Nearly a day later, Harry awoke, still dizzy and very disoriented. It took him a full five minutes to realize he was lying in his bed. His head was throbbing and he could not remember why. He reached over to the nightstand and after some fumbling, found his glasses.
Still dizzy, he began to look around the room. Though brightly lit, the room was empty except for him. An array of potions and bottles stood on the nightstand. He could tell he was still wearing his pajamas, but something did not feel right. He remembered the party but not how he had gotten to bed.
Suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea, Harry struggled out of bed, his legs and arms inexplicably stiff. He quickly wondered for how long he had been in bed. Standing of course did not help his dizziness, but the nausea was quickly subsiding for some unknown reason.
Exasperated, he toddled back to bed. Before he could remove his glasses, even before he could pull the blankets around himself, Harry was completely overcome by his disorientation. His head fell forward and his eyes snapped shut. Surprisingly, as he passed unconscious, Harry’s glasses did not break.
Not even ten minutes later, Mrs. Weasley entered the room. She was startled to not only find Harry on his stomach, above the blankets but also wearing his glasses. She lovingly rolled the unconscious boy to his back, gently removed his glasses and pulled the soft blankets back to his chin. Harry did not respond to this, but only slept.
Having hoped for the best; that Harry would wake up again, Mrs. Weasley sighed. True he was unconscious, but he still had certain needs. She cast a simple spell on Harry that would ensure the food he was about to receive would travel to his stomach and not get stuck in his lungs. Being unable to swallow was no longer a problem either. Mrs. Weasley put a carefully mixed bottle-full of potions and nutrients to Harry’s mouth. The contents slid down the back of his throat, but the spell did it’s job and Harry did not choke.
Afterwards, Mrs. Weasley set the bottle aside and pulled back the blankets. She made sure Harry did not need changed, as certain biological affects still occurred even in a comatose condition, as they had the last time. The blankets replaced, she quietly left the room, brushing a single tear from her cheek. Little did she know, this routine would continue for a while. Fortunately, her children and Hermione were willing to help care for their friend, though Ginny found it difficult for a multitude of reasons. She often sat at Harry’s bedside, quietly crying.
It would be four days since the party, on August fifteenth, when Harry would finally wake up. Once again it took him a few minutes to realize where he was. Unlike the last time, he was not alone. He quietly placed his glasses on his face and Ginny came into clearer focus. She was sitting on the bed’s edge, sniffling softly, her cheeks glistening, holding a tiny silver locket, which was open.
“Ginny? Are you alright,” Harry asked seriously. He was very concerned for her, as she seemed the saddest he could remember seeing her.
“Oh, I’m alright Harry … Harry!” He jumped as Ginny spun around, obvious relief visible in her face. “You’re alright, and you’re you. Aren’t you? I mean, you’re thinking like your older self again?”
Harshly embarrassing memories of the days Ginny referred to were clear in Harry’s mind. It had been painful to watch himself do those things, no less than through his own eyes. He had been entirely unable to stop himself, no matter how loud he shouted at himself. “Yeah, I’m fine. I guess I’m me still,” Harry replied sheepishly.
Ginny threw herself around Harry, nearly smashing him against the mattress. He returned the hug with his own, small, skinny arms. “You wait here! I have to go tell mum!” Ginny raced from the room, leaving Harry to agonizingly recall his childish actions. He simply could not understand why he had lapsed into a child-like state. Particularly embarrassing was his jaunt through the house in his birthday suit, something he knew the others would not let him forget easily.
Fortunately, Harry did not have long to dwell on his childish behaviors. Mrs. Weasley moved swiftly into the room, closely followed by his friends. “Oh, Harry. Thank goodness you’re alright.” Mrs. Weasley began to fuss over him, making sure he was comfortable, taking his temperature and asking if he was hungry.
“I’m alright.” And he was. His head did not hurt anymore and he really did feel fine, considering he had been out cold for so long. “Really, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? How about I get you some more potions and maybe some soup?” Tired of sitting already, Harry pulled back the blankets to get up. “No, no Harry. You should stay in bed a while longer, just to be safe.”
Her childish placating and fussing over him was beginning to annoy Harry. He was not that little kid anymore. “I’m fine!” He had not meant to shout so disrespectfully, but he wished they would stop staring at him now.
“I’m glad to see you’re back to that moody teenage boy again,” Mrs. Weasley said calmly, mustering a small smile. “But you’ve been unconscious for four days. So until I’m sure you are better, you will stay here!” She got up and ushered the others from the room. “I’m going to bring you some food, to help you get your strength back. Please stay in bed.”
Harry sighed deeply. “Four days,” he muttered out loud. Then it hit him like a slap on his face. Today was he fifteenth, which meant there were only two weeks before term started. He half-whined, half-groaned, falling back onto his pillows. There was no way he could learn what he had to in such a short time. He had already spent the past month trying, with no luck. And now, it felt like he had put off an essay until the night before it was due.
He was still mumbling to himself when Mrs. Weasley returned, carrying a tray loaded with food. Harry reluctantly sat up and let her sat the tray over his legs. It was loaded with chicken soup, sandwiches and two glasses of milk. He was surprised to find that just seeing the food suddenly made him hungry.
Mrs. Weasley grabbed a tablespoon and one of the potions from the nightstand. She filled the spoon to the brink of overflow and turned it toward Harry’s mouth. “This will help Harry. Open wide.” The potion had no odor and was a translucent blue. Harry opened his mouth, which could barely accommodate such a large spoon. He closed his lips around the base of the handle and Mrs. Weasley tilted the spoon upward.
The contents hit Harry’s tongue, which instantly recoiled; not only did it taste horrible, but it actually burned. He tried to spit it from his mouth, but Mrs. Weasley was ready. Her hand was under his chin, tilting it upward, gently pushing his head backwards. “Swallow it.” He did as told, swallowing several times, until Mrs. Weasley was satisfied he had drank the whole spoonful. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it,” she asked, removing the spoon.
Coughing and sputtering, somewhat exaggeratedly, Harry reached for a glass of milk. After a big gulp, to cleanse his tongue of the taste, he looked up to Mrs. Weasley, his eyes watering from the repulsive medicine. “Why is it all medicine tastes so bad?”
Mrs. Weasley smiled and tousled his unwashed hair. “You should be glad I gave most of the potions to you when you were asleep. Now, eat this and get some rest.” She left Harry alone, who cringed at the thought of having drank a worse tasting potion.
Even though he had been unconscious for the past four days, Harry found himself exhausted that night. He had spent the evening berating himself for what he had done to himself. He was convinced he should have been back to normal within a week of his punishment.
When he did drift off to sleep, he would no longer have the peaceful dreams of childhood. He would wake up wishing he had remained a child, with peaceful dreams about animals and playing in an endless meadow. Even the nightmares were comical now. They were nothing to be feared, not like those that now plagued his restless night.
After being woken for the third time that night, with the same dreams about the Department of Mysteries that he had had all summer, Harry angrily threw his blankets and pillows to the floor. He would be found in the morning, curled up in the middle of his bed, shivering against the early-morning cold.
After getting up, dressing and walking to breakfast, Harry spent the morning away from his friends, trying to think. He did not allow anything to distract him until his three friends found him sitting in the master bedroom, lost in thought, around noon.
“What are you doing up here alone,” Hermione asked.
“Nothing,” Harry sighed. “Just trying to figure something out.” He looked at the three and noticed Ginny was wearing her new locket. They all sat beside him.
“Anything we can help with,” Hermione asked cheerfully.
“Not unless any of you have read about Dumbledore’s spell,” Harry responded dejectedly.
“No,” Ginny sighed simply. Ron was already looking hopefully at Hermione.
“No, I never heard of a spell like it. It’s obviously powerful, but must be really obscure.”
They all turned to her in shock. “You’re kidding,” Ron said. “You haven’t found anything in a month?”
“Well, it’s not like at school, Ron. I can’t just go to the library, I have to use the books I have. It’s probably in the restricted section anyway.”
The room was quiet for several minutes. “Um, Harry, I know this doesn’t help, but I wanted to thank you for the locket. It’s really beautiful.” Ginny’s face went scarlet after she said this.
“You’re welcome Ginny,” Harry sighed mournfully. “At least you can remember me with it when you go back to the castle.” Harry looked away from his own feet, which he had been determinedly starring at, and into Ginny’s eyes. It was then he realized, looking at her sad face, what he had felt when he saw his own image in the locket’s left half. “Listen Ginny, I’m sorry”
“You don’t need to apologize Harry. I should have waited to thank you.”
“No, not that. I wanted to apologize to you, and Ron, and Hermione too. I’m sorry about what happened to you guys. I’m really sorry that I just had to go to London, and I dragged you all with me.”
“No, that’s not true,” Ginny said, almost pleadingly.
“Harry, I already told you that I don’t blame you,” Hermione assured.
“Yeah mate, you wanted to go alone. You told us to stay behind, but we wouldn’t let you go alone.”
“It would’ve been too dangerous,” Ginny added. “You couldn’t help that it was a trap.”
“I should have known it was,” Harry moaned sulkily.
“No Harry,” Hermione said sharply. “We don’t blame you and we won’t let you blame yourself either.”
But Harry knew better. He had been stupid and rushed off without thinking. He could never forgive himself for what happened to them, or that Sirius had died to save him. He would never again allow his friends to be hurt by Voldemort, because he did something stupid. He truly wished, he had remembered Sirius’ mirror. But he realized, sitting around and pouting would not help him, so he agreed to spend the afternoon with the others. Sitting alone thinking was not helping anyway.
That evening Harry and Ron were playing wizard’s chess on Harry’s bed. The girls were off in their room. As he yawned loudly, Harry looked at his watch, surprised to find it was already after nine.
Ron was already on the verge of beating him, yet again, so Harry conceded. “I’m going to go get a bath and go to bed.”
“Any plans for going streaking again?” Ron wore a huge grin and began to laugh.
“Shut up,“ Harry yelled, but he too was laughing. He could not explain why he was not angrier, but he supposed it was one of the funnier things he had done. He went to the bathroom, coming back in fifteen minutes to an empty room. The need to sleep growing, Harry went to bed, assuming Ron had gone to the girls’ room, since he did not go to bed until almost midnight usually.
Harry’s sleep was never peaceful that night …
“You’ve found the Potter boy, my Lord?”
“Yes, Lucius. I don’t know how he hid his mind for so long, but I knew he could not do it forever.”
“He is a weak fool. Thinking that the Ministry could keep me in Azkaban if he named me as your loyal follower.”
“Yes, the Dementors obey me now, and are happy to release all of my Death Eaters. In exchange, I only need give them replacements, such as those fools you captured.”
“Surely you would question them first my Lord?”
“There is no need now. I only wanted one of Dumbledore’s followers to lead me to Potter. But now, he we lead me to himself.”
“What of those protecting him?”
“Protecting? Those children cannot protect themselves! Capture them as gifts to the Dementors. Should one from Dumbledore’s pathetic Order get in your way, kill him.”
“Of course.”
“Now, leave me, so I may find him. … POTTER!”
Harry awoke sharply, a deep sense of dread filling his insides. He could still feel Voldemort’s rage, surging through his scar. He was furious that Harry had overheard the plan.
Harry was terrified by what he had overheard. Not that he was in danger, he was used to being in danger. But he was putting his friends in danger, yet again. He could not just sit in bed and let the Death Eaters find and capture him and his friends. Theirs was a fate worse than death if Voldemort found where he was hiding.
Perhaps too quickly, he came to the conclusion that he could no longer stay at Grimmauld Place. He was determined not to be responsible for hurting his friends again. He steadied his rapid breathing, looked at the clock (4:27 a.m.) and jumped out of bed. He swiftly peeled his sweat-soaked pajamas off and dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. He grabbed his wand (thankful that Dumbledore had brought his school things from the Dursleys after he arrived here), some gold and a hooded sweatshirt to use as a jacket during the cold London nights and quietly crept out of the room.
Standing in the hallway, before the door, Harry began to have second thoughts. He quickly chased these from his head with reminders that Hermione had nearly died the last time she encountered a Death Eater. The thing that really concerned him was that he would be exposed and vulnerable to the dangers of muggle London, in addition to the Death Eaters. He reached up, and quietly as he could, unbolted the door and opened it to the chilly night air.
A thick layer of fog blanketed the streets of London. Harry was only a few blocks away when the cold began to bother him. Even with the hooded sweatshirt, his tiny body could not stay warm. A whiney voice was telling him to go back, where it was warm, but Harry did not listen.
Instead he strengthened his determination not to go back. He started jogging, hoping he could generate his own heat. He had left in such a hurry that he had not planned where to go. He knew only bits and pieces of London, but the two places he knew how to reach from Grimmauld Place, by foot, were in the opposite direction he had chosen. He had no desire to go to the Ministry of Magic or St. Mungo’s Hospital, which was good because he feared if he walked past Grimmauld Place again, the whiney voice just might convince him to go inside. He trudged on, unaware just how dangerous the section of London he was entering was.
Fortunately for him, though he did not think so, a police patrol stumbled upon Harry near dawn. He had already tired of running to stay warm and was only walking. The early sunlight had not yet been strong enough to warm him.
Harry tried to keep walking casually as the police car stopped near him. He realized it must look quite odd to the police that a child, who looked three, maybe four, was walking alone through such a dangerous neighborhood.
The officer who stepped out of the car was a Metropolitan Police Officer. She crouched down to Harry’s level, a curious smile on her face. A quick glance at her uniform’s lapels identified her as a sergeant and her name badge read “Sergeant Philips.” Her blonde hair was just visible under her hat, her blue eyes glinted with mild curiosity and her uniform was impeccably clean and fitted her surprisingly gracefully.
“What are you doing out here, all alone,” she asked. Her tone was embarrassing and Harry simply tried to keep walking, as though she were not there. Of course that did not work; she held out an arm and gently stopped him, her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes now did the customary double glance to his forehead but she said nothing of his scar. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone. Do you know where you live?” Not that it would have down any good to have her take him to a house she could not see, Harry hated the tone she continued to use.
From her perspective, Harry’s reluctance and his eyes shifting to glance around her seemed suspicious. “Are you running away?” Harry could not see how that was her business, forgetting his outward appearance.
“I’m just out for a walk,” he said casually.
Sergeant Philips was unimpressed by his response. “Your parents are probably worried sick about you.” Harry almost told her that was not possible, as they were dead. “But since you don’t know where you live, we’ll have to take you to the station. Don’t worry, you’re parents will call the police looking for you,” she added, misreading Harry’s frustration as fear. Harry contemplated stunning her, his hands in the large front pocket of his sweatshirt, resting on his wand, but then he would have her partner to contend with too. “Or, if you know your phone number, we could call them first.” Harry realized just how young he would look now, with no answer.
Sergeant Philips stood up and with her hands on his shoulders, gently steered Harry into the backseat of the police car. She then entered beside him and her partner began to drive. Harry was unsure why she had not sat in front as she had been when they found him. It soon became clear that she thought he was scared and this would comfort him. “Are you cold,” she asked, finally noticing how pink his cheeks were. Harry silently shook his head. “Well, what’s your name, so we know when your parents call?”
“Harry,” Harry mumbled in response. He hoped against hope that Mrs. Weasley would not find a way to call and the police would just let him go.
He was soon distracted by what the other officer was saying into the police radio. “… We have a runaway boy, looks to be three-”
“Six, er, five,” Harry interrupted, almost saying his true age, but realizing they would never believe him.
As they were stopped at an intersection, the driver turned back and looked Harry up and down. “He says he’s five. His name is Harry. Doesn‘t know his address or phone number…” Harry stopped listening as Sergeant Philips began to speak to him again.
“Harry, if you’re five, why did you say six at first?”
Harry quickly thought up a lie. “I’m almost six,” he responded, managing to fake the excitement a child would have over an approaching birthday.
“Oh, you’re a big boy, huh?” Harry wished she would stop talking to him like he was a child, but gave an excited nod. He knew anything less would not be normal.
Minutes later, they arrived at a police station. Sergeant Philips took Harry’s hand and lead him through the bustle of other officers. She took him to a small, empty conference room. “Wait here Harry, I’ll be right back. And don’t worry, you’re safe here.” She turned on a television, mounted near the ceiling in one corner, but Harry did not pay attention to the commercials now playing. “Are you hungry?” Harry shook his head and she left.
He took a seat at the table and let out a deep, long sigh. He was beginning to wonder if any of the busy police officers would notice if he just walked out, when he realized the news was on. The newscaster had caught his attention by reporting on a London businessman’s disappearance.
“This makes the thirty-seventh disappearance this month, just in London. Reports across the country present a total of 223 people disappearing since June.”
Harry found his throat very tight. Sergeant Philips had returned just as the newscaster said how many disappearances since June. Harry jumped as she sat some hot cocoa in front of him. “How-how many people did he say were missing,” Harry asked, an unintentional intone of fear in his voice.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. There’s no reason for you to be scared and worry about that.” She quickly changed the channel to cartoons.
“But I wanted to watch that,” Harry protested.
“You’re an unusual little boy,” she said amusedly. “The news is just to frightening for you to watch right now.” Harry wanted to protest further, but she slid the cocoa closer to him and left again. As he was too short to reach the television, he was stuck with the cartoons. Not paying attention to the television again, Harry slowly drank the cocoa given to him. He could feel it warming his body as he drank, finally realizing just how cold he had become.
As he drank the last drops of the cocoa, some minutes later, Sergeant Philips finally returned again. She sat across from Harry and laid a pad of paper and a pen in front of her. She sighed deeply, but quickly forced a smile when she noticed Harry watching her so closely.
“I have good news Harry. Your parents called and are on their way to get you.” She paused and waited for his reply. When he gave none, not even returning a smile, she continued. “But before they come, I have to ask you some questions, alright?” Harry nodded, puzzled about what she would ask. “Do you know how you got that scar on your head?”
Harry groaned loudly, he hated people asking about that stupid scar. But when Sergeant Philips looked concernedly at him, he quickly spoke the only explanation that would be believable. “I was in a car crash when I was a baby,” he said.
Again she was concerned, but continued her questions, after writing down his reply. “Why did you run away this morning?” Harry looked away, not wanting to answer. “Does your mommy or daddy hurt you?”
“What? No!” She wrote down more than he had said, but blocked it from his view.
“Then, is their something at home that scares you?”
Harry had to deal with many more questions like this until Mr. and Mrs. Weasley arrived. When she did, Mrs. Weasley rushed to Harry, scooped him from the chair and held him tight. “Oh, Harry, you had us so worried. What were you thinking?”
Still holding Harry tight to her, as though she thought he could slip away, Mrs. Weasley turned to the officers in the room and thanked them for finding him. Fortunately, Harry’s answers to their questions were sufficient to convince the police he was not being mistreated at home. Still they had some further questions for Harry’s “parents.” Mr. Weasley offered to answer these while Mrs. Weasley took Harry home.
She still held Harry as she left the police station, not saying a word to him. She walked a few blocks and as Harry began to think they would walk back to Grimmuald Place, she entered an alley and once making sure no muggles were around, she apparated.
Harry found himself sitting on his bed, Mrs. Weasley sitting on Ron’s, across from him. He knew he had more questions to answer, but all he wanted was to be alone. “You’re in big trouble young man. That was very irresponsible of you to run away like that. What were you thinking?”
Harry, his ears still burning in shame, his feelings stung by being shouted at, began to tell Mrs. Weasley about what he had overheard. He told her how he had done it to keep them all safe and that he did not want anyone hurt again, because of him. He did not see how compassionate she looked at him. “I didn’t want you to blame me, if Ron and Ginny were hurt again,” he said sulkily, looking determinedly at his shoes.
It was now Mrs. Weasley’s turn to feel hurt. “Harry,” she said slowly, moving to kneel in front of him. “I never blamed you for what happened to my children last June. You know I never could, don’t you?” Harry opened his mouth to speak. “No. It’s not your fault. None of what happened was.”
“Sirius’ death was,” Harry said coldly. Mrs. Weasley could think of no response, looking into his glistening eyes, which threatened tears.
“That’s not true,” she finally said, pulling him to his feet and into a hug.
“Yes-”
She only shushed him, cradling his head between her left shoulder and right hand, patting his back with her left. Though he sniffled, Harry did not let himself cry. “He wouldn’t blame you Harry,” Mrs. Weasley assured, tearfully. “You can’t blame yourself.”
Harry closed his eyes tight, not wanting the tears to flow. But they found their way through his eyelids, and he felt the warm droplets slide down his cheeks.
When Mrs. Weasley next spoke, she was very serious. “Harry, I don’t want you running away again. No matter what You-Know-Who says, he cannot get to you here. This house is safe and secure, and Professor Dumbledore made sure he can’t hurt you in your sleep anymore either. You-Know-Who must want to trick you into leaving, where we can’t protect you.”
Normally, Harry would protest that he did not need protecting, but something hit him hard, like a Bludger to the chest. This house is safe. He really had lured Sirius out of hiding to his death, how could he forget that. “Then it is my fault. I also should’ve known he tricked me in June, and Sirius is dead because I’m an idiot. He died because he had to leave the safety of this house to save me.”
Mrs. Weasley could only hold him close until he fell asleep. She could think of nothing to comfort him during the half-hour in which he cried himself to sleep. She did not care that his tears soaked through to her shoulder. She just knew she could not let him go when he felt so badly. Only when he fell asleep, did she dare let him go, laying him on his bed. But she stayed by his side, knowing how much worse he could feel when waking up.