Basilisk Eyes

Chapter 10: Doors and door jambs

Aunt Petunia left Harry to wash up the dishes on his own while she sent off Uncle Vernon to work. Harry rubbed his shoulder where Uncle Vernon had whacked him with the newspaper for getting shell in the eggs and serving them undercooked. He was surprised again when Aunt Petunia shushed Uncle Vernon mid-tirade.

He was glad of the silence and took a moment to run cool water over the burn on the side of his hand before sinking his hands into the hot, soapy water and starting on the glasses. She'd cleared the table muttering about how he was sure to break the dishes stumbling around the kitchen when he got up to gather them after picking at his food. He didn't have much of an appetite, which was a shame, really, since Dudley wasn't here to snatch food off his plate. He had slipped some bits of sausages into his pocket for Hedwig after the Dursleys left the room.

Washing the dishes was something he found he could do easily by touch. He was surprised that Aunt Petunia let him near her dishes. He'd kind of assumed that she'd think him a bull in a china shop and would have banned him. Not that he would have been sorry to lose his job as short order chef and dishwasher.

And sweeping, he reminded himself. That is going to be harder to do without getting wacked about the head for missing things.

He thought about the Weasley's kitchen and how everything magically cleaned itself like something out of Fantasia.

The restriction of underage magic has been adjusted for me, he remembered, toying with the idea of setting up the dishes to wash themselves.

Aunt Petunia would poo her pants if she walked into the kitchen and that was happening... he smiled to himself and then dropped it at the thought: and I'd be tossed in the cupboard again and left to rot.

He entertained the thought of donning the invisibility cloak to joke her, but then quickly dismissed it imagining what Vernon would do with his cloak if he got his hands on it. He ached to get into the-cupboard-under-the-stairs and go through his trunk.

Maybe Ron helped pack it up and left me a message... Not that I can read it. Damn.

He finished up the dishes, dried them, and put them back in the cupboards without many mishaps. Only one, really: he dropped a few pieces of silverware on the floor and had to grope around on the floor to retrieve them. Listening for his Aunt, he determined she wasn't nearby, wiped off the utensils with the dishtowel, and put them in the drawer knowing that she'd pop a gasket if she knew.

He plodded to the broom closet, dreading the sweeping, but knowing it would be worse if he tried to skip it. It took forever. He started in the corner near the closet and worked methodically around the whole kitchen with small even strokes. He bent down occasionally to feel the growing pile of crumbs, just to reassure himself that what he was doing was actually working.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes by the time he was ready to sweep up the little pile. One advantage was that he was able to use the broom like his staff to navigate around the furniture in the room and didn't bang his knees again.

He did run into the broom closet door when he went back to get the dustpan, though. He'd forgotten he'd left it open, and the broom swung into the closet, while his face collided with the door, smashing his glasses into his eye socket.

He held onto his face for a little bit, tears squeezing out of his eyes, and then scrubbed his face with the back of his hand. The pain subsided. He felt his glasses to see if they were broken. There was a ridge across the surface, they were cracked, but they didn't fall apart, so he put them back on.

He got the dustpan, this time closing the door deliberately, and tried to remember where he'd left the pile. He ended up having to search for it on his hands and knees until he located it, swept it up, and carefully carried it to the bin. The lid banged open, and he was amazed that his headache hadn't flared again.

Aunt Petunia hadn't returned to the kitchen yet, so Harry went back to his room and gave Hedwig the bits of sausages he'd saved for her. He was so tired. This time, though, he stripped down to his boxers, put his dirty clothes in his hamper, and climbed into bed, placing his glasses on the table, and draped an arm over his eyes to cut out the sunlight. He didn't care that it was a quarter to ten in the morning. Maybe Aunt Petunia would leave him alone for a while if he was quiet.

oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo

When he woke up, the sun wasn't on his face anymore. In fact, it was dark. Hedwig was making crunching noises—she must have caught a midnight snack—and Uncle Vernon's snores were rumbling through the floorboards.

"Tempus," he murmured touching the staff in the corner, "It is 1:17 am," the lyrical voice rang out, causing Vernon's snores to falter. While Harry held his breath waiting until they resummed their rhythm, he realized that he'd slept through the whole day.

He held the staff, running his fingers up and down the length and wondering how he was going to figure out how to make it quieter and use all its magical properties. He really needed to be able to read the leaflets. He yearned for Hermione. Maybe he could call her? Maybe she knew if there was a spell that could be cast over text to read it aloud? That seemed like a handy feature for a staff for blind wizards.

Blind wizards, he contemplated.

This isn't me! he protested and dropped the staff, curling up on the floor by his bed.

I didn't ask for any of this.

While the burn on his hand smarted, he touched fingers to where he'd run into the door and was amazed that it was no longer tender. But the awe didn't last long. A mass of pain clogged his throat, pushed all the air out of his lungs, as his cheek pressed into the wood planks of his bedroom floor. He drew ragged breaths. There was nothing he could do. If he escaped from Privet Drive (he imagined himself stumbling along the pavement with his staff, his trunk levitating behind him) and managed to make it back to Hogwarts, it was pretty likely that Dumbledore would just send him back. He knew that he was just as worthless now to the wizarding world as he was to the muggle world.

But a little voice in his head protested: I can still do stuff. I'm not worthless.

I need to talk to Hermione—she'll know what to do, Harry thought. She's still at school. I could send her a message with Hedwig.

Images of parchment and quills rose in his memory. He didn't have any in his room, even if he did, how could he write without being able to see?

I just have to try, he told himself firmly as he uncurled himself and sat with his back against his bed.

He came up with a plan to sneak down to the kitchen, by the phone...

The phone! Right! But who would I call?

... and swipe a pen and a piece of paper, maybe a whole pad of paper if he could find one that wouldn't be noticed.

He opened his door to listen. Uncle Vernon's snores were steady once more.

He slipped out of his room in stocking feet, hoping to be quiet, and down the stairs, to the kitchen. He found the table by the phone and opened up the drawer, rummaging around quietly until he found a small pad of paper and a short pencil with a sharpened end. Again he had a small moment of thankfulness for Aunt Petunia's rigid adherence to cleanliness and order. He tucked them in his pocket and went to the fridge and nicked a slice of roast beef and cheese—woofed it down, wiped the grease off his mouth with the back of his hand and went out into the hallway again.

He could still hear Uncle Vernon's muffled snores upstairs. He slipped up the stairs, hand lightly touching the railing, and on the landing, holding his breath, knuckles trailing on the wall, moved toward his room.

"What are you doing sneaking about?" Petunia's sleep-filled voice came leering out from her room and he jumped. "Just trying to find the loo," Harry lied, though now that he thought about it, the need was real.

"It's the other way," she barked, stomped over to him and grabbed his arm to pull him to the washroom door, where he knocked into the door jamb with his forehead. He rubbed his head while muttering, "Thanks," and let out his breath once the door was closed behind him.