Summertimes

They don't know how old I am

They found armor in my belly

From the sixteenth century

Conquistador, I think

They don't know how old I am

They found armor in my belly

Passion out of machine revving tension

Lashing out at machine revving tension

Rushing by the machine revving tension

24th July 1992

Harry sat alone in a classroom. He blinked slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust as he squinted through the sunlight which streamed through a high arched window above the blackboard.

He distantly noticed that this was his Defence against the Dark Arts classroom and looked to his left, where Ron usually sat, distracting him with notes and poking him with his elbow. The desk was empty and Harry frowned before turning back to the front of the room.

He was no longer alone. Harry flinched as he saw the back of a man’s head. The man was standing in front of the blackboard, where Harry had seen him so many times before. He stood still, not writing or speaking. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Harry was equally tense, knuckles gripping the desk tightly before he remembered his wand and they flew to the right breast pocket of his robes where he usually kept it. It wasn’t there. 

The rustling sound seemed to break through the silence slowly, cracks creeping out like a sheet of ice under pressure. 

Slowly Quirrel began to move, turning in place to face Harry and the back of the room. His gaze seemed to skip over Harry, focussing on something behind him.

Harry, noticing that Quirrel didn’t seem to see him, rose from his chair to turn and work out what Quirrell was looking at.

A tall, imposing mirror faced him and Harry’s stomach lurched as he recognised it. At once a familiar sense of longing and fear rose into his mind and Harry bit his lip with effort in order to turn away and face Quirrel again.

He wasn’t wearing his turban. Harry was shocked to see that Quirrel had hair. The only time he had seen him without the turban on he had been bald, with the grotesque face of a dark lord emerging from his skull.

Harry paused and wondered what Quirrel was seeing in the mirror that he was so entranced by.

”Sir-“ Harry started, before stopping to attempt to work out what to say.

”What do you see?”

Harry knew he had heard this before, in another room deep under the castle, but the sight of Quirrel without his turban and with no visible sign of Voldemort on him made Harry wonder if the answer might be different. Surely someone’s dream couldn’t always have been to serve someone powerful. Looking at Quirrel’s face, which seemed lined prematurely for someone who was reasonably young, Harry wondered how Voldemort had been able to corrupt him.

”Myself.”

The reply was soft, but it stilled Harry’s racing mind and made his fingers twitch in response. For some reason, he hadn’t expected him to respond.

”I see myself with others. I don’t know who they are, their faces are blurry.” Quirrel continues in that same soft tone.

”But I know they value me, they want me. I am useful - powerful.”

Harry took in a small breath. He knew what he would see if he looked in the mirror and it felt dangerously similar to Quirrel’s - a family. He remembered in that deep underground room being offered a family by Voldemort. It had been terrifyingly tempting. He was still fighting to keep from peering into the hazy depths of the mirror when Quirrel finally turned to look at Harry. His face looked the same as it did in all those lessons, but it was scarily blank.

“You did this.”

The voice was calm, but Harry took a step back. His side bumped into his desk behind him.

”I could have had this. A life where I was valued. Never alone”

Harry almost wanted to shout at him that of course he was never alone - he had Voldemort in the back of his skull! All he did was press back further into the desk as Quirrel started to stalk towards him slowly.

”I wonder, what did your Dumbldore say when you told him what you did? Your friends. Do you think that they would still stick by you if they realised what you are?”

Quirrel had almost reached Harry now and started to lean over the boy before whispering gently.

 “A murderer.” 

He lifted his hands up to Harry’s face.

”Do you want to know what it feels like Harry?” He asked gently, before pressing his palms to Harry’s cheeks.

Burning pain fizzed through Harry’s face. He wanted to scream at Quirrel that he already knew what it felt like. That even as Quirrel had fallen to ash beneath his palms his own skin had blistered and he had passed out from the pain. But he couldn’t speak, not as a burning hand moved to grip his jaw and the back of his neck. As his tears dried instantly steaming from his face. 

As he felt his head begin to crumble away to ash.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Harry awoke to the awful sensation of a bad sunburn blistering his neck. His mouth felt dry and grainy, as if he had been eating the dirt he was lying in.

He was curled over on his side, resting on the lumpy ground next to the Dursley’s small garden shed, partially obscured by a small rose bush. That was a good thing he supposed - if Petunia had found him out here sleeping he knew he would not be eating dinner tonight.

He bought his hand up to rub gently at his sore, peeling nose. It was a brutally hot July summer day and the Dursley’s low garden walls offered little respite from the sun. He wondered if that had been why he had that particular dream.

His dream today had been different from usual. He had been getting nightmares since he had left those dark underground chambers, probably why he had fallen asleep in the garden in the first place. However, most had been about Voldemort. He didn’t like to think about Quirrel.

After he had awoken in the hospital wing and he had asked Dumbledore about why Quirrel had burned when he touched him Dumbledore had explained to him about his mother’s protection. This had partially gone over Harry’s head as he had wondered if really no other witches or wizards in this war had protected their children in a similar way. Surely this sort of protection couldn’t be unique. He thought he must just not understand the magic. He had always been told he was a bit stupid. 

He and Dumbledore hadn’t discussed what Harry had done. Not really.

Harry supposed that Quirrel had been the one to attack him. Had reached his hands towards him under his master’s orders, and only let go when he had been burned. But it was Harry who had reached forward next, had clutched to his professor’s face and not let go until there wasn’t a face there anymore. He had weaponised his mother’s protection. To kill.

He felt guilty. 

It was different then the revelation he had had almost a year ago - that he had killed a Dark Lord as only a baby. That was much more distant, a vague memory and distant story. It wasn’t like the scene he relived almost every night now. Besides, Voldemort was evil, and didn’t really seem quite human. Quirrel did look human and he had known him, seen him almost daily for months before he had killed him.

Overall, his conversation with Dumbledore had been quite frustrating and had left him with more questions than answers. He had also been disappointed. He had hoped that Dumbledore would let him stay at Hogwarts over the summer. He supposed that he couldn’t get special treatment like everyone thought he did, and the situation with the Dursleys wasn’t so bad. He had technically been in far more danger at Hogwarts. Besides, Dumbledore and McGonagal both hadn’t mentioned the address on his first letter. He had been worried at first that he might have to attempt to explain it but no one had bought it up.

Harry finally used his palms to push himself into a kneeling position on the dirt and gathered his tools. He needed to finish this flower-bed. If it was properly weeded then Petunia might let him go inside and have some water before telling him to clear out of the house.

He had been stuck in the garden for days. In a week's time Mr Dursley was having a dinner party for some business associates and hadn’t shut up about it. Petunia had insisted that the garden had to be perfect and Harry had been instructed to weed every inch of it. He might have enjoyed the job if it wasn’t for the heat. He wasn’t allowed in the house until Petunia was satisfied with whichever bed he had been told to do was perfect, not even for water. After two days in the intense sun he had dared to ask for sun cream. That morning he had watched her smother a squirming Dudley with it, whilst lecturing him about skin cancer before he was allowed to go outside.

When he had asked if he was allowed to use any, she had almost spat in his face. 

“I’m not wasting any on you - your kind don’t even need it.” 

Harry wasn’t sure if she was talking about him being a wizard, or the fact his skin was quite a few shades darker than the Dursley’s. 

After receiving the photo album with pictures from Hagrid, and seeing his parents in the mirror of Erised, Harry had realised that his father was clearly a different race than his mother and had brown skin.

 He felt mildly embarrassed that he hadn’t known this before and thought that it may have contributed towards the Dursley’s hatred of everything Potter related, including him. 

He remembered all of Vernon’s rant’s over the morning paper about these “illegal immigrants” that were “taking over”. 

Harry wasn’t sure what he was so worried about - the Dursleys lived in Surrey, which was not known for being particularly diverse. In fact the only other person he knew who had skin a similar shade to his own was the nice man who owned the corner shop. 

He had almost asked Hagrid where his father was from, but he wasn’t really sure if it was rude. It felt like the sort of thing Dudley would say.

As he finished pulling the last visible weed from the rose bed, Harry sighed. The Dursley’s had really let it get out of hand while he was away. Still, it was a welcome distraction from the memories of his last days at Hogwarts from creeping back in.

Harry yanked open the door to the small metal shed and felt a blast of hot air in his his face. The shed had been turned into a sauna this summer and he tried to breathe shallowly as he entered to put the tools away. He kept one eye on the door. 

Two days ago Dudley had thought it would be funny to lock Harry in during the heat of the afternoon, while Harry was putting the tools away. He had lasted half an hour banging on the door and shouting before the dizziness had taken over and he had slumped to the floor in the middle, avoiding the scorching metal walls. It had taken him another ten minutes to realise that the metal watering can he had been using earlier in the day still had two inches of water left in the bottom.

He tried to block out the metallic taste of rust as he slipped at it slowly.

He didn’t know how long it had been until Petunia found him, only that he had been missing to start putting the dinner on and Dudley had eventually confessed what he had done.

Tools away, and Harry safely out of the sweltering shed, he cautiously  knocked on the back door of the house.

“Yes, what is it?” Snapped Petunia as she craned her neck round the door.

“I’ve finished the beds on the back wall.” Harry replied, gesturing to the now pristine roses.

Petunia scanned the area quickly before humming assent and pulling the door open more to let him in. The shade of the house was blissful, but Harry knew he couldn’t stay. It wasn’t time to start dinner yet.

”A glass of water, and then I want you out of the house boy.” Called Petunia as she strode to the stairs.

Harry nodded and tried not to run to the sink. He grabbed a glass, and checking that no one was watching he quickly filled it up three times to the brim, chugging the water down as quick as he could. He had to stop as he was starting to feel faintly sick.

He washed up the glass and immediately dried it, putting it back exactly where he had found it on the shelf.

As he faced the door he attempted to fix the gaping neckline of his faded red t-shirt to cover as much of his shoulders as possible before venturing outside again.

He hurried down the driveway, but once round a corner, out of sight of any of number four’s windows he slowed. He shuffled down Privet Drive kicking a small piece of gravel down the pavement.

Kicking the stone more forcefully he attempted to think of a plan of what to do to avoid the sense of boredom and loneliness that had followed him all summer. He gritted his teeth to bite down the anger and hurt as he thought of the lack of letters from his friends. Were they even his friends anymore? They had said they would write at the end of the year but nothing had arrived at all. Not one word.

Harry remembered what Quirrel had said in his dream - had they put together Harry’s vague answers about what had happened to Quirrel and his death. Did they know what Harry was? He thought they might have at the end of last year but they had acted so happy to see him alive and ok that he that thought that maybe they just didn’t mind.

Harry wondered if the shock had worn off and now they realised that they couldn’t be friends with a murderer.

Passing by the small pub garden and keeping his head down to prevent looking at any of the people enjoying a beer in the sun, he wondered where Dudley was so he could avoid him.

He approached the corner shop that was two streets down from the Dursley’s and thought of the blissful air conditioning inside. 

The bell rang as the door swung open and the man at the counter looked up to see who had entered. He smiled when he saw it was Harry, he never eyed him like he was a delinquent like all the other shop keepers down the road. 

Harry gave a small smile back and pretended to peruse the meal deal section, while enjoying the cool air from the fridges.

”Back again already?” The shopkeeper called out. “Which meal-deal are you not going to buy today?” He joked.

”I’ve got my eye on the salt and vinegar crisps, and I think I fancy a Fanta.” Replied Harry. They had the same exchange almost every day this week. In reality Harry had never had a Fanta, but Dudley seemed to enjoy them.

”I see, and which sandwich?”

”Not sure yet” Harry didn’t want to leave the cool air of the shop just yet.

The bell rang and the door swung open again. A customer with a large parcel entered and approached the deck. Harry took this as a chance to slip back out the door. Leaving without buying anything was always the most awkward part.

Back outside with nothing to do Harry was left alone with his thoughts. It doesn't matter if my friends don’t care anymore he decides, I can still get out of here Hogwarts will be there in September and I won’t have to come back until next summer.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Morning broke out the backside of a truck-stop

The end of a line a real, rainbow-likening, luck stop

Where you could say I became chronologically fucked up

Put ten bucks in just to get the tank topped off

Then I found a place, it's dark and it's rotted

It's a cool, sweet kinda place

Where the coppers won't spot it

And I destroyed the map, I even thought I forgot it

However, everyday I'm dumping the body