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Harry Potter and the Pewter Owl | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe, Pre-OotP Characters:Harry/Ginny, Harry/Ginny Genres: Action/Adventure, General Warnings: None Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 20 Summary: *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated in over 2 years *** *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated in over 2 years *** After the events of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, a mysterious object comes into Harry's possession. Where did it come from, and what is its purpose? Are there more like it? Why is Harry seeing fireflies? And what does it all have to do with Ginny? Hitcount: Story Total: 27822; Chapter Total: 5469 |
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and the PEWTER OWL an alternate fifth year by the mystery tramp Chapter Two A Little Bit of Hard Work The previous day's too-blue sky had been replaced by the sort of gray that felt heavy – felt as though your clothes had already been soaked through before the first drop of rain fell. When Harry awoke in the morning, he knew – just knew, that very instant he was aware of his wakefulness, he knew it – that today was special, for some reason. His first thought was that it was his birthday, but no, that wasn't until tomorrow – what was it? He reached out for his glasses, and his hand fell upon Ron's letter. He grinned a sleepy sort of grin. Today was the day. He let out a breath, deep and heavy – partly with relief and partly with plain old heaviness – and put the glasses on. He blinked a few times – they were sort of foggy. Perhaps he had fallen asleep in them by accident and they'd rubbed against the pillow? He couldn't remember. He fogged them up with his breath, now, and wiped them with his t-shirt – and, eventually, made his way out of bed. He glanced out the window – he vaguely recalled there being something interesting about it, for some reason, and sort of waited a few moments for something to strike him now. But there was nothing – just a bleary, gray sort of sky and all the normal houses –all of which was decidedly more extra-ordinary than it was extraordinary. But then, wasn't that how it always was, on Privet Drive? He didn't know why he expected something different, today. He shrugged off the feeling, but it wouldn't quite go. Instead, he went: to the door, out the door – down the hall, down the stairs. The Dursleys were gathered around the kitchen table, like they always were – Aunt Petunia sipping her tea in perfectly measured sips – Uncle Vernon reading the paper, grumbling to himself approximately every three lines – Dudley shoving an enormous omelet down his throat, one giant fork-load at a time. None of them noticed Harry come into the kitchen. "I'm leaving today," he said. Petunia's tea sputtered slightly in her hand, Vernon grumbled out of time, and they all looked up. "What did you say, boy?" Vernon said. "I said, I'm leaving today." Vernon swallowed, breathed in sharply through his mustache-blocked nostrils, and opened and closed his mouth a few times – open, closed, open, wordless – and then: "They bloody well better not think they're coming through my fireplace again –" "I'm sure they've thought up something new," said Harry, trying to sound mysterious. Vernon bristled, flared his nostrils again, and said: "Well." A few moments of silence, and then Harry said: "I figured I'd let you know, you know?" he said. "Seemed like the polite thing to do." "Polite, eh?" said Uncle Vernon, beady-eyed as ever and being disagreeable for the sake of it – today was his last chance, for a whole year, after all. "You didn't seem to mind about being polite when you slammed your bedroom door in my face yesterday–" "I didn't slam it," said Harry – not angry, simply pointing it out. "I just closed it." "Yes, well," began Vernon, somewhat taken aback by the calm reply, "don't think I appreciate it." "I didn't, really," said Harry. This conversation – if it could really be called a proper conversation – was going absolutely nowhere, not that Harry had honestly expected anything else. It was sort of depressing, if Harry were to be honest, although he couldn't put a finger on why, exactly. He glanced out the window – the skies were looking more formidable than ever. He hoped he wouldn't be flying to the Burrow, today. Aunt Petunia followed his gaze, perhaps worried that he had spotted some nosy neighbor poking their head in the kitchen window or something of that sort – but then, for the first time this morning, she spoke: "Vernon, aren't there a good deal of chores the boy has been neglecting to do, coping himself up in that room of his, as it were?" Harry blinked – he didn't like the sound of that. Of course, he had never particularly enjoyed the sound of his aunt's voice, or the Dursleys' habit to speak of him as though he weren't there – the boy, that rotten nephew, et cetera – but that was beside the point. Vernon began to smile his very Dursleyish smile, and his eyes lit up in their very Dursleyish way. "Why, you're absolutely right, Petunia," he said, folding over his newspaper and rubbing his fat hands together excitedly. "I should say, he shouldn't be allowed to go off and frolic with his lot until he's kept up his part around here, don't you agree?" "I agree!" squealed Dudley – and, as though reacting to his horrible voice, the clouds opened up at that very moment, and rain began to plod down upon the house with an almost alarming intensity. Surprisingly quick to realize what had happened, Dudley appended: "Make him do something out in the rain!" By now, Harry was very much regretting ever telling the Dursleys that he would be leaving – why couldn't he have just waited in his room, stayed on his bed like he had the rest of the summer? Why had he ever bothered with being polite to the Dursleys? What on earth had he been thinking? Now, as the three of them (or rather, the two of them, with occasional interjections from Dudley) plotted out a list of chores for Harry to complete before he would be allowed to leave, Harry began to feel an overwhelming weight on his shoulders – began to feel like today would never pass, that the Weasleys would never arrive, that he would never be rid of his terrible relatives. He felt as though this one day would surely take as long as his first ten years with the Dursleys had, however ridiculous that would have sounded. If only the Weasleys would hurry up and arrive, right this minute – surely the Dursleys would never stand up to a group of Wizards and insist Harry need finish his chores? If only they would arrive, Harry would be free. Time moved terribly slowly, however, just as Harry had known it would – and before long, the list had been compiled, and Harry was forced to begin work. The Dursleys had not started off lightly: the first task (Harry groaned inwardly) was to clear out all the gutters of Number Four. This seemed to be an unusually cruel sort of job, even for the Dursleys to assign, as Harry was sure nobody in their right mind had ever before put the clearing of gutters off until the middle of a rainstorm. It was as though they had specifically saved the job for the inevitable day that he would be leaving – but then, that couldn't have been true, could it? And they couldn't have known about the rain, after all. Trudging out through the already muddy backyard, Harry awkwardly retrieved the ladder from behind the Dursleys' shed, dragged it around the house to the front, and propped it up against the house. He could barely breathe in without worrying he would drown. Certainly, this was a new low. Harry wondered, as he began to dig all the sopping leaves and other sort of muck out of the gutter, why there were so many leaves in there in the first place. How long did his aunt allow them to build up? The job was usually Vernon's, but Harry would have assumed she would force him up the ladder to clear them out every week or so. Clearly, she hadn't. And as such, the job never seemed to end. Up the ladder, clear the gutter, down the ladder, move the ladder – up, clear, down, move, up, clear, down, move, up clear down move, upcleardownmove, upcleardownmove, UPCLEARDOWNMOVE – it just went on and on. Harry was growing more tempted by the moment to use magic to speed up the process – it would only take a second, after all, one simple spell and he'd be done with the whole job – but every time he had almost persuaded himself to do it, he thought of Dobby the House Elf, who had gotten Harry a letter of warning from the Improper Use of Magic Office, three summers previous. Harry had not actually performed any magic himself, but the Ministry hadn't seemed to care very much about that – and besides, the next year, Harry inflated his uncle's sister, Marge, without any help from Dobby. The Ministry had overlooked that particular offence, but surely another one would be taken more seriously? And so, Harry continued working, and working, and working. Every once in a while, the rain would let up slightly, and Harry would rest a minute, lean up against the ladder and just breathe – but then, he would start to feel how very soaked he was, and how enormously heavy it made him, and for a split second he would think he was about to fall – but he would steady himself, and inevitably, that would be the cue for the rain to pick up once again. He didn't know how much more he could take. Where on earth were the Weasleys, anyway? Part of him was worried that they had already attempted to contact him, somehow, and he had missed it – that they had Portkeyed into his bedroom, found him missing, and left without him, or something to that effect. He knew he was being ridiculous, but honestly – the day must've been getting on, it must've been mid-afternoon by now at least – surely they'd be arriving sometime soon? Harry decided to take a break from the gutters, regardless of what the Dursleys would say – he climbed down the ladder, feeling very dramatic and conclusive about it, knowing that this time he wouldn't be heading right back up it again. He headed to the door, remembered at the last moment to remove his muddy trainers, and stepped inside. There was a shriek. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING DRAGGING THAT FILTH INTO MY HOUSE?" Harry blinked. He hadn't planned on saying anything to anyone – he'd just wanted to let his anger silently boil beneath his skin as he thought up fantastic plans for revenge that he would never enact – but he found he couldn't help but respond: "What did you expect me to do, strip on the back porch–?" "Heavens no, the neighbors!" exclaimed Petunia, clearly misinterpreting his tone, and rushing to a window. When she was satisfied that the neighbors hadn't seen her nephew as he hadn't stripped on the back porch, Petunia turned back to Harry: "So you've finally finished, have you?" And he didn't know what made him do it – perhaps the ridiculous thought of his aunt going up on the ladder in the rain to check? – but Harry found himself saying: "Yes, Aunt Petunia," despite his not having come anywhere close to completing the job. Maybe it was the way she'd phrased the question – indeed, he realized, he was finished, whether or not he had finished. Dumbledore himself probably couldn't have gotten him back up that ladder – not that Dumbledore would have made him. "It's about time," said Petunia, staring down his drenched clothing as though she could dry it with her stare. "Now, what on earth are we going to do about those clothes?" The way she said it, clothes sounded like the most despicable swearword ever devised. "Don't take another step," she said, just as he was about to take another step. She began to mumble hysterically to herself: "You've already done enough damage to the rug–oh dear, oh dear, why on earth did I let Vernon give you the gutters? I should have known this would happen – I wanted you to scrub out the loo, but no, he can't do his ONE BLOODY CHORE –" this last part she shouted for Vernon's benefit, wherever he was "– so he pawns it off on you and ruins my living room in the process! I don't know how I haven't killed the arsehole yet –" She had reverted back to hysterical mumbles, clearly not fully realizing that Harry could hear what she was saying. Harry sort of just stood stock still, caught off-guard by her frankness, and awaiting further instructions. "Erm, Aunt Petunia?" "– WHAT?" she said, jolting even herself with her volume. Then, softer: "What?" "What should I do?" "Oh dear, oh dear," she repeated, crossing one arm across her chest and biting the fingernails on the opposite hand. "I can't believe it's come to this..." And the next thing Harry knew, she had disappeared off into the hall – then he heard her stomping up the stairs – and before he could even venture a guess as to her objective, she was stomping back down the stairs, and in another moment, she had returned. Harry blinked. She was holding his Firebolt – gripping his Firebolt, more like, so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She looked about to collapse from a nervous breakdown. "What are you doing?" Harry asked. "Why do you have my –" "The only way," murmured Petunia, holding the broomstick out in both hands, but still gripping so tightly it was clear she wasn't ready to hand it over. "If you get one drip on anything, I swear I will never let you in this house again," she said. "Wait, so you – you want me to fly out of here?" "Straight to your bedroom, no detours, no fancy tricks, no funny business, and you will never repeat a word of this to anyone, you understand?" Harry nodded, completely lost for words. Finally relaxing her fingers, Petunia held the broom out towards him: "Not one drip," she said, and he nodded again. Harry mounted his broomstick, for the first time in months, and hesitated for a moment – glanced at his aunt one last time, to make certain she wasn't going to shoot him or something – and took off. It was by far the most surreal experience of his life – zooming on his Firebolt, as carefully as he could, around the rooms of the most un-magical house in the world. Across the living room, down the hall, past his old cupboard, up the stairs, and into his bedroom – the door to which Petunia had thankfully left open when she'd retrieved his broomstick. He dismounted, and wondered, Did that really just happen? Within five minutes or so, he had just about convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing – and yet, his clothes were still sopping wet – so, perhaps, maybe it had been real? He stripped out of his clothes, left them in a clumpy pile by the doorway, and put on new ones – feeling unbelievably fresh and light as he did so. Grateful that he seemed to have somehow managed to get out of doing the rest of his chores, he laid down upon his bed, to wait for the Weasleys to arrive. He would be waiting a long time. |
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