Chapter 33- Dream time.

Saturday, July 15, 1995

Harry rubbed his eyes as he sat as his desk trying to finish the correspondence he'd started before dinner. His "sample" letter had been most helpful, although he tried to refrain from copying it word-for-word and sending it to everyone.

His trip back to the Leaky Cauldron from Janet's house had been largely uneventful, if you didn't count his being openly propositioned about a block away from his destination. Harry snickered a little as he finished up Hermione's letter, deciding he probably shouldn't share that bit of news. It would be difficult to explain why he'd been out in London after dark, and his friends probably wouldn't believe it, anyway.

Once Harry had gotten back to the Leaky Cauldron, he had quietly re-entered the pub through the London door. It had been left slightly ajar again, so he had gently pushed it open without disturbing the bells. Absently, he had noted that the dining room was empty. A glance at the clock confirmed that Tom had stopped serving dinner while he was gone. All the customers were in the bar area now.

Harry had headed for the kitchen, staying close to the wall as was his habit, but Tom had evidently been watching for him. The Gryffindor had intended to retrieve his apron and start tidying up for the night, but his boss intercepted him.

"Don't bother."

The innkeeper's voice had startled Harry, making him freeze in the act of reaching for the garment. The for a comic-horrible moment boy wondered if he was being sacked, but the other wizard didn't seem angry.

"There isn't a lot left to do," Tom had continued with a shrug. "You did a good job of keeping the floor swept and tables cleared this evening, and since you came down early, you've put in your required hours. Besides, there are about half a dozen people in the bar that saw you leave with the Wrights, and think you're gone for the night. It would seem odd if you popped up again."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"There's no harm done. I should probably get back to the bar, but there are a few things I need to talk to you about. It's nothing horrible," Tom quickly assured, when Harry looked up sharply. "Would you mind terribly coming down a little early tomorrow morning?"

"Not at all," the younger wizard had said, and to his own surprise, he'd really meant it. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what Tom wanted to discuss, and found he couldn't begrudge the man a few answers. The old innkeeper had been more than patient with him.

Putting down his quill, the boy stretched his fingers briefly before reaching for a biscuit. Tom had seemed to feel bad about sending Harry to his room, so he'd given him some ginger snaps, and some milk in a glass charmed to stay cold before chivvying him up the stairs.

Not really in the mood to do homework, Harry had decided to try and finish his letters, then maybe poke through the box from Mrs. Figg's house some more. Now he was beginning to wonder if he was going to be able to stay awake long enough to do either. It was embarrassingly early to be so tired-if he was at the Burrow he'd be teased unmercifully- but in all fairness, it had been a rather busy day. It was probably safe to say that he'd exceeded the recommended daily allowance of shocks: Fawkes, Dumbledore's package, the box from Mrs. Figg's house, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Reed, Mrs. Wright and her girls...not to mention all the unpacking and lifting and running and hauling he'd done. No wonder his body was craving sleep! He steretched, trying to muster some energy, but nothing seemed to be working. He had just about decided to give up and go to bed, when a familiar prickle on his forehead made him pause. Uh-oh!

Harry grimaced, and rubbed distractedly at his scar. On second thought, now wouldn't be the best time to drop off. It was probably just as well that Tom had sent him to his room as well. After the last couple of weeks he'd learned to recognize when his link with Voldemort was becoming active, and now was one of those times.

So far, Harry had been lucky. He knew from recent experience that his lightning-shaped scar was capable of inflicting blinding pain when the circumstances were right. Having experienced both, Harry would have difficulty deciding which was worse-scar pain, or having the Cruciatus Curse cast on him. Fortunately, he hadn't had to cope with either since the night of the Third Task. "Eavesdropping" on his arch enemy just made his scar burn annoyingly on his forehead. The intensity varied with Voldemort's mood, of course, but so far it hadn't been anything he couldn't handle. At best it was barely noticeable, at worst it was roughly comparable to a bad sinus or tension headache.

One thing Harry had noticed since he'd started paying attention, was the symptoms usually came on gradually, almost as if his link with Voldemort needed to "warm up" before it could function properly. Back when he'd been working nights, it hadn't been as much of an issue, but he was certainly grateful for the delay now. It allowed him time to tactfully disengage if he was speaking to someone, and get to some out-of-the-way place where he could ride out the worst of it, and jot down anything he managed to learn in relative privacy.

Speaking of which... Harry reached for his notebook, and wrote down the date, time, and what he could perceive of Voldemort's emotional state as he felt the link snap taut and begin to hum with energy. He had briefly considered writing directly on one of Dumbledore's charmed papers to save time, but quickly discarded the idea. His notes were usually too rambling and disjointed to be understood by anyone besides himself. He'd just waste a piece of the enchanted parchment, and end up recopying it anyway.

Pushing thoughts of parchment out of his head, the boy refocused on Voldemort. The dark wizard was practically licking his chops in anticipation as he spoke to someone. Harry was aware of the voices, but the words were still indistinct.

Voldemort pleased could be worse than Voldemort angry, so the boy stilled, closing his eyes and frowning in concentration as he tried desperately to "hear" or whatever it was he did. He could make out the words now, but they faded in and out. It was like listening to a radio station that wasn't tuned in properly.

"Time...Wormtail. Sev-sss...activ...portkey," Voldemort was saying. A second later, Harry made out part of Peter's stuttering affirmative. Ah. Snape must have finished his memory potion, then. No wonder Voldemort was so excited. If all went well, he'd soon have whatever information he'd been waiting for, Harry realized, feeling his pulse quicken slightly. He rested his elbows on the desk, and propped his head on clenched fists, willing himself to be able to hear.

"Shall I prepare the drawing room for Snape's arrival?"

Harry couldn't hold back a small gasp of shock. That was the clearest his connection had ever been. It was like Pettigrew was in the room with him. The teen sat still for a time, thinking...feeling.

Strangely he found himself recalling Hermione, and the way she coached Ron and himself when they were stuck on an assignment. Hermione sometimes just gave them the answers, but those treasured occasions were rare. It was far more common for her to ask a series of rapid-fire questions, designed to get their brains back on track. What's happening? he wondered frantically. What's different this time? Is it a fluke? Am I controlling it? Can I do it again?

Voldemort wasn't answering immediately, so Harry took advantage of the few seconds he had to assess himself. He was doing something, that much was clear. He had broken into a light sweat, and exhaustion was settling on him like a lead cape. Before, he'd been tired, and had been considering going to bed early. Now all he felt capable of managing was leaning forward and laying his head down on the desk. Getting up was not an option. His scar, which had only been slightly painful a few minutes ago was burning much more intensely.

Come to think of it, Harry realized with the small part of his brain that was still capable of logic, it always seemed to hurt the most when the connection was clearest.

Was that a clue, then? It was so hard to think! Generally it only...it only hurt like that when Voldemort was in a screaming, frothing rage, or else nearby. Groggily, Harry tried to follow that line of reasoning, knowing instinctively that he was very close to a breakthrough.

Or a breakdown.

Harry snorted in spite of his discomfort, and forced himself back on track. In other words, it only hurt like this when the bond was functioning at maximum efficiency...

Max...? Wait. Yes! Harry's eyes flew open when he finally realized what he must be doing. Somehow, he had increased the flow of...what? Magic? Energy? Whatever. He was making the bond stronger, or else siphoning energy off Voldemort and drawing it down their link and into himself.

Abruptly, Harry recalled something Dumbledore had told him last term. He'd been in the headmaster's office after having the dream in Divination that had provided the fodder for Rita Skeeter's "Disturbed and Dangerous" article. He had asked Professor Dumbledore if he knew why his scar was hurting. Dumbledore's reply seemed to re-enforce his own suspicions.

* It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.

It made a twisted sort of sense, actually. In the past, Harry hadn't ever tried to reach out when the link became active. It was far more natural to fight and resist, and try to block or dislodge the intruder, especially when it felt like his head was going to split in two.

In the past, he'd had to wait until the dark wizard was expending enough energy to fully fuel the bond himself!

Speaking of whom...Lord Voldemort was finally responding to Peter's timid requests for instructions. Harry scribbled a few lines in his notepad, then turned his attention to what the dark wizard was saying.

"Severus is not coming here. We will be meeting him at an alternate location," Voldemort said dismissively. "Do try to relax, Wormtail. His portkey is not taking the most direct route to its destination. We have some time yet."

Harry gulped, and felt an unaccustomed twinge of sympathy for the snarky potions professor. For whatever reason, it was clear Snape wasn't fond of portkey travel. It was also clear that Voldemort knew this, and was prolonging the trip, just because he could.

Hold on. 'We have time? Try to relax?' Who is this and what's he done with Lord Voldemort? Harry was just thinking that his enemy's kindness towards Pettigrew seemed wildly out of character, when Voldemort spoke again.

"The memory potion won't be as effective if you're tense," he commented. There was a pause, during which Harry perceived that the dark lord bent until he was practically nose-to-nose with the shorter man, before growling warningly, "And you know how much I detest delays."

Ah. Well I guess that explains that, Harry thought fuzzily, grimacing as his scar gave a particularly nasty throb. His head felt impossibly heavy, and he found he could barely keep his eyes open. Surely it couldn't hurt to rest just for a second, he thought wearily, as he folded his arms on his desktop and laid his head on them. He'd rest his eyes just for a second, then see if he could figure out how he managed to hear so clearly...

_______

"So what's this about Harry having a wicked right hook?" Arabella asked mischievously, as she and her guests slowly ate their Treacle Pudding.

Sirius and Remus exchanged an ironic look, and chuckled amongst themselves, before Sirius began telling the story of how Harry and Hermione and gone after Ron Weasley when Sirius had dragged him down the passageway under the Whomping Willow.

"I have to admit I was surprised he attacked me like that," Sirius said thoughtfully, then grimaced. "I, you might say, reacted poorly."

"That's a little harsh, isn't it Paddy? Just because you nearly hexed his nose off, then tried to strangle him..."

Black glared at Lupin, his eyes clearly stating 'see-if-I-ever-tell-you-anything-again.' "Look, I wasn't thinking clearly just then. Fortunately, Harry's friends, Ron and Hermione intervened before any real harm was done." Arabella sat dumbstruck, while the Marauder continued, telling of the tussle that followed.

"I had a few bad minutes when Harry was standing over me with his wand," Sirius admitted. "I honestly thought he was angry enough to kill me...or try to at any rate. Luckily, the professor here, didn't include the Killing Curse as part of his Third Year curriculum. And anyway, in the end he couldn't do it. About that time is when the calvery showed up," he grinned, indicating Lupin again.

Taking his cue, Remus picked up the tale.

By the time they finished Arabella's eyes were round, and her mouth was hanging slightly open. "He mastered the Patronus Charm at thirteen?" she asked weakly, "and it was the shape of his father's Animagus form?"

"Yes," Remus said speculatively, rubbing his chin. "He was an exceptional student, in my class at least. Snape usually had something uncomplimentary to say about him at staff meetings, but no one else ever seemed to have trouble with him."

Sirius snorted and rolled his eyes. "No surprises there, Moony," he said, referring to the potions professor.

Remus shrugged. "No, that wasn't unexpected," he agreed, "Harry being James' son and all, but sometimes..." he trailed off thoughtfully. "Sometimes he didn't make any sense."

"Harry or Severus?" Arabella grinned.

"Harry. I don't think even Albus understands Snape," Lupin said, rolling his eyes and returning her smile. "For example, Harry learned the Patronus Charm, very advanced magic, in his third year. He threw off the Imperius Curse in DADA class before Christmas, and again just two weeks ago. That's almost unheard of. All you have to do is talk to the kid for five minutes, and you know he's smart. I daresay he has above average if not exceptional magical talent, and he's the best damn flier I've ever seen."

"So?" Sirius prompted, making impatient 'and-your-point-would-be' gestures.

"So how come Flitwick mentioned that he initially had trouble with the Summoning Charm when we were talking about the First Task yesterday? Compared to the others, that's kid stuff. Harry should have been able to do that without breaking a sweat."

"He was having a hard time then," Sirius said, removing a cat from his lap while recalling Harry's letter that detailed his actions during the First Task. He was afraid of being toasted alive by an overgrown lizard, and Ron was still being a git."

"Okay, that might be a bad example," Remus conceded. "But that isn't an isolated incident. Harry's school record is full of inconsistencies like that. Sometimes things stop him dead in his tracks, like he has a mental block or something. The thing is, a lot of them are relatively simple-things I would think he could do even if he was distracted, or his heart wasn't in it."

"That's a tough call to make, Remus," Sirius challenged, unconvinced. "Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. Harry may just have trouble with a few things you find easy."

"Maybe," the werewolf said, not sounding completely convinced. "But I'd still like to have a little chat with him when we get him back."

"I think we'll all be queuing up for that privilege," Black said grimly, looking none too pleased. He dislodged another cat. "Arabella, can't you do something with these blasted felines?"

"Mrs. Figg's lips twitched in amusement. "I'm afraid not, Sirius. They like you, for some unknown reason."

The ex-convict growled in a very dog-like fashion before abruptly transforming, and scattering about a half dozen cats by barking loudly.

Remus and Belle stared for a few seconds, each not believing that Black had just done what he did, then Remus broke into peals of helpless laughter while Arabella blustered indignantly. Padfoot, the bearlike black dog, now sat on the couch where Sirius had been, his tongue lolling out in a canine grin.

"Sirius, really!" Mrs. Figg scolded, peeking into the kitchen, where most of the cats had fled. "Did you have to terrorize the poor things?" Expecting Sirius to have changed back to his human form, she was slightly surprised when she turned and found Black still in his dog form. "Sirius?" she questioned hesitantly. The dog's entire stance had changed. His mouth was closed, his ears were pricked up, and his posture tense and alert.

Remus, likewise, noticed Padfoot's sudden change in demeanor. Sobering, he put a hand on the large dog's shoulder. "Paddy?" he queried, unconsciously sniffing the air. Padfoot's scent was clearest, of course. Moony could almost taste his sudden agitation. Beyond that, he wasn't sure what the problem was. The predominant smells in Mrs. Figg's house were cabbage and cats.

Without warning, Padfoot suddenly jumped off the couch and bounded towards the front door. Arabella and Lupin watched as he sniffed the doorknob, then dropped his head to the floor, and sniffed his way from the entryway, to the kitchen, and back to the living room. Stopping a moment he transformed back. "Harry was here...recently," he snapped curtly, before transforming back, and bounding down the hall.

Remus and Arabella glanced at each other in consternation. "When, Sirius?" Mrs. Figg demanded as Black traced Harry's path back up the hall from the bathroom to the kitchen, and back into the living room. The Animagus ignored her, intent upon his task. He stopped in front of a small table, and pawed at something beneath it. He growled in frustration, then stopped short and shook his head. Shifting easily back into his human form, he groped under the table and retrieved the note Harry had left for Arabella.

"Here," he said, thrusting the envelope into her hands. "The cats must have knocked it off."

Arabella spared a quick glance at the front of the envelope before ripping it open and removing the note. Remus and Sirius moved so that they could read over her shoulders.

Dear Mrs. Figg,

I don't suppose you were expecting to hear from me. Sorry to have missed you. I popped 'round unannounced when I found out my relatives put their house up for sale.

You're probably wondering what I was doing in here, you being away and all. I can't exactly explain it. The door seemed to know me, and let me in, if that makes any sense.

This sounds really stupid, but the main reason I'm writing, is there's a box in your living room with my name on it, that...well, it wants to come with me. I tried to refuse, but it just won't take no for an answer. I won't open it for a while just in case I made a mistake. If there's a problem, please owl me, and I'll see about getting it back to you.

Yours Sincerely,

Harry Potter

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