Privet Drive, the present.
At 11 a.m. the next morning, Uncle Vernon set out to buy some bigger, better, more bombastic set of camping chairs, as Dudley had broken the last set at the age of fourteen and the Dursleys were planning to spent two weeks on Majorca with a rent mobile home. Petunia was spying at the window, supposedly looking after her husband, but more interested in the new next door’s neighbours. The Harveys, who had been living there for years now, had unexpectedly moved out this spring and a new family was busy moving in. To Petunia, all new neighbours were suspicious, but those people looked especially shady. Harry was only two steps away, quietly washing the dishes. Dudley was having a sleep over at the Polkisses (or that was what Petunia thought).
Vernon drove the car down Privet Drive, but as soon as he arrived at the next corner, there was a loud crash : the car was lifted into air for the glimpse of an eye, a Hollywood image for those unbelieving neighbours who witnessed it, then it toppled sideways, coming down with the terrifying crunch of distorted metal. Uncle Vernon tried to squeeze himself our of the door, a wounded, heaving rhinoceros and while his hat rolled over the pavement, he finally came to his feet and stumbled away. He was barely out of reach when the car wholly exploded and threw him back down on the ground. Petunia grabbed the curtains and with a horrified yelp ripped them out of their socket.
Before Petunia or Harry could notice anything, before even the shocked neighbours could crowd to stare at the disaster, a number of peculiar figures emerged from several places in Privet Drive, startled into action by the unexpected assault.
First of all, a cat ran from under another car, not away from the fire but past it, to alarm her owner. Two cloaked and masked black figures stepped around the fire in the same moment, looking as out of place as the attendants of a masquerade ball in the middle of the day in a small suburb. They started to hex everyone in reach, but didn’t advance farther than the border of Privet Drive, as if an invisible force was stopping them.
Another couple of the same kind came hurrying to the other end of Privet Drive. They scared the muggles into yelling for the police, which they ended quickly by a couple of curses. The Death Eaters turned towards number 4, and one of them tried to step into Privet Drive, but as soon as he did, he collapsed on the ground, shaking in cramps for the fraction of a moment, and then looked up, thoroughly confused about his whereabouts.
But even before the Death Eaters could curse the muggles, another tall cloaked figure had entered the lawn of number 4, had soundlessly crossed the flower beds like a ghost who leaves steps behind, had touched the wall of the house and created a door where none had been before and entered number 4.
And finally, a third party arrived. His arrival went unnoticed, because as soon as he apparated in front of the Dursleys’ house, he already disappeared again, so that even someone who would have looked at the very place he appeared, would only have seen a blurred black apparition, vanishing again with a swishing sound. But wherever he had gone, he had arrived just a moment too late to see the other cloaked figure entering Number 4.
This first figure was cloaked in grey, ragged and coarse cloth, and very tall and lean. His face was hidden by the enormous hood, so he looked almost veiled, and he carried no obvious wand. Also, he did have a dubious taste : the door he had added to Number 4, Privet Drive, was a huge, positively medieval oak door with the metal emblem of a goat on it.
He entered through the door he had created in the wall and quickly climbed the stairs to Harry Potter’s room. He didn’t pause to know which door was his, rather he just touched the door for a tiny moment, like he was asking it something and then simply entered. As soon as Harry had seen the chaos breaking loose on the street, he had run up to his room to get his wand and be ready. Now, he whirled around, his wand in his hands, ready and yet unprepared.
“Stop,” the hooded man said, with a coarse and raspy voice. “I’m here in the name of the Order, Harry Potter. “You must leave this house instantly.”
Harry didn’t move. “I don’t believe you.”
“Do you believe me now?” the man asked impatiently and removed the ragged layers of cloth from his face. It was an old and lined face, a grey beard and a hooked nose and blue, but somewhat bloodshot eyes. He looked a little like a ruffled old eagle and a little like a mad tramp. Harry gaped dumbly at him.
In the fraction of a second, the pieces came together for him. He had seen this man several times, in reality and on a picture. But only now he made the connection. This was the landlord of the Hog’s Head. This was also Professor Dumbledore’s brother : Aberforth Dumbledore, whom Mad Eye Moody had shown him before his fifth year.
“You’re ““
“You only noticed now, eh? Come on, Potter.”
“But ... the Dursleys! If Voldemort ““ Aberforth was obviously not in the mood to listen to the boy.
“Nonsense. You’re priority. The order and ministry will be here soon enough for them.”
And with these words, the electric crackle of angry magic was heard from the stairs, and in the moment Harry choose to turn around, a black door had appeared from nowhere in the middle of his room, and he was pushed through. It wasn’t like travelling by floo or port-key, but it wasn’t a normal door either : he felt like for a second he was extended until he was nearly ripped apart, then, like gum, he regained his old shape, but was somewhere else.
The room on the other side was completely unfamiliar. Swarthy, once white walls and ceiling, cobwebs in the corners, worn out wooden furniture and a barred window. A small bed with faded linen blankets stood in one corner, a little round table with a tea pot in the other. It was hot and smelled of stale beer and sharply of animal.
“Harry! Thank Merlin, you’re alright.” Harry turned around at the familiar voice. He looked at a relieved Albus Dumbledore, who still couldn’t quite hide the worry that had been on his face before. Harry pushed aside all his other questions.
“What are Death Eaters doing in Privet Drive?” he instantly blurted out.
“A foolish kid told them our most secret secrets,” a voice rasped from behind him and the door vanished as its maker stepped through it. Aberforth’s sharp eyes looked disapprovingly down at him. Without a word, but looking rather sad, Dumbledore gave Harry the letter he had received the day before from Hermione. Harry didn’t actually need to read it, to know what it contained. But looking at it gave him a short reprieve. What would he say to Dumbledore? There was no excuse for this stupid letter he had sent. In one of his angry moods, he might have shot accuses at the old wizard, but now he was only ashamed.
Gently, Dumbledore took the letter from his hands. He put it down on the round table, and said : “We all have to thank Miss Granger for her alertness. Otherwise we might not have been this lucky.”
Lucky? Harry thought agitatedly. Lucky? Voldemort knows everything now! And the Dursleys, he added as an afterthought, are in real danger. They might deserve being scared by Hagrid or being tricked by the Weasleys, but not being killed by Death Eaters. Lucky? Suddenly Harry felt confused, and heat surged up in his body. He wanted to argue, to tell Dumbledore how wrong he was, how wrong everything was, but he couldn’t find the words to do so.
Dumbledore turned to him, and just in time he saw the boy swaying and grabbed his arms. Harry’s face was ashen, his eyes wide and his unruly hair sticky with sweat. He was shaking like someone fished out of an icy lake, although it was in the middle of the day and very hot in Hogsmeade. In the next moment he collapsed with a yelp of pain, and Dumbledore quickly dragged him to the bed where the boy was shaken by more and worse cramps. He looked like he was having an epileptic seizure.
It took almost an hour until Harry calmed down. His eyes were glazed and absent by then, his body feverish. The blankets were drenched in his sweat and Dumbledore conjured new ones to cover the boy. Now, he sat down by his bed, almost as exhausted as Harry himself.
“The muggles could be saved. The Riddler wasn’t sighted by the ministry squads, but Auntie and Pharaoh report traces of his presence,” heard Harry. The words didn’t make much sense to him. Probably some kind of coded speech. Or maybe he was dreaming again.
“The house was partially damaged. One Death Eater was arrested, one killed. Two aurors were severely injured, one is still unstable. It is yet unsure how the Riddler got the address, but chances are he already knew it,” Aberforth reported, who had been controlling the incoming news from the Order.
“Thank you,” Albus said softly.
“Must have been in a right fury, this time,” Aberforth reckoned. He had switched back from the cold professional tone in which he had reported to facts to his usual hoarse snarl. “This guy just can’t control his emotions.”
“He can,” his brother answered. “He just didn’t want to. I’m sure he knows that it causes Harry pain when is angry. And by the way, it wasn’t nice of you to call Harry a foolish kid. I’m sure he would never have sent the letter on his own.”
“But he did. He succumbed to the mind-control of the Dark Lord. The lad must learn to question his motives, otherwise he’ll be tricked again and again.”
Harry stirred on the bed and groaned in his feverish state. He had closed his eyes now and they could see them moving frantically under his lids, like he was having a bad dream. His fingers twitched. He looked like a sleeping cat who dreams of catching a mouse, drawing in and out her claws, dreaming of closing her jaws around a small neck. He murmured something, and Dumbledore leaned closer.
“.. get you ... I promise ... I’ll ..”, was what he understood. He wondered whether Harry was having a vision about Voldemort. Suddenly, Harry opened his green eyes and they stared directly at each other. Each was startled by the intensity of the look they met and both of them quickly averted their eyes.
“Professor?” Harry asked meekly. “What happened?”
“Voldemort was angry that you could escape him once more. You were affected by his fury through your connection.” Harry blinked. His glasses had been put aside and he felt still dizzy. The scar pulsated. He dimly remembered a feeling of heat boiling over inside it and it was still hot.
“How... how could they get into Privet Drive?”
“Only Voldemort can, now. I’ll explain to you later. Nothing happened to the Dursleys. No one was killed but a Death Eater.”
“How could they find ... the Dursleys’ home?” Harry insisted from the bed. Dumbledore took off his glasses and started cleaning them with a purple handkerchief.
Behind him his brother still hovered, smoking a smelly pipe. He looked aloof and a little intimidating, from what Harry could discern after he reached for his glasses and put them on again.
“I guess he knew where to find you all the time. There are multiple ways to know it. He could follow the owls, he could intercept letters with your address on them, he could ask Peter Pettigrew, who probably knew your home from his visits with the Weasleys when he was still in his animagus form. And finally, he has many men in the ministry. Most people couldn’t invade your privacy in Little Whinging because the just didn’t know you lived there, Harry. But with Voldemort it was a little more difficult.”
“How?”
“I’d rather not talk about this here,” Dumbledore admitted. Aberforth snorted.
“I’m sorry,” Harry suddenly said with a voice so soft they nearly didn’t hear him. “I don’t know why I sent the letter. I was just so ... angry ... I wanted her to understand!”
A sad and understanding smile flashed over Dumbledore’s face, full of pity. He gently touched Harry’s hand.
“Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault. This was the risk I took by telling you about the whole prophecy : we knew that Voldemort could manipulate your thoughts and feelings. It was his work and his alone that you sent that letter. Thank Merlin you sent it to Miss Granger, someone else might not have alerted us.”
“Voldemort?” Harry wondered. It made perfect sense now that Dumbledore said this. Before he was unable to understand how he could have been so thoughtless. After all, he was used to the concept that someone might intercept their letters, for he had been writing to and about Sirius for two years now and had always been careful. If Voldemort had manipulated him, this made sense.
“But I didn’t resist. I didn’t even notice!”
“Yes you didn’t. Be more alert, boy. Get to know your own mind, unless you won’t be able to tell it from the minds of others!” Aberforth advised gruffly. Dumbledore nodded to his words.