Basilisk Eyes

Chapter 11: Missive

Harry sat awkwardly at the table by his bed with the pencil in his hand and the pad in front of him, trying to write a note to Hermione (and Ron—he had to include him, too). He felt for the top of the paper and wondered if there was a logo on it. He tore off a piece and turned it over thinking that the back will be blank. He pressed the pencil to the top of the page and wrote slowly, concentrating on making his letters as neatly as he could.

"Hermione and Ron, I am stuck at the Durs... "

The pencil slipped off the pad, and he checked the tip to make sure it hadn't broken. He'd need to find a pencil sharpener at some point if he was going to continue writing notes. He adjusted how he held the pad by placing his index finger on one side and thumb of his left hand spanning the width and wrote in the space between them.

". . .ley's" This he wrote up the side along the edge, hoping that it was decipherable.

"I have some stuff I need to read, but I can't."

He paused here, feeling a chest-clenching ache—not wanting to have to state why he couldn't read it.

They know, right? I don't have to say it, he thought.

He moved down the pad by a finger's width.

"Do you know a spell or something? Thanks, Harry."

He thought about explaining how they'd have to communicate in a way that he could get it, but it made him so tired, the thought of explaining it all, and especially that his Aunt and Uncle weren't going to read messages to him; in fact, they'd likely set them on fire, or at the very least chuck them in the bin again. There wasn't room on this little scrap of paper to go into detail and he wasn't even sure if the little bit he'd written was legible.

Maybe if Ron and Hermione couldn't figure it out and sent him a written message that he couldn't read, he could sneak out and take it to the library.

The thought of the five-street trip to the library made him break out in a cold sweat. Maybe he'd survive it (couldn't be much worse than a nest of car-sized spiders, though he'd barely survived that); he thought about the overgrown hedgerows that made the footpaths narrow in places, pushing pedestrians near traffic. And then there was how a librarian was going to react to reading a message containing instructions for casting a magical spell... ministry letters would probably start popping up everywhere declaring that he'd violated some code of secrecy or other such rubbish.

He rolled up the message and tied it with the bit of leather used to secure it to Hedwig's leg. He wanted to send it right away.

Hedwig seemed to have finished her meal and was making noises like she was preening her feathers. He put the pad of paper under the floorboard with the other papers and waited patiently on his bed for Hedwig to notice that he had a note for her to deliver. It didn't take too long for her to hop over to him. Even though he heard her coming, he was still startled by her wings whacking him around his face.

"Hey girl," he crooned softly as he tied the missive to her leg. "I have a message for you to take to Hermione, okay? She's still at Hogwarts."

She growled quietly in response—she was always so good about being quiet while they were at Privet Drive. It was as if she knew. It was another reason why he felt regret sending her away.

She understands, he thought as he ran his hands over her regal form—her wings shrugging gently into his hands.

She hopped to the window and then before he knew it, she was gone. He could hardly hear her wings as they took her into the cool night air.

oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo

Harry just settled the loose board under his bed into place concealing another stolen apple that he'd managed to swipe when Aunt Petunia had been kissing (ugh) Uncle Vernon goodbye that morning when she came clicking down the hall and pounded on his door. He quickly sat on the bed and tried to pull a blank face, hoping that he didn't look like he was up to something before she thrust the door open to shout, "Stop lying about and go hoover the living room."

He followed her, silently padding down the stairs in stocking feet. He had a little thrill. The vac was inside the cupboard-under-the-stairs with his trunk! Maybe he'd have a chance to go through it. But Aunt Petunia must have had that thought, too, because she was unlocking the cupboard door when he came down the stairs. He heard the wheels of the vac dragging across the hardwood floor and the sound stirred memories that fluttered against him. How many bruises had he nursed in that cupboard as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong?

Aunt Petunia's face, screwed up with contempt, floated up and banged against his memory, too, and then burst when she shoved the vac against his toes to get his attention. He tried not to show how much it hurt.

He reached for it, waving his hand back and forth in the air a bit before his fingers contacted the handle. He felt exposed under her huffing gaze and as quickly as he could, turned it around to push toward the living room, resignation coupled with humiliation pressing down on his shoulders.

He was startled when the vac jammed against the door jamb of the living room, thrusting the handle into his chest, knocking the wind out of him briefly. Aunt Petunia had shrieked, "Watch where you're going!" right before impact, but not soon enough. He'd been confused by the light—he must have mistaken the light from the window in the front door for the living room. The light he could see no longer had sharp, defined lines—it kind of blended together into a colorless haze.

Recovering and wanting to escape her scrutiny, he turned the vac so that he was pulling it and felt around for the door jamb. From her silence, he knew that Aunt Petunia was watching him and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He flushed as he groped through the doorway into the sitting room.

This is hard enough without an audience, he silently shouted at her.

His knuckles dragged across the door and he set the vac down to unwind the cord a bit to plug it in. He held his arm out in front of him until he found the wall and felt along it trying to find the outlet. The clock on the mantle clicked at him as if it were mocking how long it was taking to simply plug in the vac. Finally, he found it and fumbling around, he tried to align the plug prongs with the socket, his frustration mounting until it slid in with a satisfying plunge.

Aunt Petunia huffed impatiently from the hallway, tapping her foot and he bit back a groan of exasperation. Why was she still watching him? Finally, her heels drummed toward the kitchen.

He sighed as he followed the cord back to the vac and stood for a moment by it as he visualized the room, trying to remember all the possible hazards. This room was full of traps. Delicate figurines, voluptuous vases, family heirlooms, lace doilies that could be hoovered up if one wasn't paying close attention. He had learned each lesson painfully; he didn't want to have to learn them again. He remembered one spectacular dive that had saved a spun-glass bird that had teetered off a table when he had been hoovering absentmindedly... seeker training, he had later identified it.

Seeker, I'm no longer a Seeker.

He turned on the vac to drown out the torment of that terrible thought.