Basilisk Eyes

Chapter 9: Burnt bangers

Bright light pushed against Harry's eyelids and warmed his face, though the breeze from the window was still early-morning cool and damp. He rolled to his side hoping to escape the blaze of sunshine and rummaged around for his glasses on the table by his bed. He could hear Hedwig on her perch atop his dresser—her small noises pecking away at the mass of the dread that had settled around him when he learned he was returning to Privet Drive weeks early. Hedwig seemed chipper; he guessed she had found a good meal.

Padding across the hardwood floor of his bedroom, he found the dresser with his outstretched hand and traced his hands over the surface until he found the cage and the open door. He reached inside her cage and stroked her downy head.

He was wondering how long he could avoid the Dursleys. He didn't have to wonder too long... Petunia's sharp steps (he'd been able to recognize all of the Dursleys by their footsteps for a long time, even as Dudley's grew similar in heft to Vernon's—his survival depended on it) ascended the staircase. She rapped forcibly on his door making Hedwig squawk in alarm, and shouted, "You'd better come down and make yourself useful in the kitchen if you expect to eat!"

"I'm coming," he replied resignedly. Harry wondered if the neighbors could hear her through his open window as her steps descended down the steps again.

He thought about changing (he was still in the clothes he'd worn to St. Mungo's the day before), but couldn't muster the energy, though he did take off his school robes because he knew that wearing them down to breakfast would earn him a boxed ear at the very least. He'd become very good at dodging blows, but now what? And the thought made him sink a bit deeper into his muck of despair.

He left his staff in his room as he made his way downstairs to the kitchen, but not before checking the time. "It is 6:45 am," the melodic voice rang out. He wondered if there was a volume knob on the staff, but feeling the staff and pushing on knots in the wood didn't seem to have any effect.

His usual job at breakfast was managing the stove—eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausages, mushrooms—whatever else was on the grill. He could smell the skillet heating up, but didn't think anything was on it yet. He froze at the door remembering all the burns he got as he learned how to cook under Petunia's callous instruction. His breath quickened. He'd rather face the Basilisk again. He imagined Aunt Petunia facing the serpent and with a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips, was able to cross the threshold into the kitchen. He could orient himself in the room by the sunlight coming in the windows and was glad of his glasses that made the light bearable.

A few steps into the kitchen, Harry stopped to listen, trying to figure out where Aunt Petunia was. She must have stopped doing what she was doing to look at him because after a moment, the water at the sink came on accompanied by the clinking of dishes and silverware.

Her usual mode was to point with whatever utensil she had in her hand and gesticulate harshly—her disgust with him etched on her face.

Well, that's not going to work anymore, Harry thought.

His Aunt was going to get very fussed, very quickly.

Maybe she'd already done that when I came in the room.

"Uh, Aunt Petunia," he asked tentatively, "what do you want me to do?"

"Humrumpf!," she protested, "I already told you, put the sausages on."

He knew better than to respond and bit back the sharp retort, What part of blind don't you get? He moved carefully toward the stove, listening to the hissing of the gas stove, his hands held out in front of him. He felt the heat of the flame before he found the stove and edged toward the counter next to the stove. He guessed that she'd placed the food next to the stove, and groped gingerly along the surface of the counter until he located the package of sausage, tightly wrapped in plastic.