Chapter 59- Coming around ( part 2).

"NO! STOP!"

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard and bathed in sweat. Reflexively he felt his scar, sighing in relief when there was nary a prickle. "Nightmare," he muttered, trying to reassure himself. "Just a nightmare. Nothing more."

Still shaking a little in reaction, Harry closed his eyes and took a couple of steadying breaths. It had been the same story since his talk with Tom. The nightmares, which had subsided somewhat over the past couple of weeks, were back with a vengeance. Even better, instead of merely replaying events as they'd occurred-which was quite bad enough, thanks-his warped subconscious was having a grand time weaving fact and fantasy together into a horrifying new collection of scenarios. Generally he woke from these dreams with shocking suddenness, and had to spend a few moments waiting for his galloping pulse to normalize and his queasy stomach to settle before getting up.

Today, unfortunately, was no exception. Harry blotted his face with the hem of his T-shirt, then squinted blearily at the clock. There was still had a little time before he had to get up, so he eased back onto his pillows with a soft groan and concentrated on lying as still as possible. He supposed he should be grateful that this hadn't been a vision instead of just a nightmare. The way he was currently feeling, if he'd experienced true scar pain instead of just a memory of it, he'd probably be running for the loo instead of merely nauseated.

The bed shifted slightly as Patches jumped up with a soft plop. Harry gave the cat a half smile in response to her interrogative mew, and watched warily as she came toward him, wading though his disheveled covers. More often than not when he was laying on his back like this, she'd walk up his leg and plop down on his belly. Unsure about the wisdom of that activity he steeled himself, waiting for the sensation of little cat feet digging into his abdomen, but Patches surprised him. She rubbed her head against his cheek, then flumped down in the space between his arm and side, resting her head on his shoulder and purring comfortingly.

Smiling a bit more believably now, Harry reached over and scratched the cat behind the ears, wondering idly how she knew his stomach was bothering him. She and Hedwig always seemed to sense when he was upset in any way, and the two of them usually took it upon themselves to distract him with demands for attention or simply be with him until he calmed or his discomfort passed. Grateful for the company since this dream had been particularly bad, Harry glanced curiously toward the window perch that Hedwig usually favored, but the snowy owl was not there.

Grimacing, Harry swallowed with some difficulty and gingerly put his fingers on his throat. For the last couple of days, he'd been a rather unwilling resident in the land of "Not Quite Right." He hesitated to call himself "ill" because his symptoms were actually quite vague, and certainly not enough to disable him. Most of his complaints could easily be blamed on nerves, come to think of it, and heaven knew he had enough to be nervous about. It was probably just a stress reaction, or maybe an after effect from his scar. Besides wondering what Tom, and to a lesser degree, Janet, were going to say to him, Harry was actively dreading the inevitable confrontation with Sirius, Professor Dumbledore and the others. On top of that, Voldemort had been stirred up for the last day or so. Harry had tried to determine the cause, pushing the link as much as he dared, but the dark wizard had neatly (if unwittingly) thwarted his attempts to eavesdrop by not discussing the cause of his agitation with anyone. He didn't even give orders aloud.

Recalling his efforts made Harry growl in frustration. He'd forwarded what little he'd been able to learn to Dumbledore but he hadn't had what one might call staggering success. Well, maybe the 'staggering' part is right, Harry mused wryly as he continued to stroke Patches' soft fur. Keeping tabs on his enemy this way was truly a mixed bag. Any information he managed to learn was good of course, but at best he exhausted himself, and at worst-when he overdid it or when Voldemort managed to fully activate the link-the pain in his head was truly indescribable.

In light of all that, the stomach thing was easy to dismiss as an inconvenience, and until the other shoe dropped with Sirius, and to a lesser degree with Tom and Janet, Harry didn't see things improving much. Distracted for a second Harry frowned curiously. He hadn't seen the Wrights since they left Sunday. He supposed they might have just gotten busy, but it wasn't like Janet to say she'd do something and not follow through. On the other hand, since the Leaky Cauldron didn't have a telephone, they really didn't have a good way to get in touch if something did come up unexpectedly.

"Maybe I should drop by...take them some pumpkin juice," he said to Patches, then winced at the roughness of his voice. Frowning, Harry touched his neck again. The discomfort in his throat, on the other hand, couldn't be explained as easily. As a rule, he wasn't bothered overmuch with illnesses. A good long sleep was usually enough to banish most bugs. On very rare occasions he'd get a stubborn one that would hang around for a day or two, but that was about the extent of it. This time, however, the old "ignore it an it'll go away" tactic he usually favored was failing dismally and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

Deciding a drink might help, Harry gently reclaimed his arm from Patches and rose, heading to the wardrobe for a change of clothes before beginning his morning routine. A familiar hoot made him look up and smile, watching as Hedwig swooped through the open window and glided over to perch on the wardrobe door. Before he could even say 'good morning,' she settled one-footed on the door, flapping her wings and screeching animatedly. "What? What is it?" he questioned, noticing that she had something clenched in her right talon. "Is that for me?" he asked in confusion. Hedwig had never acted this way before. Normally when she brought him a "gift" she would unceremoniously drop it on the desk or in his hand and go about her business. Frowning in confusion, he reached out, hoping fervently that it wasn't another gutted rat. His stomach, while better, was still a little iffy.

It wasn't.

Actually, it was worse.

"Pig!" Harry exclaimed in dismay as Hedwig deposited the tiny owl and the letter he carried into his waiting hands. Ron's owl was alarmingly limp and gasping distressingly. At first Harry feared the smaller bird was injured and considered making a dash to Eeylop's Owl Emporium to see if anyone was about. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that Pig seemed to be more exhausted than hurt.

"Easy there, mate," he soothed, untying the letter, and stroking the distressed creature until the small owl got his breath back. "How about some water, hmm?" he suggested, walking Pig over to Hedwig's cage. When the little bird was refreshed and resting comfortably, he turned his attention to Hedwig, who was watching the procedure from her perch on his shoulder. "He'll be okay, thanks to you, clever girl. He just needs a little rest," he said reassuringly, petting her and earning an affectionate ear-nip in return.

Frowning, Harry turned his attention to the letter. "I wonder what happened," he mused, absently weighing the envelope in his hand while Hedwig fluttered off to her perch by the window. The Burrow wasn't that far away, and this letter wasn't exceptionally heavy. Why was Pig in such a state? Shrugging, Harry ripped open the letter, it was from Ron and Hermione.

July 23, 1995

Dear Harry, began Ron's familiar scrawl.

Just so you know, this is the second letter I've written to you in two days. Hopefully Pig will be able to deliver this one. I sent you another with Errol yesterday, but the feathery git must have gotten lost or something because he brought it back here undelivered.

Actually that's a good thing, the letter continued in Hermione's much neater handwriting. It really was a dreadful letter, Ron. You should have known better than to send something like that in the post! Hi, Harry, it's Hermione.

I think he probably worked that out for himself, Ron's quill strokes seemed to scoff, making Harry grin as he imagined the little tug of war that was obviously going on. He'd actually come very close to running after them this past Sunday. After Tom left, he'd curled up on the bed in a miserable ball, burying his face in the pillow and weighing his options until his brain was whirling like a squirrel in a cage. In the end he'd nodded off and the decision had been taken out of his hands, but Harry wasn't altogether sure he was happy about that.

Sighing, he raked an agitated hand through his hair, firmly shoved any jealous or guilty feelings aside, and turned his attention back to the parchment he held. Just because he was usually exiled in Surrey most of the summer didn't mean they couldn't enjoy visits and outings.

Hermione evidently didn't deign to reply to that last remark because the letter continued in Ron's handwriting. I've had a busy couple of days, mate. I've been dragged up to Hogwarts twice, learned to put my memories in a bowl, learned that you aren't down in Surrey where we thought you were, and that a whole load of people are doing their best to find you. I hope you won't take it the wrong way, but I have to ask, WHERE ARE YOU, AND WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, his thought processes reduced to something like, They know! Oh, God, they know! Damn, damn, dammity damn, damn, damn! He supposed it was just wishful thinking to imagine he could get away with this all summer, but it had been nice while it lasted. Reluctantly he dragged his eyes back to the page, snorting in spite of himself when he saw a long scratch of ink, then Hermione's handwriting take over. She must have snatched the parchment out from under Ron's quill.

Don't listen to him, Harry, we've been over this a hundred times! Professor Dumbledore made you promise and you're trying to keep your promise, right? We understand that, really, but it isn't necessary anymore. You don't have to hide from us. I really can't wait to see you. You'll have to tell me what spells you found to negate tracking magic. I found some books on the subject in Flourish & Blotts but it looks like it would be really difficult to do.

Lost now, Harry went back to the bed and sat on it, re-reading the last bit in alarm. Negate tracking magic? What was she on about? Squirming guiltily, he wondered what she would say when she figured out that yes, it had initially been the promise that kept him silent, but now the matter was much less cut and dried. Now he was hiding because...because... Oh just say it Potter, you bloody coward! You're hiding because you like being Jim Patterson and you don't want to be found!

The letter went on, mostly the two of them relaying their news now. Hermione assured him that something could be worked out for London sightseeing, Ron told him about the warding of the Burrow and how Percy had moved out under unpleasant circumstances, and they both told him about his doppelganger in Diagon Alley, asking point blank if he knew anything about that. Every now and then the they would slip in little hints about how he'd save himself some grief if he just admitted where he was and let the adults find him, which Harry found a little insulting. How thick did they think he was, anyway?

Childhood experience had taught him that once he was in trouble, he was doomed no matter what. Facts didn't matter, circumstances didn't matter, and punishments were unpleasant and to be avoided or put off as long as possible. In this particular instance, Harry didn't see his situation as salvageable. He would be punished regardless of whether he stayed hidden until the start of term or came forward now, so why rush it? He'd reckoned they'd drag him directly to the headmaster for questioning, and he wasn't daft enough to assume that Professor Dumbledore would gently coax answers out of him with tea and lemon drops. No, the thought of that meeting was enough to make his already queasy stomach clench.

Still... Harry sighed as his eyes skimmed over a paragraph where Hermione had mentioned how worried Sirius was. He had been meaning to write his godfather and try to explain, and he didn't imagine it could make things any worse. Shrugging, Harry spared the clock a quick glance then took out a piece of Order parchment. Wondering where to begin, he picked up his Order quill and sighed.

July, 25, 1995

Dear Sirius,

I've been trying to write to you for a couple of days now, but everything I put down on paper just sounds like rubbish. It's kind of hard to explain something to you that I don't really understand myself. Anyway, I've decided to just write the thing, even though I know it's going to sound stupid.

I suppose I should start by apologizing for my behavior the other night. I just...I don't know. Maybe I should start at the beginning instead and kind of work up to that part.

I guess the story starts on July first at King's Cross Station. No. Wait. It starts a little earlier in the day-at Hogsmeade Station. Professor Dumbledore came up to me while I was waiting for the train with Ron and Hermione...

Slowly, at first, then with more speed, Harry began to share his view on what had occurred at the end of term. He told his godfather how Dumbledore had approached him in Hogsmeade Station and warned him not to stray away from his uncle's house or seek out his friends until told it was safe. He described how he had mistaken a stranger for his uncle at King's Cross Station, and how he had struggled with the situation before finally deciding to travel to Surrey alone.

I promised, you see, he told Sirius, matter-of-factly, and besides, I'd sent Hedwig ahead. She would have worked it out, if I had decided to go to the Leaky Cauldron straightaway, but it seemed sort of rude. Besides, I'm not sure it's safe for her to be there unprotected, if you know what I mean. As it turned out, I shouldn't have worried. The house was empty when I arrived...

That particular memory made Harry pause and close his eyes a moment. The pain of his desertion was softer than it had been at the first of the month, but it was still there. He considered skipping over that part, then decided that it was probably best to just tell the whole ugly story. Taking a steadying breath, he described the dark, empty house, the weather, and his own indecision. He told of how he'd tried one last thing, making a dash for Mrs. Figg's house before finally giving up and catching the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom was brilliant, Sirius, he really was. I'm sure I looked a wreck when I arrived, and I was really nervous that I might not be welcome, especially if he believed what that Skeeter cow wrote. He didn't say anything, though. He just welcomed me to his establishment, took me upstairs and settled me into a room, calm as you please. He even cast drying and cleansing spells so I could go straight to bed. My plan, at that point, was to spend the night and then owl someone in the morning.

Pausing again, Harry raked his fingers through his hair, realizing that he'd never told the story from beginning to end to anyone. Tom probably knew the most, but even he didn't know everything. Heck Harry seriously doubted that he knew the entire story himself. He'd spent most of his time ignoring it since the beginning of summer, and never bothered to puzzle through the "whys" behind his thought and motivations. Considering his words carefully, he started to write again. He explained, as best he could, his reluctance to tell anyone about his situation, and how he had realized that he couldn't stay at the Leaky Cauldron as a registered guest. Not wanting to implicate Tom further, he skipped the part about working at the Leaky Caudron, and simply told Sirius that he had been fortunate enough to cross paths almost immediately with a fellow who needed a hand.

I guess that was why I didn't owl anyone, Harry admitted, as he studied his decisions from a more impersonal point of view. Once I had a place to stay and the means to support myself, there just didn't seem to be a need to. I was okay and the problem was solved. Besides, from the way Professor Dumbledore was talking, it sounded like it wouldn't be long before he let me go to the Burrow. I know you all are busy, so I reckoned I should just stay put and not be a bother. I wasn't trying to make anyone angry or afraid, Sirius. I really thought I was doing the right thing.

Stopping again, Harry pulled a face at the parchment. His earlier intentions and motives were all well and good, but now he was just dancing around the heart of the matter. He envisioned his godfather reading, impatiently waiting for him to get to the bloody point already. Once he'd realized that his elders were looking for him, why did he refuse to tell them what they wanted to know? Why was he still refusing now? Harry made a frustrated noise as reasons danced merrily in his head.

I know you're probably wondering why I'm refusing to tell you where I am, he stated. I guess it's because I would have gone bloody mad at the Dursleys, especially at the beginning of summer. Hmm. Harry raised an eyebrow and scratched the last bit out. While undeniably true, it made him feel a little exposed, and besides, he wasn't certain Sirius would want a crackpot for a godson.

...because I like it here. I'm normal here. I think I'll actually be sad to leave in September, he tried again, before discarding that as well. He didn't want Sirius to think that he didn't want to live with him anymore, provided of course, that Sirius still wanted him to.

...because I'm afraid if I do tell, you'll let them lock me away again... was his third attempt. Shocked, Harry blinked at what he'd written before scratching it out with much more passion and thoroughness than the previous lines. While it was a pretty fair summation of all his vague fears, there was no way he could tell Sirius that.

Sighing heavily, Harry read over what he'd written, wondering if it would be enough. This was probably the longest letter he'd ever written, with the exception of his initial report to Professor Dumbledore. It wasn't bad as far as it went, but it still seemed rather...incomplete. Glancing at the clock he gave a little start. He'd been at this longer than he thought. Come on, Potter, just finish the ruddy thing, he coached himself.

He tried to think of another reason then finally gave up and started again. In truth, Sirius, I don't really understand it myself. Well, okay, I guess I understand part of it. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. And I most definitely do not want to return to my aunt and uncle's home-Australia or otherwise. I still feel awful about Cedric dying, but it's better now, if that makes sense. I think the working has helped a lot. It keeps my mind occupied, and when I get really physically tired, I don't dream so much. Regular nightmares, I mean. I can't really do much about the others. I think I may have insulted Mr. Weasley the other night. Please tell him I'm sorry for that. I do want to go to the Burrow for a visit, but I want to come back. That is, if they still want me to come. I hope you can understand, because I'm not sure I do, and with you, will you still write sometimes?

Harry rolled his eyes at the last statement he'd just written. Talk about sounding like a stupid prat. Oh, well, it would just have to do. He couldn't think of anything better to say, the letter was messy enough, and he really needed to close and finish dressing or he'd be late.

I'm making a mess of this, and it's almost time for me to leave, so I think I'll just stop here. I'm sorry, Sirius. I never meant to make you angry. I hope Professor Dumbledore isn't too disappointed. I expect he'll have me serving detentions with Mr. Filch and Professor Snape for the rest of my time at Hogwarts.

Harry

Biting his lower lip, Harry hesitated for a minute, then tapped the paw-print icon on the pages he'd filled and watched the words sink into the parchment. When they had vanished, he checked on Pig again, then carried on with his morning routine, hoping with all his heart that he'd done the right thing, or at the very least that he hadn't made things worse.

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