Chapter Text
Three weeks! It had been three weeks since he’d been returned to #4 Privet Drive. More importantly, it had been that long since his friends had written more than cursory greetings.
Ron’s letter, only one since the beginning of summer, had rambled on and on about some new prank of the twins, then ended with a comment of something important about to happen but he wasn’t supposed to say anything about it.
Hermione’s was, in a way, even worse. While longer it held even less of real interest. She spent almost an entire page on a breakdown of their summer homework. Then a second page discussing at length the trip to Rome she’d taken with her parents. And then, maddeningly, mentioned, just like Ron had, that she was to be doing something with Dumbledore but she wasn’t allowed to tell him anything about it until they were together.
The newspaper wasn’t any help either. He checked the headlines every day, but nothing about Voldemort was ever said. He had expected that to be big news. Just over a month ago he had been taken from the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, to a graveyard. Peter Pettigrew had used his blood in a ritual to give Voldemort a new body. By a minor miracle, Harry had escaped, but Cedric Diggory, another Champion in the Tournament, had not survived.
“Kill the spare.” Voldemort had ordered Pettigrew. Harry was hearing those words in his dreams, almost every night. Most mornings he was waking up wondering if he was going crazy. And he couldn’t even talk to anyone about it. It wasn’t like the Dursley’s would even listen long enough for him to explain anything. No, if he tried to speak to either Vernon or Petunia they would probably yell at him to do more chores, or some other such prattle. And Dudley would be even worse, if he didn’t just punch Harry, he’d go find his gang and spread Harry’s worries around.
For the fifth time that week, Harry sat down at his small desk and pulled the pamphlet out of the drawer he had stuck it into. He’d found it on the grounds during the final push up to the third task. On one of the rare walks he’d taken by himself just to get away from the pressure for a bit. He guessed it must have been dropped by one of the Durmstrang or Beaux Batons students, as it was all about foriegn schools of magic. It was an odd thought he’d had, ever since his first visit to Diagon Alley.
When Hagrid showed up and told him he was a wizard, he had felt wonderful. Like the whole world had opened to him, for the first time in his life, he felt like he could do something. Then they had entered the Leaky Cauldron, and suddenly it didn’t feel so wonderful anymore. He had been crowded, surrounded on all sides, by large pressing bodies. Everyone wanted to touch him, to say something to him. It was like being back in his cupboard, with Dudley’s gang in there with him. He couldn’t get away, and they wouldn’t listen to his pleas, even if he’d had the nerve to make any.
The Alley itself was only slightly better. All the noise and unusual sights were distracting. Which allowed him to largely ignore the many people who stopped to stare at him as he walked by. But he was pretty sure it was only the combination of Hagrid and people wanting to finish their errands that prevented them from swarming him the way those in the pub had done.
Then there was the train. Which no one had told him how to find, until the last moment. At first, he’d been tempted to blame Hagrid. But the giant man wasn’t the only one who could have told him. Sure he was the only person who had spent time with Harry, but the letter from the school could easily have had that tidbit in it. It could have been on the ticket itself. Or they could even have had someone at the station keeping an eye out for new students who didn’t know. So, it wasn’t just Hagrid who hadn’t thought to tell him, it was everyone.
Then on the train, he’d met several people, but only one who hadn’t been interested in him because he was the Boy Who Lived. And Neville hadn’t seemed to be interested in anything beyond finding his toad. Ron had asked about the scar and what he remembered before anything else. Hermione had commented that she’d read all about him. And then Draco had shown up, clearly only interested in being friendly with the famous boy.
At first he had thought Draco was the worst. But then he’d had a nightmare. He’d dreamt he was back in his cupboard and Hogwarts had been nothing but a cruel joke. When he woke up, he remembered what Hermione had said about reading about him in several books. In a cold sweat he had wondered if everyone knew about the cupboard, his letter had been addressed there after all. Maybe they knew everything. Certainly people like Malfoy seemed to think he deserved it, maybe Ron did too.
It hadn’t gotten much better. He’d tried in the first couple of weeks to make more friends, but no one seemed interested in getting to know Harry. Instead they all wanted to know the Boy Who Lived, the famous scar. A couple of people he’d tried to start a conversation with had even asked for an autograph.
Quidditch had the best thing about Hogwarts, but even that lost appeal when someone tried to kill him during a match. Hermione had been convinced that it was Snape. Harry had agreed of course, at first. Snape had certainly been vocal about how much he disliked Harry. And the worst of that was his depiction of Harry’s father. Everyone else said that James was a good man, and a loving father. But that was it, no details, no real information, just nice words. Snape, talked about how James had bullied people, strutted about like he owned everything, been proud and arrogant. The man Snape described was Draco Malfoy, just with a different name, and in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin.
And for all Harry knew, he could be right. Draco seemed to be disliked only by those kids who had grown up around muggles, and of course Ron. But Fred, Ron’s older brother, had explained one evening that the Weasley’s and the Malfoy’s had been at each other's throats for generations. Something about an unpaid bet. But they weren’t sure which family had failed to pay.
So if Malfoy was well liked by the teachers, and he must be given that he never got in trouble for the things he said and did, then maybe James really was just like him. If that was considered good behavior it would make sense. Not that Harry could mimic it. Even if he knew how, he had too much of that kind of treatment from the Dursely’s to ever want to treat anyone else that way.
Finally, there was the stone. Proof that the wizarding world wasn’t any better than the muggle one. In a sane world, the stone would have been put somewhere that was actually safe, where it would actually have been protected. Sure, he had thought the defenses rather sound in his first year. But he’d had time to think about them since. He, Ron, and Hermione had gotten past them with little difficulty. Even counting Ron being injured by the chess set. And he had found Quirrell at the end, so clearly he had made it past as well. And he’d done so without killing either Fluffy or the troll. He could probably have done it much sooner if he hadn’t been trying to leave everything intact. So, the stone was never actually safe. And Dumbledore had as much as confirmed that it had never been intended to be safe, that the whole thing had been a set-up. A trap to lure two people into confrontation, himself, and Voldemort.
And there it was. Dumbledore had stated, almost directly, that he expected Harry to handle Voldemort. A Seventy year old wizard who had already outsmarted death at least once. With years of experience and training, unknown knowledge of forgotten, and dangerous magics. And Harry was expected to stop him with no more than half an education.
He called it half an education because he knew from looking through Dudley’s school books that he was missing a good deal of subjects. Admittedly, all muggle subjects, but still. Bins couldn’t teach a mouse to eat cheese. Astronomy was practically useless, unless you were doing extremely sensitive research, which they wouldn’t get into for years yet. Potions could be useful, but only if you study it out of class, because Snape didn’t teach at all. He just bullied and berated everyone. In fact, there were only two classes that seemed to have any real value.
Transfiguration and Charms. Mcgonagall and Flitwick, were both excellent teachers. Defense was a joke, even when they had a competent teacher, it was only for one year, and he had been away for part of every month. And Herbology, while interesting sometimes, was basically gardening. Which Harry was already familiar with, thanks to Petunia. Every class reminded him of hours spent bent over in Petunia’s rose bushes, trying to make them look good enough to win awards, and never getting so much as a thank you for his efforts.
No maths, no chemistry, no sciences at all. Nothing on the wizarding world, like what traditions the purebloods keep complaining about the muggle raised ignoring. Not even other languages, which he now knew were numerous. If every magical species had their own language. Did the goblins? No wonder they don’t like wizards, if they aren’t even respected enough to have kids be told they have a separate language, let alone a chance to learn it. And the way centaurs have been treated, he’d had to look that up. Apparently the centaurs only ever had one war with wizards, and it was called a draw at the end, they signed a treaty that gave them living space in the forest, and that was the end of it. As long as they continue to live in areas that the wizards don’t actually care about, they’re left alone.
Second year was, in a way, both better and worse than the first year. No possessed teacher, just a truly incompetent one. But the basilisk made up for it. Sure at the time he had thought it was just luck that had allowed them to figure it out and solve the problem. That the only reason the teachers hadn’t done it was because they were missing information. Which yes, Harry was partly responsible for, after all, he hadn’t told Dumbledore about the voice he had been hearing inside the walls.
Except, Dumbledore had been a teacher the last time the Chamber had been opened. He had known, or at least suspected that it had been Riddle. But he had allowed Hagrid to be blamed and expelled anyway. And that had been fifty years ago. Fifty years he’d had to work things out. Talk to Myrtle. And he was supposed to be the smartest, most capable wizard in the world, or at least in Britain. If it took three twelve year olds eight months to figure it out, what was Dumbledore’s excuse for having failed for fifty years?
Short answer, in Harry’s opinion. He knew, he knew, and he did nothing. He left it to Harry to figure out and solve the problem, again. He even allowed Hagrid to be blamed again, and sent off to prison. Allowed himself to be removed from the school, leaving nothing more than cryptic advice.
He probably could have solved it himself in the first week after Mrs. Norris was attacked, but he left it for Harry to deal with. There was a pattern there that Harry didn’t like. More evidence even that not only did Dumbledore know about how the Dursleys treated him, but that he most likely approved.
Third year just confirmed that Dumbledore wasn’t doing anything useful, and added to the evidence against the rest of the world.
Sirius broke out of Azkaban. At the time, no one knew how, not even those who had known him. It made Harry want to pull his hair out thinking about it. Now that he knew, it seemed so obvious, and as glad as he was to have a godfather, he had to wonder about the Ministry. It was well known that the animagus transformation was possible. And it had to be known that some people didn’t register despite the law, if it weren’t, there wouldn’t be penalties for not registering. Yet nothing was done to prevent it in the prison. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to set up spells to prevent someone from changing shape while inside the prison. Or at least to detect when they did.
But no, that would make sense apparently. And then, rather than have actual people come to guard the school, they sent dark creatures that destroy lives to not only wander around the edge of the school grounds, but to invade the train. To assault the students at a quidditch match, and later to attack students and teachers alike after they learned that Sirius was innocent.
Completely brainless. And on top of that, Sirius had been sent to Azkaban without even a trial. Blamed for crimes that had been committed by Pettigrew.
It would have been simple to learn the truth, just a short questioning with the truth potion Snape had taunted him with. But that would have made sense, would have seen justice met. The Ministry couldn’t have that. Or maybe, it was Dumbledore who couldn’t have it.
Harry had seen some of the death eater trials in Dumbledore’s pensieve last year. He claimed that he had no power to overrule the Minister for Magic, but as Chief Warlock, he was in charge of scheduling trials. Which meant he had to have known that Sirius hadn’t gotten one. And Dumbledore had been fair during the trials of Ludo Bagman, Karkaroff, even the Lestrange’s and Crouch Junior. Yet he hadn’t even tried to get Sirius a trial.
That was very nearly the last straw for Harry as far as Dumbledore was concerned. The man claimed to be on Harry’s side, said he was looking out for Harry’s best interest. Yet he constantly sent Harry back to a place where he knew Harry was unhappy, unloved, unwanted. He said so himself, that he had known he was condemning Harry to ten dark and lonely years at the Dursleys.
But then came fourth year, the one which had just ended a few short weeks ago. The tournament.
Dumbledore again hired someone who was faking their identity and intentions. Moody was supposedly one of Dumbledore’s oldest friends, yet somehow he failed to see anything off in the man's behaviour. And when Harry’s name came out of the Goblet, Dumbledore did nothing about it. Oh, he claimed there was nothing that could be done. But if it took a powerful spell to force the Goblet to spit out Harry’s name, then another powerful spell could have reversed it. And supposedly there was no one more powerful than Dumbledore. But no, that would make sense, that would keep Harry safe. And Dumbledore had not once ever tried to keep Harry safe.
So Harry had been forced to compete, and rather than set challenges which were tough but non-life threatening, the administrators of the tournament had chosen tasks which were likely to kill the Champions even if they won.
A dragon, and not just any dragon, no, the most vicious, violent kind of dragon. Nesting mothers, who were extremely protective of their eggs. And they had to steal one of those eggs. Seriously, government approved, spectated poaching. As a task for teenagers.
Then, because endangering the lives of the Champions wasn’t enough, they put people the Champions cared about at the bottom of the lake. Harry and the other Champions were forced to swim, which Harry had no experience with, to the merfolk village and rescue their hostages. If it hadn’t been for Dobby, Ron would have died, because Harry wouldn’t have been able to get to him. And not just Ron, but Gabrielle as well. Sure, Dumbledore claimed that they would have been safe, that they would have been brought back up at the end of the task even if the Champions had been unable to rescue them. But Harry trusted that claim as much as he trusted a dementor to curl up and purr like a kitten.
The third task in comparison wasn’t too horrible. Nasty creatures, but none quite as dangerous as the dragon. Traps, though again, nothing quite as deadly as a near impossible swim in the lake. And a riddle. Actually if it hadn’t been for Crouch Junior imperiousing Krum, and using the cup as a portkey, it wouldn’t have been half bad. For that matter, if Crouch hadn’t been clearing the way for Harry, Cedric might have actually won.
Unfortunately, Crouch did screw with things. Adn Harry was sent to the graveyard, along with Cedric. Cedric died, and Voldemort returned, and Harry escaped by pure luck.
Of course, the Minister refused to accept the truth. And Harry was sent back here to Privet Drive again. Back to endless days of chores and no one to talk to. And now, even his friends were keeping him in the dark. Refusing to tell him important things.
While he was ruminating on the last few years, staring unseeingly at the pamphlet, there came a rapping at the window. Looking up, he saw pigwidgeon, Ron’s owl, sitting on the sill, tapping at the glass. A large envelope tied to his leg.
Smiling, maybe this letter would have some real info for him, Harry rushed over to let the excitable little scops owl in. Pig flew inside in a rush and circled the room twice before landing on the desk and hopping from one leg to the other while trying to hold out the one with the letter attached to it. Hedwig watched this from her perch with a doleful eye.
“Hold still Pig. I can’t get the letter off with you hopping around like that.” Harry said after his third attempt to snatch hold of the bird.
Looking pitiful, Pigwidgeon held still long enough for Harry to remove the letter, then fluttered over to perch next to Hedwig and snatch some food and water for himself. Hedwig barked at the little annoyance in agitation but shuffled to one side to give him room.
“Don’t worry girl, he won’t stay long. You know he prefers to be moving whenever possible.” Harry reassured his owl before settling at the desk to read this latest missive.
Harry,
Ron and I were pleased to hear from you, and hope that you are doing well. We have ever so much to tell you, but we’ve been warned against saying anything in a letter. So we are waiting until we see you again. Dumbledore says that he will allow you to join us in a few weeks, so we shouldn’t have to wait long.
I hope you aren’t brooding too much. I know it must have been horrible, what happened. But it’s important that you keep your head up and try not to let it bother you too much.
Hermione
Wham. The sound bounced around the small room as Harry slammed the letter down on the desk. So, they were together. And they were talking to Dumbledore. After everything, they were putting loyalty to Dumbledore above their friendship with Harry. And Dumbledore would “allow” him to leave the Dursleys in a few weeks. As if the man had the right to decide what Harry did during the summers. A few years ago he had hoped that maybe the headmaster would be willing to help him get away from the animals he was forced to call his Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin. But that was before the headmaster had revealed that he had known of how Harry was treated. Before the decrepit old man had confirmed that he would cheerily send Harry back to hell.
Harry wasn’t sure why the old man thought this was the best place for Harry. But he wasn’t going to put up with it any more. If no one else was going to help him, it was time for him to help himself.
While he, Ron, and Hermione had been looking up spells for him to use in the tournament, he had several times wandered off to find some escape from the pressure. One of those times, out of a loss for anywhere else to hide from the wandering crowds intent on asking for autographs, or just wanting to be near the Boy Who Lived to become a Champion, he had wandered into Myrtle’s bathroom, and down to the Chamber of Secrets.
The place had been just as cold and dark as he remembered, and the corpse of the Basilisk had begun to stink after two years of laying there untouched. But a search of the Chamber had revealed some interesting reading material. Most of it was in languages Harry couldn’t make out, and about half of what he could understand was stuff he wasn’t at all interested in. Like how to raise inferi, or breed a basilisk, and even a small book that was dedicated to methods of controlling the minds of others. But there were a few that weren’t so nasty. Some of the books were even entirely on pranks, spells that seemed to have been invented by two people working together as there were two sets of handwriting on the pages.
One of these books was a personal journal, written by Salazar Slytherin himself, and Harry had taken to reading it, as the first page talked about the cousin Salazar had grown up with, and how he had been beaten often by said cousin for his magic.
It seemed that Harry had something in common with one of the founders, and the thought had intrigued him so much that he had read the book clear through in one sitting. It detailed Salazar’s early struggles in life, and why he had ultimately developed the view of muggles that he had held for the rest of his life. Though what was of greatest interest to Harry, what had him pulling out his notebook and pen, writing down every detail, was the description of how Salazar had escaped from his “family” when he was Harry’s age.
Nodding to himself, Harry stood and shooed Pigwidgeon out the window. Then he bent to his trunk and pulled out his potions kit. He had some brewing to do.