We walk, we walk
Harry couldn’t understand Ron’s shock. He watched as Avizina nodded at Ron’s expletives, moving her wand as she filled all three cups with chamomile tea. Ron was busying himself to remove Scabber’s claw from himself, trying his best to shove the rat back inside the pocket of his coat.
“You keep good hold of him. He’d make a good snack for the cats around here.” Avizina chuckled, lighting herself a cigarette. “You don’t know who that is, Harry.” she softly said in Romanian, before pointing to Ron, who was struggling to keep Scabbers in his pocket. “Your friend here is probably familiar.”
“Fred and George said the only time they heard mum swear was when Black’s mother’s obituary was in the Daily Prophet. Like - swear because she was so happy. And you know my mum.” Ron finally managed to say, taking a sip of his cup of tea. Between its steam, the smoke from the cauldron and Avizina’s cigarette, Harry could barely see either of them. “He was one of You-Know-Who’s followers- he was high-up, I think. Why would… why would he be at your-...” he looked towards Avizina, turning his question towards her. “Why would he be at Harry’s parents' wedding? H-Harry’s parents were-”
Avizina didn’t wait for him to finish, pulling away from her cigarette, each of her pauses accompanied by smoke. With each of her words, Harry became more and more nauseated. He didn’t know if it was from the smell of tobacco, from the greenish-white smoke and steam clouds surrounding them, or from what the old woman was saying, but he felt ready to raise himself and leave.
“People turn against each other in wartime, what can I say? You both have a lot of growing up to do until you’ll be able to put yourself in their shoes. Killed a bunch of Muggles, didn’t he? What does it matter now, anyway… He’s in prison now, in Azkaban. Doesn’t matter one bit now. He’ll rot, is what he’ll do, for what he’s done. Ce sa ne pese… You look a bit pale there, Harry, you alright?”
In a blur, he nodded, raising himself up and going towards the fence. He raised his wand, and flicked it, muttering the spell under his breath as the door opened for him. He didn’t know if Ron followed, and couldn’t find it within himself to turn himself around and check.
All he was focused on was the man smiling next to his parents, the well-groomed, well-dressed man with dark hair carefully framing his face. Did his parents know before they did? Did they imprison him? How did Hagrid even find the picture?
Someone had that picture of his father with Voldemort’s follower, Sirius Black. Someone that was still alive, someone that Hagrid asked for a picture. Someone that first hid that Black was even at the wedding, and then tried to do a shoddy job of hiding the picture itself.
Despite not knowing where he wanted to go, Harry picked up the pace. He ran, and ran, as his clothes became drenched with sweat. He wished he knew how to Apparate, as he wanted nothing more than to leave, leave for a place where no one could bother him, where he knew no one, where nothing could bother him for the rest of his life. All he could do was run, just pitifully run, as he had no broom, and just a wand in his hand, and his small, golden dragon around his arm. If only he knew how to make that dragon the size of a real one, and fly with Rhys, fly far away, until he reached a place, and a time, and a person, who held all the answers he wanted. He wished he could knock on Hagrid’s door, and on Dumbeldore’s door, and get everyone together, to tell him everything.
He ran to the end of the village, and came to a rest near an enormous elm. He sat himself down, and unbuttoned his coat, looking down on the village. Muggle children were starting to leave the wizard village and go to their own homes, having received gifts of fruit, money, and the luckiest ones, the chance to see magic through cracks in fences, in exchange for their carols. The groups of children passed by Harry and ignored him, already used to the eccentricities of wizards, and knowing not to bother them. Harry turned and watched them go to their own homes, knocking on doors and grinning widely as their parents would welcome them with open arms, asking them what they received and telling them to change and get ready for Christmas. Caught up in the life stories of the children, some of them a mere year or two younger than him, Harry felt hot tears running down his face.
He wished he were with his mother, and his father, and that he would be coming home covered in snow, and his mother would make them tea, and they would all sit down, and he could welcome the caroling Muggles - well, no, he wouldn’t do that, would he? He would have remained in England, of course he would. Harry Potter would have been nothing but a name for a kid, not a household name for an entire country.
Harry wiped the hot tears from his face, and took in a sharp breath of air. He took his coat off, too warm for him and too soaked in his sweat, and slowly started walking back. Looking straight at the ground, he only raised his eyes when he was in front of Lena’s door, and heard two voices whispering to each other, arguing. He pressed his ear against the fence, and slowly moved to a spot from where he could hear snippets of conversation in Romanian.
“But it wasn’t your business-” Harry recognised Lena’s voice, hushed and impatient.
“Are you teaching me?” the other voice interrupted, in a much calmer tone. Harry recognised it as Avizina’s voice.
“I made a decision to not mention anything about that night, me. Hagrid, Dumbledore-... me. Harry can’t know. And you…!”
“Dumbledore told me nothing of the sort. I know him well, better than you, unless you forgot, and he would not hide this from Harry if asked, either. He’s strong, a stronger kid than you think.
And has to be, but you coddle him like you’re his mother.”
“I would never pretend to be.“
“Rightly so. Boy asks you anything, you have to be honest with him. It’s not your decision to hide these things from him. And that, that is what I decide, me.”
“You’ve heard about Sirius Black. You know what he did.”
“Mhm, and you too have heard about-“
Harry couldn’t listen anymore. He moved along the fence slowly, feeling his legs tremble under his weight. His body burned under his clothes, and yet his ears and nose felt like two slabs of ice. Slowly, he leaned against the gate, and sank against it as it creaked open, closing his eyes as he heard an amalgamation of voices and steps approaching him.
The next time he opened his eyes, Harry found that he could not do anything else. He could only see the cracked white ceiling of his room. He tried to lift an arm, a finger, his mouth, but he felt nothing. It was as if he didn't possess anything but a pair of eyes. And even that pair of eyes felt weak, and warm, and lost.
Suddenly, he felt something else, something more. A pulse behind his eye, a pulse lifting itself to his temple,to his forehead, and to his scar. It was nauseating, and uncomfortable, and it made his eyes even more unfocused, but he was thankful for being more than a pair of eyes.
"He's awake."
He heard a whisper, and recognised Ron’s voice.
He had a pair of ears now, from which he could hear doors opening and closing. A pair of eyes, and a pair of ears.
"He's not awake yet, no… He is still boiling hot." said one voice, and for a moment he saw a thin white hand in front of his eyes, a pinky above his eyes, and he felt the hand settle on his forehead, gently petting his head. Harry could recognise Lena’s hand from a thousand hands.
"Running a terrible fever, isn't he?" agreed another voice, which Harry recognised as belonging to Mrs. Weasley, and again he saw a hand dashing in front of his eyes, this one bearing a wedding ring.
"Should we give him another round of the potion then?" This time, a man’s voice answers, which Harry recognised as Mr. Weasley, and once again he saw a hand reach above him.
"Third time won’t do the charm, Arthur, I’m afraid. It takes time to work."
Harry listened to them talk, closing his eyes as he felt Mrs. Weasley cradle his forehead in her hands. Slowly, he felt he was gaining movement in his limbs, but pretended to be asleep, intently listening to the three adults conversing about how Ron toko the news about Sirius Black. Both Mrs. and Mr. Weasley said that it would have come out anyway, and that it was unavoidable for Harry to not ask questions as he would grow up.
“If you were in my situation, would you ever tell Harry? Would you be able to look him in the eye, tell him he was almost taken right after his parents’ murder by Sirius Black, the man who betrayed his parents, who was ready to kill their child on the spot, or who knows what…”
“Not now, no… Not when they’re so young. There’s things children can handle, and something like that- No, no. Not with Harry’s age.”
The rest of Harry’s trip to Romania was in a daze. He had fractured memories of what happened - Christmas happened, and he remembered he was happy, he remembered joy upon opening Ron’s gift, and he remembered exploring the village from above, on broomsticks, and he remembered that each time Lena looked as if wanting to speak, that she said nothing, and he remembered being back on the train with Ron, and Ron handing him the picture from his parents’ wedding, folded, and that he simply stuck it in his trouser pocket, avoiding unfolding it.
Only after his first night back in Hogwarts, did Harry feel, for the first in a long time, refreshed. He got out of bed without any hitch, any headache, any odd pain in his body. His vision was clear, his head removed of any somber thoughts, of any troublesome images. He pondered staying in bed a bit more, maybe catching another hour or so of sleep. But as much as his spirit was refreshed, the morning cold was seeping through his clothes and catching to his bones. He shivered the cold away as he got dressed, and as he threw his blanket away, saw something flickering in the sunlight.
“You’re finally feeling yourself?” Ron yawned, stretching still in his bed.
“Yeah-... yeah, something like that.” Harry said, sheepishly.
“That’s good, I was worried for you back there-” Ron continued, before retracting and adding “for a moment.” quickly.
“Yeah, me too.” Harry answered, only half paying attention as he reached for the package, which bore a note with handwriting he’d never seen before.
Your father left this in my possession before he died.
It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
Have a wonderfully belated Christmas, Harry.
He examined the note closely, before tearing off one edge of the parcel. Despite the small hole he tore, the material fell in one smooth motion to the floor, folding onto itself like a snake. Harry grasped it carefully, and examined it close. What would his father have done with this weird, grey piece of cloth? What could he even use it for? Sure, it felt really nice to the touch…
The cloth shimmered in the light, like gentle waves under the winter sun.
“What’s that?”
“I-... I don’t know. Someone gave me a late Christmas present. Have you ever seen something like this before?” Harry asked, taking the cloth in his hands, and wrapping himself with it. “I mean, it’s not my style, so I’m not sure who would - mate, are you alright?“
It was only when he saw Ron’s shocked face that he realised that may not be a normal piece of cloth, and it was only when Ron jumped out of bed, and wrapped himself with it in front of Harry, that he understood why his jaw dropped. He’d heard about these objects before, and Ron agreed that he’d never seen one of such good quality before. Everything under Ron’s head was now invisible, and he turned instantly into a bobbing head.
“Who would send such a thing? It must have been expensive!” Ron said over the breakfast table, as they explained Harry’s belated gift to Hermione.
“And rare-”
“Maybe it was my parents’ wedding guest, that guy... Maybe he remembered me.” Harry grumbled bitterly.
“Oh yeah- did you find out who that was?” Hermione asked, and Ron and Harry shot each other a pained, sorrowful look. “I mean, if you don’t want to…” she huffed.
They assured her it was fine, and in a hushed voice Ron said he’d tell her in private.
“Well, I’ve done my own research on vampires. There’s this book called by Gilderoy Lockhart, and-”
“Oh yeah, my mum loves the guy. You would get along.”
This time, it was Hermione’s turn to shoot him a look, as she explained the ways Lockhart has managed to get rid of vampires that were pestering him.