A Stolen Past by nuw255
Chapter Notes: Dumbledore takes Harry to see his legal guardian. That’s all I’m saying.
“Molly, if you’ll excuse us, I believe Harry and I have an important appointment that we don’t want to miss,” Professor Dumbledore said, suddenly coming to his feet. “Come along, Harry.”
Harry stood and followed him out into the garden of the Burrow.
“Albus, wait,” Mrs. Weasley cried as she hurried after them. “Where are you going?”
“To do something I ought to have done a long time ago,” Dumbledore said mysteriously. He waved his wand in a circle, and a long, charcoal gray traveling cloak with a large hood appeared from thin air. “Put this on, Harry,” he instructed. “I don’t want you being recognized - at least, not yet.” While Harry fastened the cloak around his shoulders and hid his face with the hood, Dumbledore conjured a matching cloak for himself and did likewise.
“We may be awhile, but don’t worry; everything will be just fine,” the Headmaster called to Mrs. Weasley, who still stood next to the door looking torn between relief that Dumbledore was finally doing something about Harry’s predicament, and indignation at being kept in the dark about it. “Say hello to Arthur for me if he gets home before we return.”
Turning to Harry, he said, “Now, hold tight to my arm if you would. We’re going to Apparate.”
Harry, who had no idea what ‘Apparate’ meant, simply did as he was instructed. A moment later, everything went black and he had the alarming sensation of being squeezed through a very small rubber tube. He clutched Dumbledore’s arm tighter and struggled to draw breath. He was suffocating. An instant later, however, he was suddenly out of the tube, breathing fresh air and standing in the sunlit outdoors once again.
After taking several huge gulps of oxygen, Harry rounded on the Headmaster. “Why didn’t you warn me that I wouldn’t be able to breathe?”
“Shhh!” the old man commanded from the shadows beneath his hood. “We wouldn’t want someone recognizing your voice,” he quickly added in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t warn you because the inability to breathe is merely an illusion brought on by a brain that still wants to think in Muggle terms. In time, you will learn to easily Apparate without the slightest discomfort. I do apologize for frightening you like that, but the fact that your first experience with Apparition came as such a surprise will only serve to help you learn more quickly. Now, I suggest we get indoors; it is not advisable to be seen loitering in front of this particular pub.”
It was at this point in the conversation that Harry finally looked around and realized, to his great astonishment, that they were no longer standing in the garden of the Burrow. Instead, they stood in a dirty side street of an unfamiliar town, in front of a shabby inn. The inn sported a large sign depicting a wild boar's severed head which was leaking blood onto a white cloth. Harry shuddered involuntarily, wondering what sort of place Dumbledore had brought him to, and placed his senses on alert. He had resolved not to use magic in front of anyone for fear of running afoul of Wizarding law, but that resolution did not extend to circumstances where self-defense was necessary.
Staying close behind Dumbledore, Harry entered the dimly-lit pub. It was a small, dirty room, which smelled strongly of wet animal hair. The smell made him gag. As he followed the Headmaster to the bar, Harry glanced around at the other patrons, and noted that he and Dumbledore were not the only ones who thought it prudent to conceal their faces.
When he reached the bar, Dumbledore leaned over close to the barman and said, in the same hoarse whisper he had used outside, “Canary Cream.” Harry was completely confused by this statement, but the old barman seemed to understand. He nodded curtly and led the pair through a back door and into a shabby bedroom, where he left them and shut the door.
As soon as the door was closed, Dumbledore flicked his wand, causing both his and Harry’s traveling cloaks to vanish, and said, “I apologize for the secrecy, but I’m afraid that you and I may be about to do something that is not entirely ethical, and I’d rather not let Molly get wind of it. Oh, she would approve, of course; however, I’d rather not give her something she can hold over my head for the rest of my life. Now, before we get started, I need to ask you: do you know how to use that wand you have sticking out of your back pocket?”
“Er- yeah. I think so,” Harry replied hesitantly.
“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Would you mind demonstrating for me?”
“No, not at all,” Harry said. “But won’t I get in trouble for using magic outside school? Mrs. Weasley said something about that.”
“Harry, I am your Headmaster, not some law enforcement official from the Ministry of Magic. And between you and me, the Ministry has no way of knowing when underage magic is performed anyway. For the most part, they rely on wizard parents to keep their children in line. The few like yourself, who live only with Muggles, are the only ones who are really watched. However, I have a feeling that - given the circumstances in which you find yourself - the Ministry will no longer be watching the Dursleys’ home for signs of unauthorized magic.”
“Why not?” asked Harry.
“Because whoever is behind all of this had to make sure that the Ministry would not be notified if you were to perform accidental magic. Of course, this also means that we are dealing with someone who has very important connections within the Ministry. We must tread carefully until the time is right - hence the need for the hooded cloak. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like you to demonstrate some magic. Anything you like.”
“Okay,” said Harry, drawing the wand he had taken from the dead Peter Pettigrew. It felt slightly awkward in his hand, and he suddenly realized that - other than the engraving spell Mrs. Weasley had helped him do for Hassseth’s headstone - the only thing he had used a wand for was the Four-Point Spell.
Pointing the wand at one of the pillows on the bed, Harry said, “Accio.” The pillow zoomed toward him, but before it had a chance to reach him, he Banished it to the far side of the room before making it hover and saying, “Diffindo,” as he made a slashing motion with the wand. The pillow split in two, spilling feathers all over the floor. Harry ended by using the wand to re-stuff and repair the pillow before returning it to the bed. With a nervous smile, he turned to see the Headmaster’s reaction.
“Very good,” Dumbledore said in an even voice that betrayed no trace of emotion. “I was thinking more along the lines of transfiguring a teacup into a mouse, or something of the sort, but I suppose that even after all these years I am still biased toward my old subject.”
Harry looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed by his wanton destruction of property, regardless of the fact that he had immediately repaired it. “Sorry, Professor,” he muttered. “I don’t really remember any Transfiguration.”
“No matter,” Dumbledore said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You will soon enough. In the meantime, what you do remember should suffice in the unlikely event that you should need to use it. Now, as you have probably guessed, we shall be paying your aunt and uncle a visit this afternoon.”
For the next five minutes, Harry listened with rapt attention as Dumbledore outlined his plan for getting the Dursleys to cooperate. When he had finished, he instructed Harry to take hold of his arm once again. Doing his best to prepare himself for the unpleasant experience of Apparition, Harry obediently grasped Dumbledore’s arm and they disappeared.
When they reappeared with a loud crack, Harry immediately looked around and discovered that they were standing a few doors down from the Dursleys’ house, just out of sight of the street. Following Dumbledore’s plan, he trudged down the sidewalk toward the home of his aunt and uncle, not bothering to look up until he had arrived on the front porch. He gave three loud knocks, and then waited apprehensively.
A moment later, the door was flung open by a large, beefy man with thinning hair and a bushy mustache. He glared down at Harry for a moment before grabbing him by the collar and dragging him inside.
“Got yourself sent home, did you?” he sneered. “Been brawling again?” He seemed about to throw Harry face first into the wall, when a voice from behind him stopped him cold.
“Not at all, Mr. Dursley. Harry and I were simply in the neighborhood and thought it might be nice if we dropped in for a visit.” As Uncle Vernon turned slowly to face the still-open front door, Albus Dumbledore stepped lightly across the threshold and closed the door firmly behind him.
“You- But-” Uncle Vernon stammered, his eyes wide in horror. Attempting to take control of the situation, he puffed out his chest. “Now see here-”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to release Mr. Potter. He may be your nephew, but I cannot allow you to manhandle him in front of me,” Dumbledore said, calmly raising his wand.
Uncle Vernon’s eyes flitted from the wand to Harry and back again; then he dropped Harry’s collar as though it had scalded him, and began backing away toward the kitchen. Dumbledore immediately lowered his wand and began striding toward him, a serene smile on his face. He nodded at Harry as he passed, and Harry followed in his wake.
“Vernon! Who was at the d-” Harry heard his Aunt Petunia begin to ask. As she appeared in the kitchen doorway, however, she caught sight of Dumbledore, and froze mid-sentence. “P-Professor?” she asked tentatively.
“Good afternoon, Petunia,” Dumbledore replied in the same bright tone he had been using since they arrived. Uncle Vernon had, by this time, backed himself all the way into the kitchen, and was now blocked in by Dumbledore and Harry.
“I- I see you finally found Harry,” she said at last, in a very poor imitation of her normal voice.
“Yes indeed,” Dumbledore replied. “I don’t wish to take too much of your time, so we’ll just be collecting Harry’s school things and setting off. Where have you been storing them?”
“Well- er- you see,” stammered Aunt Petunia. Never in his life had Harry seen his aunt so flustered, and he suddenly found it very enjoyable watching her squirm under his Headmaster’s piercing gaze.
“He took it all when he left the last time,” Uncle Vernon said suddenly. Harry stifled a laugh, as his uncle’s voice came out an octave higher than usual.
“I see,” Dumbledore said as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Then we do have a problem, don’t we? You see, Harry here does not remember taking his trunk or any of his other things with him.” He placed exaggerated emphasis on the words ‘does not remember,’ as he continued to stare unblinkingly at Aunt Petunia.
Petunia gasped.
As if to cover up his wife’s reaction, Vernon exclaimed, “Well that’s not our fault! The boy’s never exactly been a model of responsibility-”
Aunt Petunia let out a gasping sob. “Alright,” she whispered. “We did it. We had him hidden.”
“Petunia!”
“No, Vernon!” she shouted. “No matter what we promised ourselves about squashing the-” she paused for a moment, as if deciding what word to use, “-magic-” she gave a little shudder, “-out of him, this time we really did go too far.”
Uncle Vernon stared at her, his mouth agape and his face bearing a closer resemblance to a giant plum with every passing second.
“Do I have your permission to view your memory, then?” Dumbledore pressed.
Aunt Petunia closed her eyes. Her face wore a pained expression as she nodded slightly.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore exclaimed. He twirled his wand once, and a shallow stone basin appeared on the kitchen table. Uncle Vernon made an odd gurgling sound in his throat, but no one paid him any mind. As soon as the basin had appeared, the old wizard raised his wand and touched it to Aunt Petunia’s temple.
“I’m going to need you to concentrate on the memory I seek,” he said quietly. Petunia nodded, keeping her eyes closed. When Dumbledore finally withdrew his wand a short time later, there seemed to be a length of silvery string stuck to its tip. He carefully dropped it into the stone basin. “Now,” he announced, “we watch.”
Dumbledore prodded the silvery mass with his wand, and it began to move as though it were being stirred. As it spun, the silvery string seemed to liquefy and glow. Just as Harry was beginning to wonder what they were supposed to be watching, cloudy shapes began rising out of the depths of the stone basin. After a moment, they began to solidify until Harry was able to see himself sitting in the backseat of Uncle Vernon’s big company car, while his uncle drove and his aunt rode up front. Everyone was silent, and Harry had a faraway look on his face and tears shining in the corners of his eyes. One moment, he would look like he was about to laugh; the next, he would be close to breaking down into sobs.
Harry watched the memory unfold before him, intensely curious about what had happened to put him in that state. As he pondered this, the car pulled to a stop in front of number four, Privet Drive. He watched himself retrieve a large trunk and a birdcage from the back of the car, and then head inside.
As he dragged his trunk past the entrance to the sitting room, Harry was startled to hear a girlish voice from inside say, “Incarcerous.” Immediately, he was lying on the floor next to his trunk and the overturned cage, bound fast by magical ropes. Smiling down at him with a malevolent look in her eye was a short woman with a flabby, toad-like face.
“Now see here,” began Uncle Vernon, “I’ll have none of that in my house. We agreed-”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Dursley,” the woman replied in her sickly sweet voice, “but surely you recognize the need to restrain the boy. We wouldn’t want him getting violent, now would we?”
“I’ll kill you,” Harry hissed as he struggled against his bonds. “One day, it’ll be just you and me, and you won’t make it out alive.” Even though he was bound and on the floor, his tone was deadly serious as he worked furiously to get his arms free.
The witch laughed airily. “Oh, Mr. Potter; I thought you would have learned by now not to tell such hurtful lies. Perhaps this will help you hold your tongue.” She flicked her wand at him, conjuring a gag to prevent him from speaking. Harry glared daggers at her and remained silent, although he continued his futile struggle against the magical ropes.
“Enough of this nonsense!” shouted Uncle Vernon, who was beginning to turn a light shade of purple. “I only agreed to meet with you because you said you could help us deal with the boy, but here you are doing- doing that in my house. Tell me what you propose, or get out!”
The witch smiled sweetly at him as she retrieved her clipboard from where it had been resting on the arm of a chair. “You have raised your nephew from the time he was fifteen months old, and - until he turned eleven and was informed of what he truly is - you did your best to-” she consulted her clipboard, “-‘squash the weirdness out of him,’ is that right?”
“Yes,” Uncle Vernon answered, still eyeing her with a look of distrust. Harry had a feeling that the only reason his uncle hadn’t thrown her out immediately was because he simply couldn’t dislike someone who would bind Harry on sight.
“Very well,” she continued in her nauseatingly girlish voice. “I am here to offer you a chance to ‘squash the weirdness out of him,’ as you say. I can make Mr. Potter forget all about the magical world, and he’ll go back to just being your nephew, with no recollection whatsoever of anyone or anything related to magic.”
Harry’s eyes widened in horror and he screamed in rage, forgetting that his mouth was stuffed with a gag, as he fought even more furiously against the ropes that held him bound. Uncle Vernon winced at the sound of the word ‘magic,’ but nodded, inviting his visitor to continue.
“I’ll take care of his trunk and his owl; he won’t be needing them anymore. Now, as far as what you need to do, just treat him like you always have, and don’t mention anything about his school, his friends, and so on. Oh, and I suggest you all go on a nice long holiday this summer, just in case any of his friends do come looking for him. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes,” answered Uncle Vernon. “The last time we tried to escape from those freaks from his school, they were able to track us down no matter where we went. How would we be able to escape this time?”
The witch gave a very false laugh before answering, “Last time, you didn’t have my help,” she answered simply. “All I need is your permission to use magic to keep him hidden, and he will be lost to them forever.”
“What happens in the fall when he’s supposed to go back to school, then?” asked Uncle Vernon.
She smiled her sickly sweet smile, and said, “I’ll be arranging for him to attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, since that’s where you’ve been telling people he goes, anyway. There are enough boys there that no one will notice the fact that nobody remembers him.”
“Fine,” said Uncle Vernon. “Get on with it then, and I don’t want you doing any more of- of that in my house. Just hide him and make him forget, and then you’re gone.”
“Of course,” said the witch. She waved her wand at Harry’s school trunk and birdcage, and muttered, “Evanesco,” causing both to disappear. “When he wakes up, the last several years will be a blur for him,” she added as an afterthought. “Tell him he was hit over the head during a fight at the end of term, and that’s why he can’t remember anything.” She leveled her wand at Harry and, with an evil little laugh, said very clearly, “Obliviate.”
The memory ended, its figures slowly dissipating and falling back into the stone basin.
“With your permission, I should like to keep this memory, Petunia,” said Dumbledore. Aunt Petunia nodded her consent, and he waved his wand at the basin, causing it to disappear. Harry assumed that he had simply sent it back where it had come from.
“Who was that, Professor?” Harry burst out, finally unable to restrain himself any longer.
“Her name is Dolores Umbridge, and she is a powerful official in the Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore answered.
“Umbridge.... Hang on- isn’t she the teacher that gave me this?” Harry asked, showing the Headmaster the line of thin, white scars on the back of his right hand.
Dumbledore nodded grimly. “We must tread cautiously, Harry. This is more serious than I had thought, and therefore may take more time than we would like. However, if we frighten her into disappearing, the chances of ever recovering your memory will be next to none.”
“If that’s all-” began Uncle Vernon as he regained the ability to speak.
“No, Mr. Dursley, that is not all,” Dumbledore said firmly, cutting him off. “Petunia, I don’t think it is necessary to say how disappointed I am. I would have expected this sort of behavior from your husband, but not from you. What ever happened to the wide-eyed girl who used to spend her afternoons corresponding with her sister’s elderly Headmaster?”
Harry gaped at Dumbledore. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting that he and Aunt Petunia had at one time been pen friends?
Still sobbing, Aunt Petunia looked up into the Headmaster’s eyes. Her expression was fierce, but Harry couldn’t decide if that was because she was feeling defiance or regret. “She died along with her parents,” she answered in a passionate whisper.
Dumbledore sighed. “How long will you cling to that resentment, Petunia? You cannot continue to blame your sister for the tragedy of losing your parents at a young age.”
“She did nothing to help them!” Aunt Petunia spat.
“Because there was nothing she could do,” Dumbledore finished for her in an understanding voice. “Petunia, you know better than most Muggles that even magic has its limits. Your parents were ill, and no amount of medicine or magic would have been able to cure them. Your bitterness toward your sister not only robbed you of the closeness you once shared with her, it has also robbed you of the close relationship you ought to share with your surrogate son-” both Dursleys and Harry winced at this choice of words, “-and has done almost immeasurable harm to him as well. You have kept him alive, it is true, but you have done little else on Harry’s behalf. Let it go, Petunia. Let the bitterness go, and move on with your life.”
Sobbing into her hands, Aunt Petunia collapsed into a chair without responding.
“I suppose that now it is time for us to be going,” Dumbledore said at last. “Harry?” Harry took one last glance at his sobbing aunt before following his Headmaster out of the house.
A/N: In case you didn’t catch it, the “unethical behavior” Dumbledore engaged in while with the Dursleys was performing Legilimency on Aunt Petunia (the infamous “piercing gaze”). Why else would she have given in so easily?