it, but he replied in kind anyway before going inside.
Uncle Vernon was waiting for him. Harry stopped in his tracks, not having seen his uncle this angry since he’d tried to throw him out of the house last summer. “You . . .” Uncle Vernon stuttered, barely able to get words out. “You . . . Do you know who showed up at my office today?” he finally ground out.
Harry resisted the urge to grin. He could guess. “No,” he said loftily, “do tell.” Uncle Vernon went purple at the amusement that bled through Harry’s words and then words weren’t a problem as he shouted at Harry how two wizards had waltzed into Grunnings in bright robes and pointy hats demanding to see one Mr. Vernon Dursley. Apparently they’d had a little chat and now Vernon’s career was ruined. Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he couldn’t even contain the gleeful laughter that tasted so sweetly of revenge and made Vernon go even purpler. Harry could tell he was just dying to call him all sorts of nasty things and banish him to his room, but his beady eyes gave away the fear of retribution worse than a humiliating day at work. Before he said anything that he would regret, Vernon spun on his heel and stormed into the kitchen.
That evening, the Dursleys ate in front of the tele where Harry didn’t bother to follow. Instead he settled at the kitchen table with his book, for once happy to be alone.
Hedwig found him in the garden before lunch with letters from his friends. There was a joint letter from Ron and Hermione filled with vague “can’t say but you know”s that only made Harry feel left out. Ginny’s letter was chattier but with an undercurrent of things left unsaid. Harry went back to his book and ended up re reading the same page for ten minutes.
Finally, he gave up and closed the book, letting it slip off his lap onto the grass. He felt so . . . useless. It was like last summer all over again where he was out of the loop while his friends were in the thick of it. Although Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the thick of it himself after last year, but he at least wanted to know what was going on. Knowing that Tonks, Mr. Weasley, Professor Lupin, and all them were out on Order business while he was alternately ignored and yelled at by his relatives was grating. His life was split into two things that were so far apart he couldn’t get his head wrapped around it without feeling like it would just fall apart.
Not for the first time, Harry just wished he were normal – normal for a wizard anyway, he wasn’t willing to give that up. Normal with parents and no Dark Lord and no getting people killed and his friends hurt and being locked up with the Dursleys for another sixteen days. No having to kill the most powerful wizard around to save the world before he was killed first.
Harry grabbed his book with renewed determination. He was going to read and forget about everything else. There was only now and the words on the page. It didn’t quite work, but it was close enough.
Voices on the landing greeted Harry as he came up for dinner. Harry easily recognized Aunt Petunia’s strident tones buttering up whoever she was speaking with. It was Aunt Petunia trying to be nice which ended up making her sound whiny.
“We’ve tried everything,” she was saying. “But nothing, absolutely nothing gets through to him, and it’s one thing after another.”
Harry rolled his eyes. She was obviously talking about how rotten he was again . . . and to Mr. Giles, no less, he saw has he came up the last few steps. Both adults went silent and looked at him, Aunt Petunia with barely disguised fear and Mr. Giles with a wry smile. “Hello, Harry,” he said. “I see you’re almost finished with your book. How do like it?”
If there was anytime Harry could have wished for a camera it would have been then to capture the look on Aunt Petunia’s face that was currently going from sour to slack jawed to horrified. Harry grinned at her before turning back to Mr. Giles. “It’s great,” he said. “I’ll probably finish it tomorrow.”
Aunt Petunia’s jaw snapped shut, her expression once again settling on sour. “Supper’s waiting,” she snapped. “We’ve been waiting on you.”
“So kind of you,” Harry smiled sweetly at her again.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Mr. Giles. “Harry, if you’d like to borrow another novel you’re more than welcome to stop by after dinner.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Mr. Giles turned away to his own door then and Harry followed his disgruntled aunt into their flat. The grin never left his face, even when Aunt Petunia started picking on him about his room and being late. Harry just stared back across the table perversely pleased that she knew that normal people thought he was normal too.
It was stiff and awkward at first. Harry didn’t know what to say and Mr. Giles was still cleaning up in the kitchen from his own dinner. The flat was just as cluttered as it had been the last time he’d been there, and Harry was a little leery of the new stacks of papers on the coffee table that was a little to close to the couch for comfort. All the confidence he’d had when he’d casually announced to the Dursleys that he was coming over had vanished in the two seconds it had taken to cross the threshold.
“So what was my Aunt telling you about me?” Harry broke the silence when Mr. Giles came and stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
“What? Afraid I’ll believe what a troublemaker you are?” said Mr. Giles with a smile. “Tea?”
Harry shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t know me. And yeah, I mean yes please. Tea sounds nice.”
“I know my share of juvenile delinquents,” Mr. Giles turned back to the stove and put the kettle on. “Was one myself. I must say everyone turned out all right in the end.”
“You?” Harry couldn’t wrap his head around the mild Mr. Giles as a skinny Dudley. He was too, well, nice. “Did you rob a library or something?”
“No, I had a library card for that.”
“So what did you do?” asked Harry, curious now.
Mr. Giles took his glasses off and wiped them with a handkerchief from his pocket, looking like he regretted mentioning anything about it. “I’m sure I don’t want to give you ideas.”
“It can’t be that bad,” said Harry whose curiosity was now soundly piqued.
“Yes, well. Did you enjoy the book?” Mr. Giles stuttered to change the subject.
“Yeah,” Harry decided to let it drop. He didn’t want to lose his only friend at the moment. “It was good.”
From there, discussion faded into book talk. “The Eight had been about a life or death search for a chess set that held secrets and magic with the main characters representing chess pieces as they fought for possession in a real life game of chess. The deception, half truths, and constant danger and fear of discovery reminded Harry at some points of his own life.
“I definitely didn’t figure out who the White Queen was,” he said at one point, thinking more about Barty Crouch than the book.
“The hints were there,” said Mr. Giles with a smile. “But unless you knew what to look for, she was effectively hidden. Not much in life is as it seems at first glance.”
Harry smiled at that. Mr. Giles didn’t know the half of it. “No, it isn’t.”
Mr. Giles was silent, his expression thoughtful. He looked like he was going to say something, but he didn’t.
“What is it?” Harry finally couldn’t take the heavy silence any longer.
“Your aunt and uncle don’t like you being here, do they?” said Mr. Giles.
“No,” said Harry uncertainly, wondering where this was going.
“They keep trying to scare me away from you.” Mr. Giles spoke carefully as if he didn’t want to scare Harry away by talking about it.
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “They don’t like me and they hate it when I’m happy. People from my school look out for me.” He didn’t meet his neighbor’s eyes. The person who should have been looking out for him was dead. When he finally did look up, Mr. Giles looked thoughtful again.
“I suppose they’re rather far away,” he said quietly. Harry only shrugged again and looked away. “If you should need anything, Harry,” Mr. Giles waited for him to look up. “Please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” said Harry startled by the offer.
“Even if it’s just to talk,” Mr. Giles smiled taking the tension out of the conversation. Hesitantly, Harry smiled back.
The sun was bright and uncomplicated the next day in sharp contrast to Harry’s mood. He stared at the letter in his hand and wished that he wasn’t trapped here in this cage. Ron chattered happily in his letter with an excitement Harry was sure was meant for something other than the latest from Fred and George. Hermione’s letter also carried a hint of things unspoken of, but only if one knew to look for it.
---We’ve been spending time in the library this week and it is fascinating. Ron complains of course but manages not to sulk too badly. We’ve found the most interesting things that I can’t wait to show you.---
Hermione wasn’t the only one. Harry could tell they were doing something important, something worthwhile, more than fighting with relatives and reading muggle books. The world was moving and he was stuck outside.
“Do you ever feel trapped in your life?” he asked Mr. Giles that evening after dinner. The Dursleys were glad to be rid of him for the evening so Harry found himself once more in the flat next door reading a book. Shakespeare this time, whose archaic language set his mind to wandering.
“Sometimes,” Mr. Giles replied without looking up from his book. “I imagine most people do from time to time.”
“What do you do about?”
Mr. Giles did look up then. “It depends on the situation, of course, and whether there is anything you can do. Sometimes you must simply wait it out.”
Not hearing anything helpful, Harry sighed and turned back to the play in his hands. He could feel Mr. Giles still watching him and didn’t look up when he spoke again.
“You know,” he said gently, “there are other options to living with your aunt and uncle.”
“No,” Harry closed his eyes, thinking of wards and spells and a love that transcended death, “there really aren’t.”
That night, Harry dreamed of the ministry. The Department of Mysteries was shrouded in a blue the color of the sky as it slid into darkness and the air lay thick and heavy. Harry was alone this time, standing just inside the door that had haunted his dreams last year. He felt for his wand but couldn’t find it in his pocket. Panic gripped him like a shock of cold water as he scrambled through his other pockets – too many – but found nothing but splinters. The room began to shake and blend into the clock room where hourglasses spun uneasily and hands wound too fast and too slow. The world lurched at the disturbances and Harry had to scrabble for balance as if he was on a boat at sea and it was only then that he heard the laughter.
Voldemort’s laughter, but more than that, more than one voice – four. It took a moment to place them, and when he did, they had already arrived. Voldemort on Quirrel’s head, Voldemort as Tom Riddle, Voldemort the deformed baby, and Voldemort reincarnate. Through doors that hadn’t been there before, they laughed as they advanced on Harry from every direction. Each had a wand and that laugh that wouldn’t stop but grew louder and stronger. Harry barely dodged the first curse.
Curse after curse chased him from one side of the room to the other as he leapt over bodies that appeared from nowhere: his parents, Cedric, Sirius, the Longbottoms, Arthur Weasley, Ron, Hermione, classmates, and Order members. All their eyes were open and staring like Cedric’s had been, and Harry knew that they each lay there dead because he had failed them. He hadn’t been fast enough or clever enough or brave enough and they had died because he was helpless and hopeless for saving them. Above them all the laughter continued.
Harry’s limbs trembled and he wanted to stop. He was short of breath and dodged each curse a fraction later than the one before. His lungs stuttered, his muscles burned, and he was tired of fighting, always fighting.
“Face me, Harry Potter,” one of the Voldemorts hissed. “Show me the power that I have not.” And they all cursed him at once. Harry screamed.
He woke to screaming and jabbing, his own throat raw as the noise coalesced into Aunt Petunia shouting for him to wake up and Uncle Vernon for him to shut up. The jabbing came from the broom that allowed his aunt a safe distance from him. Uncle Vernon cowered behind her.
“I’m awake, shut up,” said Harry, pushing the broom away. Aunt Petunia jumped back with a squeak before the shouting began in earnest again.
“Just what do you mean by screaming in the middle of the night?! You’ve woken up us and half the building! You –”
“Shut up! Get out!” Harry hid his face in his hands, the dream still bright and painful. “Just get out,” he whispered. Amazingly, Aunt Petunia pushed Vernon out the door and back to their room. The silence was overwhelming and settled like a shroud over him as the faces swam through his mind’s eye. Harry was just so tired.
He took a deep breath and ignored the sting behind his eyes. That his scar was silent was a small mercy; it had simply been a nightmare. It wouldn’t come true. But he was afraid it would. Reaching out, his hand found his wand next to his glasses on box that served as his night stand. The cool wood was reassuring to say the least, but Harry could not sleep and instead waited on the dawn.
The soft call of his name startled Harry from his bench in the courtyard and had him whipping out his wand before he recognized who it was. Mr. Giles stood just outside the door with a frown. Embarrassed, Harry quickly spun his wand into his palm and slipped it up his sleeve. He tried to calm the puttering of his heart, but the dream was still too vivid in his mind. “Sorry,” he said sitting back down. “You startled me.”
“No, no, my fault,” Mr. Giles said as he walked over. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting anyone to come along.”
Harry noticed then that he was in more casual wear with a sweater replacing the blazer he normally wore. “Don’t you have work?”
“Day off,” replied Mr. Giles. “I came to ask if you wanted to come up for tea?”
Harry blinked then nodded, grateful for the suggestion and anything that would give him something else to think about. He followed Mr. Giles back inside and upstairs to their floor, neither one of them breaking the silence until they were safely in the kitchen and Mr. Giles asked whether he wanted Earl Grey or English Breakfast. Uncertain what the difference was, he chose the first and leaned against the counter while Mr. Giles busied himself heating water. The quiet was comfortable, and Mr. Giles didn’t ruin it by speaking or staring at him lost in his own thoughts as the water boiled. A few minutes later they were both seated at the table with their tea. Harry blew across the top to cool it.
“Everything all right, Harry?” asked Mr. Giles, though whether about the tea or his life, the teenager wasn’t sure, so he shrugged.
“Sleeping all right?”
Harry looked up into Mr. Giles’s kind yet intent eyes and knew that he had heard last night. He felt a sick twist in his stomach and couldn’t help the flush of embarrassment as he shrugged again and avoided his eyes. He wanted to leave now.
“And how’s the Shakespeare?”
Startled, Harry looked up again. “All right. A little hard to follow sometimes.”
“I find that the challenge is usually worth it in the end,” Mr. Giles smiled, and Harry had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about Shakespeare. In fact he looked like he wanted to say more. With an unpleasant feeling coiling in his stomach, Harry glanced at the walls that he knew didn’t always block the noise of the tele.
“Look, I’m fine,” he said. “I had a bad dream last night is all.” He shifted under Mr. Giles’s regard until the man looked away.
“Do they always end in screaming and shouting?” he asked softly.
“No,” Harry gripped his teacup. “And thanks for your concern but I don’t see how it’s your business anyway.”
That had his neighbor look up sharply. “If you are being hurt by your relatives I consider it very much my business.”
“I’m not abused!” said Harry exasperated. “They might hate me but they’ve never hurt me. I’ve got people looking out for me who’d know in a second if they did. I’m fine.”
“I can see how fine you are.” Mr. Giles nodded at his whitened knuckles around his teacup.
Harry relaxed his grip and forced a smile. “I’m fine. And there’s nothing you could do about it if I wasn’t.” As much as Harry wanted to leave the Dursleys forever, even he had to concede that the blood protection was necessary. Being with them was still better than dieing.
“Oh?”
“It’s complicated and I can’t tell you.” Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “Just leave it.” He heard Mr. Giles sigh but he didn’t say anything. In the silence, Harry sipped his tea and avoided his neighbor’s eyes. He wanted to leave but felt it would be too rude with all that Mr. Giles had done for him. He was just worried and while that was nice and everything, Harry didn’t need it. He had enough people in danger because of him; he didn’t need any more.
“I find that difficult when the people you say are looking out for you are not here,” said Mr. Giles. “Why they would leave you with them –”
“I said it’s complicated,” snapped Harry. He hated it too and it wasn’t fair that he had to defend the whole messed up situation. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go or anywhere I want to go.” He thought of the Weasleys and immediately their dead faces sprang up form his dream. “It’s too dangerous,” he whispered so quietly that he barely heard himself as his thoughts turned to Sirius falling through the Veil.
“Harry?” Mr. Giles’s voice was soft and too kind for him to take. Blinking back tears, he pushed back from the table, his chair scrapping loudly against the floor.
“I’m sorry. I can’t –”
“Harry, please stay. I won’t say another word about it.” Mr. Giles was on his feet too though he didn’t step forward. He looked tired and helpless in his neat muggle kitchen and somehow not unaware of the complications of life. Behind him, Harry’s eyes caught on the pictures on the refrigerator, and like every time he visited the Weasleys, he was struck by the sudden desire to belong somewhere. Belong properly and simply with no need to save everyone and kill Voldemort and probably die in the process. Belong without the burden of being the Boy Who Lived, heavy with prophesy.
Unable to take it any longer, Harry turned and silently left before the stubborn tears fall.
Harry stared at the sky until he fell asleep, exhaustion finally winning out over anger and resentment. He was so tired of fighting, of being angry, or hurting. He woke when the sun disappeared over the garden wall casting him and his bench into deeper shadows that made him shiver. It was about dinner time; he slept the day away and wanted nothing more than to stay in the garden alone all night.
The noise in the Dursleys’ apartment seemed louder and more useless than usual. Dudley was watching something on the tele that he just had to see the end of, so Aunt Petunia gave in and she and Uncle Vernon joined him on the couch leaving Harry in the kitchen to eat alone. The food was bland and the sounds from the other room unbearable and inescapable. Harry felt like folding up again and wished that it was quiet enough to slip away into sleep. Instead he stared at his half empty plate for an hour before sucking up his pride and stepping out onto the landing.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said when Mr. Giles answered the door. His neighbor froze in surprise but nodded and stepped aside for him to enter.
“Have you eaten?” he asked going into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. A pot half full of rice and vegetables sat next to the kettle.
“We had dinner,” he said but Mr. Giles gave him a plate and a pointed nod anyway while he fixed tea. He didn’t say anything or look at Harry, but he didn’t seem mad that Harry had refused his help. The quiet was sharp contrast to the noise he could still hear throbbing through the walls. He didn’t know quite why he had come back just that he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Still it was awkward. “I’m sorry about earlier,” said Harry when he couldn’t take it anymore. He put his plate on the table but didn’t sit yet. Mr. Giles looked up from watching tea steep and smiled.
“No need to apologize. I was pushing where I shouldn’t have,” he said. He picked up the pot of rice and vegetables and scooped the rest onto Harry’s moderate portion overriding his protests with a mild, “please, you’re sixteen,” before putting it in the sink. He brought the tea over and joined Harry at the table. It was still quiet and a little uncomfortable as Harry tucked in, since it was never comfortable to be the only one eating, but soon Mr. Giles asked if Harry new anything out Tudor England given that he was reading Shakespeare, and at his negative began describing Elizabeth I, court politics, and a thousand details of life that had never been important to Harry or the Wizarding World.
By the time Harry had finished eating he no longer felt unsure of his welcome in Mr. Giles’s apartment. He helped clean up and tidy the kitchen afterwards and once again the refrigerator caught his eye. The pictures of places he would likely never see were as bright as the people in them. “Who are they?” he asked before he realized he was going to.
“Friends.” Mr. Giles smiled. “Dear friends.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “You’re not related to them?” They were only a few years older than he was.
“I suppose you could call us family after a fashion,” said Mr. Giles. “But we’re not related by blood. Not in the way you mean.” He came over and pointed out a photo of a blond and a brunette sitting on a statue of a horse. “That’s Buffy and her sister, Dawn. They’re in Rome now. There’s Willow and her girlfriend. I’m not sure if they’re still together. Haven’t spoken to Willow in weeks.” The redhead and another brunette smiled brightly from a jungle. Mr. Giles’s finger moved again to the photo with the people in front of a house. “Here’s Xander,” he pointed at the one white man. “I haven’t heard from him in months. And this is Andrew. He lives in London and works for me.” He ended on a curly haired young man. “Though I still wonder why I keep him around sometimes.” He smiled fondly and shrugged. “He means well enough. I met them all when I worked at their high school in California.”
“And you’re family now?”
“Sometimes you must make your own family when the one you have isn’t enough.” Mr. Giles looked at Harry who had to look away from the layers of meaning there. Maybe Mr. Giles did know something about the whole mess, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry was stuck until his birthday. No where to go that was safe yet. No one really to talk to. Any chance at family he’d had seemed gone.
“My godfather died last month,” he heard himself say. “He was protecting me from, well, from something I did that was utterly stupid.” He stopped. But the words, once started wouldn’t let his mouth stay closed. “He couldn’t take me from the Dursleys – it’s too complicated to explain – but he couldn’t even though he wanted to, and he was just a letter away. He wanted me. It’s my fault he’s dead because came after me and I was so stupid,” Harry choked and belatedly realized he was crying when Mr. Giles put an arm lightly around his shoulders. He pushed his glasses up to wipe his eyes and tried to get himself under control.
Mr. Giles handed him a handkerchief. “Don’t be ashamed to cry for your godfather,” he said gently. “He loved you, faults and all or he would never have come after you.”
“I wish he hadn’t.”
“There are some things we cannot change, no matter how much we would like them too.”
Harry stared at the photographs on the refrigerator and wondered if these happy people of Mr. Giles’s had ever lost anyone like he had.
“I miss him,” he said.
“Come.” The hand on his shoulder tugged him toward the living room and the couch. Mr. Giles had to move a few ancient books to clear a second space for himself, but soon they were settled. “Tell me about your godfather.”
The request surprised Harry that all he could do was blink stupidly before his brain caught up and he realized that Mr. Giles really wanted to know. He began haltingly, tripping over secrets he couldn’t tell, but soon found that it wasn’t so hard to speak of Sirius, the prankster and confidant, and that in fact it eased the open wound in his heart as his memories turned away from his death toward remembering what was good about his life.
The week before Harry’s birthday inched forward at a terminally slow pace. Harry spent long days in the courtyard with half an ear cocked for the flap of wings when even Mr. Giles’s books couldn’t keep his attention. He wasn’t accustomed to sitting still for so long and the closer he was to leaving the less easy it was.
Talking to Mr. Giles about Sirius had helped ease Harry’s guilt over his role in the whole mess. Sirius was gone and Harry would do better to cherish his memory. But he couldn’t stop the nerves that overtook him when he thought of returning to Grimmauld Place. Unlike Mr. Giles, the others knew all of what happened that night, and while there had been no overt blame placed on him by anyone other than Snape, deep down Harry wondered what they really thought. He’d led his friends straight into danger and none of them had come out of the Department of Mysteries unscarred.
He flopped back on the bench and tried to think pleasant thoughts about the sunshine and the fact that he only had six more days until he could leave the Dursleys. He just hoped that the Order still wanted him.
The Dursleys still didn’t. Harry had given up on going in for dinner, bypassing their apartment entirely for Mr. Giles’s. The first time he’d done that, the night after he’d told him about Sirius, Mr. Giles had asked what was wrong. Now another place was always set. Every one was happier with this arrangement, not least the Dursleys, who never said a word about it.
It was surprising then when Harry arrived at Mr. Giles’s to find three plates set at the table.
“Hi. You’re Harry,” a blond boy a few years older said before Harry could even register that he was in the kitchen by Mr. Giles helping fix dinner, a job that was normally Harry’s.
“Harry, this is Andrew,” Mr. Giles’s supplied the boy’s name. It took him a moment to see that it was the Andrew from the photographs and Harry felt all of a sudden like an interloper.
“Hi,” he sad, not knowing what to do with himself. Andrew was still staring at him like he didn’t know what to do either.
“Oh, for goodness sake! Harry, fix us a salad. Andrew, finish those onions,” Mr. Giles said impatiently, breaking the weird tension. Andrew jumped immediately and went back to his cutting board, chopping fast but sloppily. He obviously didn’t do this much which made Harry feel better. It was weird, feeling jealous for the attention of a man that barely knew him, and Harry immediately felt guilty because Sirius was gone and it still felt like his fault. He was quickly distracted however when Mr. Giles asked about his day as he always did and before he knew it, Andrew was asking about his latest book and talking about movie adaptations and somehow Harry ended up on the receiving end of a lecture on the meaninglessness of his life because he had not read some monstrosity of muggle fiction or seen any films essential to moral guidance and life on Earth.
Mr. Giles was no help, and in fact spent dinner amused by Andrew’s rants and Harry’s stunned manner. Harry would never have thought someone who looked more like an older, blonder version of Ron could sound so much like Hermione. Worse really, because Andrew never let him get a word in through dinner except a few helpless protests.
“All right, Harry, it’s clear I need to save you,” Andrew declared suddenly. Imperiously even, as if it were the most important thing in the world that Harry understand the difference between Episode One and the Original Trilogy. Harry still wasn’t sure if he was talking about a book or a film
“No I’m all right, thanks,” Harry tried staving off that tone of voice but it was too late. Andrew was already out of his seat and rooting around the living room for who-knew-what but whatever it was made Harry more nervous than ever.
“So Harry, you said it’s your birthday this Friday?” Mr. Giles asked as if Andrew were not plotting something dire for Harry in the next five minutes.
“Uh, yes,” said Harry, still trying to see what Andrew was up to over his shoulder. “What’s he doing?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mr. Giles smiled. “But not to worry. He’s knows I’ll skin him if he puts anything out of place!” He raised his voice so Andrew could clearly hear the last part.
“Yes, oh wise master!” Andrew called back.
“Is he always like this?”
“More or less.” Mr. Giles shrugged. “He’s come a long way actually.”
Harry raised his eyebrows at that, unsure quite what that meant. “Long way?”
“From Evil Mastermind,” Andrew said abruptly, having returned. “I’m all reformed now.”
Harry wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Andrew was the last thing he thought of when he thought Evil Mastermind. He retook his seat smugly at the revelation, a piece of paper at his elbow. A quick look at Mr. Giles had the older man rolling his eyes and such fond exasperation that Harry couldn’t stifle the sudden burst of laughter.
“What?” asked Andrew, his brows drawing together in confusion.
“Nothing,” said Harry getting a hold of himself. Mr. Giles saved him by asking about the paper and launching another lecture on all the things Harry had to read and see as soon as possible in order to survive the rest of his life.
The thought was sobering, until Mr. Giles took the list and said, “Monty Python isn’t on here. Surely he should start with his own cultural heritage.” And then they were both quoting jokes and whatnot, until Harry couldn’t help but laugh, and stare a bit at Mr. Giles who, while he had never seemed stodgy per say, had certainly never indicated that he was this . . . playful. It was a bit strange but good, and Harry felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn’t realized had been lodged tight. Even though he was the one listening, he was included in the circle of “he needs to see this one!” from Andrew and “No, no, you’re not telling it right. It starts like this . . .” from Giles. Harry hadn’t laughed so much in a long time and it felt good. It felt really good.
The day before his birthday, Harry expected an owl detailing his transport to 12 Grimmauld Place. He spent the day anxiously staring at the sky, looking for the telltale flap of wings that never came. Nothing came.
He was a bundle of nerves by the time he went up for dinner. He couldn’t sit still and when he tried to help Mr. Giles chop vegetables, his neighbor took away the knife before he could get started and pushed him in the direction of the living room. “Why don’t you dust the shelves,” he suggested, throwing a clean hand towel after him. Harry set to it, glad to do something useful. It didn’t hit him for the first few minutes that he was doing just what Aunt Petunia had made him do for years. He looked over at Mr. Giles, startled to find him watching with a frown that dissolved into a small smile when Harry noticed. He was worried, and while Harry had become somewhat accustomed to it over the last few weeks, it still hit him like a shock of cold water. Mr. Giles had practically taken him in when everyone else had thrown him out –
Maybe they weren’t coming. Harry stopped, hand and rag poised over a dozen dusty spines. Maybe there had been no owl because they weren’t coming for him. The Order thought he was too much of a risk, or the Weasleys thought he was too dangerous to be around, or they were going to leave him where he was safest and miserable, or –
“Harry?”
Harry startled so badly his elbow went into the stack of books sitting on the lip of the shelf, causing them to tumble to the floor with a series of bangs. He bent to hastily pick them up, but a hand on his shoulder was soon pulling him up and pushing him into the nearest chair.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Giles sat on the couch across from him and fixed him with a stare that demanded answers.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Harry blurted out, realizing as he said it that he hadn’t told Mr. Giles yet. From the way the older man blinked, taken off guard, it was the last thing he had expected to hear.
“Where, where are you going?” he asked.
The simple question made Harry freeze for a moment, his throat suddenly stuck. Sirius’s house, he wanted to say, but of course he couldn’t. “A school friend’s,” he finally managed. “They always have me over for the rest of the summer. After my birthday. Only . . .” He swallowed down the stupid fear. “I haven’t heard from them. They were supposed to send me a letter today. To set up travel arrangements.”
“And nothing’s arrived?” When Harry shook his head, Mr. Giles added, “Are you certain of these plans?”
“Yes, I’m certain!” Harry snapped out. “Tomorrow’s my birthday. I can leave after my birthday.” He was pacing then, all his anxiety telling him that something was wrong, that he needed to do something. He couldn’t just sit here. Voldemort was out there. He could have captured any number of people, the Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks, maybe not Mad-Eye, but anyone else. The whole Order was at risk. What if they’d been caught trying to come get him? Harry couldn’t count the ways things could have gone wrong.
“Harry, Harry,” Mr. Giles stood and stepped into his path and caught him by the shoulders. “Nothing will be accomplished by wearing a hole in my carpet. Come. Eat.” His eyes were calm as they stared into Harry’s. “That’s it,” he said approvingly when Harry took a deep breath and followed him to the kitchen.
“Is there any way to contact your friend?” Mr. Giles asked as he handed plates for Harry to set on the table as he finished up the cooking.
“No,” said Harry. Hedwig still wasn’t back, and if she was he’d probably have word by now and there wouldn’t be a problem. Mr. Giles looked like he was going to say more but he didn’t. Instead he simply put dinner on the table and let it go. Harry wasn’t hungry, his stomach twisting.
A banging on the door interrupted them, making both of them jump. “Harry Potter! Boy, open up!” Uncle Vernon bellowed through the door over the pounding of his fist. Harry and Mr. Giles were quickly on their feet, the older man beating him to the door the most irritated that Harry had ever seen him, muttering under his breath and glaring when he snatched open the door.
Harry was a step behind him and stopped short when he saw who was behind Uncle Vernon. “Professor Lupin!” he said.
“Harry! All right there?” Professor Lupin smiled warmly and stepped forward to shake Harry’s hand. He didn’t quite come in, stopping short and giving Mr. Giles a considering look.
“Oh, this is Mr. Giles. Mr. Giles, this is Professor Lupin,” Harry introduced them. In the hall Uncle Vernon stalked off, not quite taking his eye off of Lupin until he slammed his own door closed. A moment of awkward silence followed as Mr. Giles and Professor Lupin eyed each other.
“I was expecting an – a letter,” said Harry. Lupin looked fine, no more ragged than normal around the edges, and he didn’t look like the bearer of bad news either.
“We were just sitting down to dinner,” said Mr. Giles, stepping back and tacitly inviting Professor Lupin inside. There was a pause before Lupin stepped over the threshold and Harry couldn’t help but feel like two worlds were colliding. Lupin did not return Mr. Giles’s smile and the way his hand twitched near his pocket, Harry knew that his wand was a moment from being drawn at the slightest provocation.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Harry first,” he said. Mr. Giles nodded and retreated to the kitchen leaving them alone in the entryway. “Harry,” Lupin began.
“I was worried when I didn’t hear from anyone,” Harry interrupted. “I was sure something had happened.”
“No, nothing like that. It has been a bit tense lately – nothing overt, but we thought it best to come see you in person.” Lupin tried smiling again but asked before it could fully form, “Why are you not with your Aunt and Uncle?”
“I am,” Harry replied. “Just not for dinner.”
“And this Mr. Giles?”
“He’s a friend.”
Lupin frowned. “Harry –”
“Look, he’s a nice bloke that lets me come over and not be miserable with them.” Harry jerked his hand in the direction of the Dursleys. “It’s not like I’m leaving the building,” he added pointedly.
“Harry,” Lupin said again, “he could be anyone.”
“He’s a muggle,” Harry whispered the last word, aware of how well sound carried through the flat. “He’s not a . . . He’s fine.”
“You remember the reason we moved you here?” He meant the muggle attack at 4 Privet Drive, but Harry didn’t believe that Mr. Giles was a part of Voldemort’s plan. There was no way. “You can’t be this reckless.” Lupin leaned forward intently. “There’s too much –”
“I know!” Harry said, his voice rising. He was the one with a prophesy hanging over him like a sword ready to cut off his head. He was the one who’d grown up with the Dursleys because his parents were dead. He knew damn well what was at stake and what it would cost.
“Harry?” Mr. Giles called from the other room, and Harry glared at Lupin. “Everything all right?” He stood in the kitchen doorway with the same concerned look he had when Harry was upset, and it made Harry angry suddenly that Lupin had just come in and told him that he had the judgment of an idiot.
“Yes. Everything’s fine,” said Lupin.
“No,” Harry contradicted him. “No, it’s really not.” He spun abruptly and slid past Mr. Giles into the kitchen where dinner was going cold. Leaning over the back of his chair, he tried to get a grip on himself before he did something he regretted, but the best he managed was two shaky breaths. He’d been worried about them, worried sick with not knowing what was going on and being in the dark again, all summer, and now he was the one getting lectured for finding someone to talk to who didn’t hate him.
“I apologize,” he heard Lupin say, tired, resigned. “It’s been a difficult summer, you understand. I’m certain you never . . . We worry about him and then to find him here instead of his Aunt and Uncle’s . . . It was a bit of a shock. We just want him safe.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Giles. He still stood between them in the doorway, blocking Lupin from view. “And I’m sure leaving him alone with his relatives was in his best interests as well.” There was a bite in his tone that made Harry look up.
“Yes,” said Lupin, responding in kind. “I know that they –”
“Are borderline abusive?” Mr. Giles interrupted. “Told me he was a criminal?”
“They are the safest place for him,” countered Lupin. “I know you don’t understand, but know that we are looking out for him. We care about him greatly, but we have no choice but to leave him with them.”
“No choice but to leave a grieving teenager with relatives who hate him, no support, and no one to blame but himself. Yes, I see how much you care about his well-being,” said Mr. Giles softly, so softly that it sent a chill down Harry’s spine. The silence that followed was thick. Harry couldn’t see Lupin, only Mr. Giles’s back rigid with tension and anger on his behalf. It was another startling moment and Harry’s hands clenched around the back of the chair reflexively, needing something to hold onto as he took another two deep breaths for another reason entirely. He looked up at the photos on the refrigerator as if he were seeing them for the first time.
“Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring about Harry,” Lupin growled.
“You were not here to pick up the pieces,” said Mr. Giles.
“Stop it,” said Harry, abruptly straightening and joining Mr. Giles in the doorway. The older man stepped out of his way and let him stand between them, both still angry. Both of them right. “This is pointless,” he said. Pointless and on the verge of violence, the way the two of them glared at each other as if looks could kill. “Professor, we can talk in the hall.”
Once the door was closed behind them, Lupin said, “Harry, you can’t think –”
“I know,” said Harry, gently this time. He smiled ruefully. “Blood protection.”
“I would have you with me if I could.”
“I know.” It meant a lot to hear it out loud, a balm to Harry’s nerves that had been rubbed raw by a worry.
“You’ll be with us tomorrow, in any case,” Lupin smiled but it came out forced. “We’re taking you by muggle transportation to Grimmauld Place. We’ll be here at nine. Give you an early escape, eh?
Harry smiled back, some of the tension leaving him. Lupin opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. After an uncomfortable silence he said, “Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful.”
“I will.” They shook hands and Lupin left with another terse twist of his lips, leaving Harry on the landing, alone.
Mr. Giles was reheating dinner on the stove when Harry returned. He didn’t look up when Harry came in and leaned against the door jamb. “It’s not his fault,” he said. “They really don’t have a choice but to leave me with the Dursleys.”
“Then one of them should have stayed with you,” said Mr. Giles without looking up.
“Well, they can’t,” Harry snapped, annoyed because the whole situation was far from ideal but it was what it was and there really wasn’t much the Order could do about it. “Look, it’s complicated.”
“It always is.” Mr. Giles finally looked up and he was angry. His jaw clenched and he threw the spoon he was holding into the sink with a clatter. “You are still fifteen, and you should not have been left alone with those . . . those relatives of yours.”
“I have no choice! None of us do.” Harry said back, his voice only a shade below a yell. “I can’t explain but it’s –” safer, he almost said, “– better this way.”
Mr. Giles stared at him, a hard stare that made Harry want to duck and run, but he wouldn’t this time. “I will never believe that leaving you to deal with your godfather’s death alone was a good choice,” he bit the final word off like an epithet.
“I’m not a child! I don’t need people holding my hand!”
“Being a child has nothing to do with it. I’ve seen grief tear away the sanity of people much older than you. You were in a depression. It is not something that should be borne alone!”
“What do you know about it!?” Harry pushed himself upright. What did Mr. Giles with his happy faces on the refrigerator know about losing people who were murdered? What did he know about having a raving lunatic after him and the only place that was safe was with relatives who hated him?
Mr. Giles was quiet and in the startled second it had taken him to catch his breath he realized he had said all that aloud. Shouted it, wanting an answer that wasn’t his life, an answer that didn’t end in his death.
“I know that you shouldn’t have to do this alone,” said Mr. Giles softly. “I know that you have more choices than you think you do, Harry.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Perhaps not,” Mr. Giles sighed and it was like all the fight and tension left the room with that breath. “But sounds like you are caught in the middle of . . . caught in the middle.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. Caught in the middle didn’t even begin to describe it. “You have no idea,” he said, but something in the way Mr. Giles didn’t look away, the same damn look on his face that kept taking Harry by surprise, he really wished he did. He wished he could tell him about everything. The Wizarding World, Voldemort, his parents, the prophesy. “I . . .” he trailed off, unable to say anything.
“Harry,” Mr. Giles taking a step toward him before stopping and looking away. Looking at the fridge. “Whatever is going on, you must decide for yourself what you are going to do about it. You are not helpless, and if your Professor was anything to go by, you are not alone, as much as you are kept that way.” He held up a hand before Harry could speak, “And yes, I understand it’s complicated. All the more reason for you to make the decisions yourself instead of letting events sweep you off your feet, even if it’s as simple as saying that you choose to fight this raving lunatic of yours.”
The Ministry, the DA, the last four years . . . The thought of not fighting was so foreign that he couldn’t fathom it. “I am fighting,” Harry said, his voice as small as it was when he found out the truth about his parents. “As much as they let me.” He was tired of it all already.
“Then don’t let anyone take that choice away from you,” said Mr. Giles intently, more serious than Harry had ever seen him. “Go in with your eyes open and on your terms.”
“It’s not that easy,” Harry snapped back. Considering what he knew was staring back at him, the thought was terrifying. He was caught between the Order trying to protect him and everything that he did getting someone killed in the process. And in the end? Harry didn’t want to die. He wished people would stop dieing altogether and that Voldemort would just go away and stop ruining his life.
“No,” said Mr. Giles. “No, it’s not easy. And you have to fight to keep your choices yours, even amongst your friends, otherwise you are just a pawn. You can’t let them take that from you. You must take control of your destiny.”
Ultimately, Harry knew, he wouldn’t be the pawn, even if was still the sacrifice. But Harry couldn’t say that, couldn’t say any of what he wanted to because there was no way a muggle, even one like Mr. Giles, would understand that prophesies were real and that they ruled Harry’s life. So instead Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded.
Harry slept fitfully that night, anticipation for tomorrow’s reunion with his friends and the Order keeping him a mess of nerves. He also kept thinking about choices. His own, his friends’, Dumbledore’s. He’d been kept in the dark about so much, for his own protection and innocence, but now that he had lost Sirius, that had to change. He couldn’t lose anyone else.
Up early, Harry packed his trunk before heading over to say goodbye to Mr. Giles. His neighbor offered him breakfast, their last time together, it seemed, would be like the first, over food.
“I got you something,” said Mr. Giles, nodding to the plainly wrapped package by Harry’s elbow. “Happy birthday.”
“You didn’t have to,” Harry protested.
“I wanted to.” Mr. Giles smiled and Harry was stuck by just how lucky he’d ended up this summer to have met him. From the heft of it, it was a book, two in fact, Harry found when he opened it, the second wrapped it yet more paper. “Open that one later,” said Mr. Giles. Curious, Harry nevertheless set it aside and picked up the first book. It was Henry V. “I think you’ll like that one,” said Mr. Giles with a smile, and since he hadn’t steered Harry wrong yet, he didn’t doubt it.
“Thank you,” said Harry. He fingered the binding; it was a nice copy. “Thanks for everything.” He didn’t know if thanks could quite cover what Mr. Giles had done for him this summer. Seeing him, welcoming him, being a friend outside of his crazy life.
Mr. Giles nodded and smiled. “It’s been my pleasure. If you ever need anything . . .”
“I know,” Harry smiled back, the familiar mantra welcome now. He hoped this wasn’t goodbye forever, even though he knew it probably was. It was getting closer to nine. The Order would be here soon to take him back to his life.
By mutual agreement, neither one of them said any more about it. They finished their toast and eggs and Harry helped clean up. At five to nine, Mr. Giles walked him to the door.
“Well, I guess this is it,” said Harry.
“Take care of yourself, Harry,” said Mr. Giles.
“I will.”
Perhaps there was more to say, but they didn’t need to. Harry left and went to get his things just as Lupin arrived on the landing. A few minutes later he was on his way to Grimmauld Place, safe in knowledge that should he need it, he had a place to come back to.
At 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry was welcomed back with open arms and no recriminations. His friends were happy to see him, the Weasleys were happy to see him, the Order was happy to see him. It was a bit much all in all, and almost made him feel even guiltier that everyone here was willing to risk everything for him. It didn’t help that there were reminders of Sirius wherever he looked, evidence of what happened when he screwed up.
So it wasn’t till much later that Harry had a chance to open the second book that Mr. Giles had given him. It was a paperback with a black cover with an ax on the front underneath the title: The Revised Slayer’s Handbook, edited by Andrew Wells. There was an inscription on the first page.
Harry,
Have faith in yourself and your friends. You are not alone, and if you should need anything, call me and you shall have it.
Yours,
Rupert Giles, Head Watcher, International Watcher’s Council
A little bewildered, Harry flipped to the Table of Contents where he found three highlighted chapters, 50 Ways to Contact the Council in an Emergency, Prophesies and What They’re Not, and Why We Fight: Words of Wisdom from the Scoobies.
As he read of a world just as hidden as the Wizarding World, about what Mr. Giles really did, about girls and power and how to get goo out of his clothing, Harry understood that when Mr. Giles had said anything, he meant anything. His friendship had already kept him sane during the long month with the Dursleys, and now he meant to keep Harry alive by whatever means Harry would accept.
Like his friends. Like the Order. He wasn’t in this fight alone. And for the first time, Harry believed it.