Chapter Six “ The Distant Relative
When Harry came to, the sun was peeking quite solidly through the hole that was formerly a window, illuminating the ruins around him and warming his body.
He couldn’t bring himself to move. Once again, he had been inside of Voldemort’s mind, seen things from Voldemort’s perspective. But why this? Why did he have to endure so much turmoil? He had never remembered suffering this much emotional pain. It had felt as if he had been killing his own parents. He curled himself into a tight ball and sobbed over this for a very long time.
Finally, when he had achieved composure again, Harry pushed himself onto his knees. He groaned, reaching for his wand and rubbing his sore legs. He straightened his glasses, which had fallen haphazardly from his nose and were hanging from his right ear. Blinking repeatedly, he tried to tell himself that it had been nothing more than an extremely realistic memory.
“Pull yourself together,” he said aloud.
Harry staggered across the room, tracing the wall with one hand in order to keep his balance. He peeked into the small closet. A few moth-eaten articles of clothing still hung in their places. He ran his hands over a long black traveling cloak that must have belonged to his father.
Standing high on his toes, Harry reached up to the shelf above the hanging racks, feeling around for something, anything. Furry legs crawled over his outstretched fingers. He jerked his hand back in repulsion. Luckily, the shelf had been bare and Harry wouldn’t have to risk his hand again.
The dresser towards the back of the room was the only other piece of furniture, aside from the bed and the shattered cot. Harry approached it slowly.
Two picture frames had toppled onto their faces on the top of the dresser. Harry stood each of them up. He stared longingly at them.
The first was held in the frame only by a few remaining shards of glass. It was a very faded photo of his parents holding him. He must have just been born. They were waving happily back at Harry, and his infant self grinned sleepily.
The second photograph featured only his parents. His father stood grinning behind his mother, with his hand on her very pregnant belly. His mother was winking. The glass was entirely gone from this photo. He ran a finger gingerly over his parents’ faces.
There was a dull ache in Harry’s chest. It felt horribly like the sensation he’d had when standing before the Mirror of Erised. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he pushed them back. He was being bombarded with so many emotions and he knew that he had to control them, at least, for now.
Clearing his throat, he opened the topmost of the four dresser drawers. It was filled with nicely folded socks. They seemed so out of place in the mist of the disarray all around Harry. Aside from a few holes nibbled through the fabric, the socks looked pristine and were perfectly aligned in tidy rows.
“Sorry, Mum,” Harry mumbled quietly, as he began to sift through the socks, spoiling his mother’s impeccable laundering. He wanted to make sure that nothing was hidden underneath this perfect filing. And nothing was.
Harry moved on to the second drawer, which contained underwear. He sorted through these items, as well, finding nothing but a stray bolt that had been rattling around inside.
Drawer number three held wool sweaters of varying colors, also neatly folded, but it held nothing more. The final drawer was empty. Harry found this to be very unsettling, but he didn’t know why.
He straightened himself and took another appraising look around the room. There was nothing here that could help him. There was only his single worst memory. Harry glanced again at the remains of the cot. Swallowing the sick feeling that was rising in his throat, he quickly exited into the hallway.
The last room in the house seemed to be undamaged, apart from the effects of time passing and the presence of a family of small gray birds that had made their home in the ceiling’s beams. A sliding glass door opened onto a small wooden balcony, and a sturdy desk stood to Harry’s right. The adjoining wall accommodated two shelves, both of which held a few books each.
Someone had cleaned the place out! This insight awoke the fury that often lied dormant inside of Harry but was currently boiling so very close to the surface. He released a cry that would have shocked him under any normal circumstances. Then he began swearing and throwing objects across the room. He stormed the desk, tearing it open and chucking its contents onto the floor.
In his rage, Harry then picked up the few books on the shelves and hurtled them at the wall facing him. A letter fell from one of the book jackets as it crashed into the wall with a thud. Harry was just about to toss a lamp when he noticed this. He stopped, realizing that his face was sopping with tears and sweat, and replaced the lamp onto the desk.
He crossed the room, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, and kneeled on the floor in order to pick up the letter. It was an aged piece of parchment. Harry unrolled it slowly.
“Dearest Lily,” began the letter. Harry’s heart surged into his stomach as he realized that he was holding a love letter from his father to his mother. Yes, the handwriting was definitely familiar.
“Please don’t apologize for your long letters. I look forward to each and every one of them “ the longer, the better. As I’ve said before, it was my pleasure to tutor you in potions. Stop thanking me! I just can’t believe that you ended up being better than anyone in our year, including me!
I was sorry to hear that summers with your sister are difficult. She’s only angry that she can’t do magic. Try not to be too upset. Whatever she says to you, remember that you are beautiful and talented, and she’s just jealous. At least your parents are supportive. I’m lucky to see a day when my father doesn’t hit me. ”
Harry’s grandfather had hit his father?
“Talent and hard work don’t seem to make a difference to him. No matter what I do, I can’t please him. I wish my mother were still alive. He was so different then.
I can’t wait to see you again. Only two weeks until we start our fifth year at Hogwarts! I hope that you enjoy the remainder of your summer. Yours always, Severus.”
“Snape?” Harry exclaimed, leaping to his feet and cutting his finger on the parchment, in the process. He stuck the bleeding finger into his mouth, but retrieved it immediately when he remembered how dirty his hands were.
This letter was from Snape, not his father! Was his mother going out with Snape? Why would she do that? Questions exploded inside of Harry’s head like firecrackers.
He picked up the book from which the letter had fallen, realizing that it wasn’t a book at all. It was a wooden box posing as a hardbound. Inside, Harry found numerous letters. They all seemed to be from Snape, in the same handwriting, addressed to his mother.
Harry sat down on the floor, curiosity defeating the abhorrence swelling inside of him. He began to read through each of the letters. They were all fairly similar. Snape wrote charming things to “Dearest Lily,” and Harry couldn’t help but wonder how his mother had responded. And had his father known about these letters?
He had probably been sitting there for hours. The late afternoon sun was growing hot, and Harry found that the room had become quite stuffy. He gathered the letters and placed them back into their box. Getting to his feet and dusting himself off, he returned the book to the shelf. He thought that his mother would want them to remain there. He also knew that, had these letters had any real significance, the person who had cleaned out the cottage would have taken them along with everything else.
Harry picked up the books that he had thrown, looking through each of them, just in case, and then placing them back onto the shelves. Then he went to the sliding glass door. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it opened easily. The wooden balcony overlooked a small garden. The scarce foliage was entirely dead, save for one prominent oak tree. Harry knew that he should go, but he couldn’t seem to talk himself into it. He felt like, if he left this place, he’d never return, and he simply couldn’t bear the thought of that. He closed his eyes.
After a long time, he opened them again to find that the dusk had fallen around him. He was so exhausted that his legs were barely holding him up. Perhaps he could stay here, just until the morning…
His eyelids heavy, Harry started back into the house. He closed the glass door. There was a bed in his parents’ old room, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to tolerate spending the night in there. Instead, he sat against the wall in this room, near the desk. He draped the Invisibility Cloak over himself, just to be precautious. Then, he put his head into his folded arms and deep, dreamless sleep immediately took him.
The dark, early morning hours came quickly. Harry felt as if he’d only slept for a moment when he opened his eyes, but the pain in his neck and shoulders revealed otherwise. He’d been there for many hours. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his head around to stretch it.
He inched his way up the wall, slowly getting to his feet. The cloak slid to the floor and he bent to pick it up. His head hurt terribly, as if he’d banged it on something, and he could only see spots of blackness before him. He was very dizzy and a bit nauseous. He closed his eyes and stood against the wall for a few moments, gulping deep breaths to wash down the qualmish feeling.
When Harry opened his eyes again, his vision had returned. He drudgingly started back through the house, down the stairs, and into the front room. He glanced distastefully at the place where he knew his father’s body had fallen. He felt a jolt of horror as he remembered the experience from inside of Voldemort’s body, and then he shook his head, hoping that the memory might fly out of one of his ears and never return. No such luck.
When he reached the front doorway, Harry took up his broomstick, which had waited patiently for him. He stood looking into the living room for a few moments, trying to pry himself away. Finally, he said aloud to the house, “Be back soon,” and stepped back onto the front lawn.
The day was dawning and the summer air was humid and heavy. Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak over himself again, mounted his broomstick, took one last look at the cottage, and sailed back into the gray sky.
Harry traveled for many hours. Eventually, he was soaring over London, watching houses fly by beneath him. According to Hermione, the orphanage would be somewhere past the residences, in a more open area, surrounded by vacant land. The warm breeze was fogging his glasses, so that he had to repeatedly wipe his arm across them in order to see below him.
Harry spotted the orphanage some while later and landed softly in the trees near the outskirts. He removed the Cloak, shoved it back into his pocket, and leaned his broomstick against a tree. Then he began the long walk to the front door of the square building.
It was still fairly early in the morning and a gray fog was settled over the grounds. It made Harry feel very cold, even though the air was warm and moist. The large, looming structure before him was somehow forbidding and made Harry feel rather gloomy. He entered the grim courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high railings. He slowly climbed the stone steps and knocked purposefully on the door.
Harry was greeted by a small, round woman with graying hair. This surprised him, until he remembered that Mrs. Cole would have been long dead by now.
The woman was gaping at Harry, as if she’d never seen such a sight.
Then Harry realized that he was bruised, bleeding, and downright filthy. He imagined she must think he was an orphan seeking shelter. I am an orphan, Harry thought miserably to himself.
“C-can I help you?” the woman stammered.
Harry cleared his throat. “I’m…”
Well, he couldn’t very well tell her who he actually was…
“…A distant relative of a boy who lived here many years ago. I… I thought I might visit his old room?”
She gave him a scrutinizing look, then said, “Well, you look terrible. Follow me.”
Harry followed her into the building and down a long hall, where they passed numerous children, all wearing gray tunics. As he looked around, Harry saw that the place hadn’t changed much. It was slightly shabbier, thanks to time passing, but still spotlessly clean. Mrs. Cole’s old office, however, looked entirely different. The mismatched pieces were gone, and had been replaced with cheap pine furniture and a large pink sofa.
“Have a seat,” the frumpy woman said to Harry, gesturing to the sofa.
Harry hesitated, but then sat down.
The woman settled behind her desk and faced Harry. She looked tired and careworn, much as Mrs. Cole had done when Harry had seen her in the Pensieve.
“Now,” she began. “If you need help, you can just say so. We have plenty of room…”
“Oh, no,” said Harry quickly. “I’m seventeen.”
The woman frowned at him.
Muggles weren’t of age until eighteen, Harry remembered.
“I mean, I’m fine,” he stammered.
She looked unconvinced.
“Really,” he said. “I just… I wanted to visit my, um, cousin Riddle’s room. You see, I’m doing research on my family history.”
The woman was watching him closely, as if searching each word for a hint of what the real truth might be.
After a moment, she said, “Riddle, you say?”
“Tom Riddle, yes,” replied Harry.
The woman’s eyes grew larger, but she was silent.
Then she breathed, “The stories I’ve heard about that young man…”
“What stories?” asked Harry.
But at that moment, an untidy boy with dirty blonde hair, whom Harry thought was only a few years younger than him, popped his head through the door.
“Miss Staten,” he said. “It’s happened again!”
The woman groaned, “Oh, dear,” and stood up hastily.
Harry stood too.
Miss Staten looked at Harry anxiously, but then gave an exasperated sigh and said, “Fourth floor, second room on the right. It’s Timmy Duncan’s room now, but he’s not here today.” She paused. “Just… don’t take anything.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, trying to pour the sound of gratitude onto the words. “I won’t.”
She hesitated for a moment, giving Harry another look over, and then followed the blonde boy from the room.
Harry wanted to stay in the office and search through the files to see if he could find out more about these stories that Miss Staten had mentioned. But, since he thought he had a pretty good idea of the things that may have happened, he followed them out and back down the hallway.
When he reached it, Harry started up the large wooden staircase. The banister had been replaced recently, but the stairs creaked with age. He passed each floor, counting them out as he went.
Finally, he reached the fourth floor. He came to the second room on the right and found the door standing ajar.
A young brunette girl eyed him timidly as she passed on her way down the stairs. He smiled warmly at her, hoping to deflect her suspicions. This only caused her to hurry more quickly down the stairs. Harry thought he must look quite a mess.
He entered Riddle’s old room, and, looking around to make sure he wouldn’t be seen, closed the door and said, “Colloportus.” The seal made its squelching noise and Harry felt certain that he wouldn’t be disturbed.
He turned around to find that the room looked precisely the same. The iron bed sat before him and the same old wardrobe was on his left. The room had the same bare, inhospitable feeling. In fact, a chill traveled down Harry’s spine as he recalled Dumbledore’s memory. But then, Timmy Duncan had left the small window open and a breeze was flowing in, so perhaps that was what had brought on the chill, though Harry found this unlikely.
If there were a Horcrux here, it certainly wouldn’t be in plain view. With this knowledge, Harry began running his hands along the walls. He was paying particular attention to his forehead, remembering Hermione’s words that his scar would react if he got near a Horcrux.
After traveling the length of the room, he got onto his knees and searched the floor. He checked under the bed and even beneath the mattresses, just for good measure. At one point, he thought that there had been a twinge in his scar, but then he decided that he’d just imagined it. He felt ridiculous. If there even was a Horcrux, it seemed impossible that he would find it, especially using these methods.
Beginning to feel quite hopeless, Harry got to his feet and went to the wardrobe. He opened it to find one pair of pants and a gray tunic hanging neatly beside one another. Then he thought he saw something glinting out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked back, nothing was there.
His hands traveled along the entire inside of the wardrobe, discovering nothing, but picking up a rather thick splinter. Harry pried the sliver of wood out of his skin and closed the wardrobe with a bleak sigh.
Then an even more depressing thought occurred to him. He had only been near one real Horcrux, and he had felt absolutely nothing from Riddle’s diary. Hermione was wrong about his scar.
Tearing Harry from his thoughts, he noticed something sparkling above his head. When the thing realized that Harry had noticed it, it zoomed out of the open window. Harry immediately ran to the windowsill, looking frantically for it. Then he followed his instincts as quickly as possible.
“Accio Firebolt!”
His Firebolt responded with surprising speed. Harry jumped onto the broom and flew after the tiny dazzling object. For a few minutes, he couldn’t find it, but then he caught a glimpse of it in the distance. He leaned into his broomstick and zoomed in that direction. When he got closer, he realized that it was a tiny pair of golden wings, but that there was nothing attached to these wings.
As soon as he was within reach, the wings rocketed off again. They seemed to be teasing him, but the glittering object didn’t know that Harry had been the youngest seeker in more than a century of Hogwarts history. He hurtled himself towards the wings, which seemed to look back at him in fear, obviously alarmed by his speed.
Harry seized them fairly quickly, but he nearly let them go again when he realized that they were charring his skin. He stuffed the wings into his pocket and held the fabric closed so that they couldn’t escape.
Once Harry had landed in Riddle’s old room again, he kept his left hand over the pocket but examined the one that had been singed. It was blackened and throbbing where the wings had touched his skin. It felt as if a million tiny needles were boring themselves into his flesh.
Unexpectedly, a cold enveloped Harry. He knew instantly. Turning, he saw the Dementor floating through the window towards him. What was it doing here? He felt his mind sink into the almost-familiar darkness. He was out of practice. Something happy. Anything.
He stumbled backwards into a wall, his Firebolt still gripped between his knees. His head was muddled. He fumbled for his wand, trying to keep his other hand over his pocket in order to secure the golden wings. The Dementor was leaning into him, and Harry felt his body go cold and his soul plunge into shadows. Luci was right “ he shouldn’t have done this alone.
Luci.
Suddenly, the blackness lifted.
“Expecto patronum!”
Harry, feeling as if he simply didn’t have enough hands, shoved his wand into his mouth and reached into his other pocket, fumbling for the portkey. Suddenly, he felt the odd jerk behind his navel and the rush of wind. Then his body slammed hard into the floor. The last thing he remembered was the shrieking of Mrs. Black’s voice.