Title: Night Sweats
Author: Lorien_Eve
Pairing: Harry/Bill
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance, Angst, Drama
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry, Bill, or any of the Weasleys. They all belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for my story, which I will make absolutely no money from. If you don't believe me, look at my bank account. It's empty.
A/N: A big, big thank you to my beta, Lena. She put up with me when I got frustrated and almost gave up on the story, but as always, she was there to encourage me and get me through it.
Challenge #2/Summary: Harry flees his abusive relatives, not able to handle them on top of the nightly gruesome dreams he has been having of Voldemort. He goes to the Weasleys but refuses to stay for more than a few days, concerned that he will be a danger to them. Molly decides that Bill Weasley, currently visiting his family, has to take Harry with him to Egypt for protection until the end of summer, if not longer.
The lurid green light devoured the darkness, snuffing out the blue flamed candles and eating its way into the black recesses of the circular room. Harry’s eyes followed the glowing light as it hit Hermione in the chest so hard that she staggered backwards a few steps before her body went limp and she fell. In an instant, the green light was gone and the blue flames flared timidly again.
Harry hadn’t yet grown accustomed to how easily and quickly a life could be lost.
Hermione lay spread eagle. Her face was frozen forever with wide eyes and an open, pleading mouth. Her hair was spread in a dark circle around her head, like a deep pool of blood, though there were no marks anywhere on her. Ron had been the first to fall, with a trivial wave and flick of a wand. His body was twisted in an angle that Harry knew no living person could ever contort themselves into. Neville was slumped against the wall, his head drooping grotesquely on his shoulders. Like his parents, Neville had been put under the Cruciatus curse, but then effectively killed in the end because, after his screams of pain, he had served his purpose.
The room was still and silent. Dead.
Then there was the laugh. The same high, cold, piercing laugh that haunted Harry’s dreams. It echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and magnifying itself until Harry’s ears rang with it. Harry turned toward the source of the laughter, finding Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the wizard who was feared above all others, and the very wizard who he, Harry, had the task of destroying. Harry always knew it would come to this. It was prophesied before he was born. It was his destiny and the only true purpose in his life. Kill or be killed, and Harry didn’t want to die yet.
There was only one thing to be done. Casting the Killing curse, of course. Harry knew this, too. He’d been trained for it, filled with it, and had it burrowed so deeply in his mind that he even dreamt about it. Knowing that concentration and purpose were imperative in giving the curse its full power, Harry drew up all the anger and hurt he’d ever known. Losing his parents, being raised by the Dursleys, being mocked by Snape and taunted by Malfoy, having his own blood taken from him and used to resurrect his nemesis, Sirius falling through the veil...
Harry drew up these memories and held them on the tip of his tongue, ready to spit them out along with the curse.
This was who had killed his parents, and Harry was about to kill him.
Harry raised his wand with a surprisingly steady hand and pointed it directly at Voldemort’s chest. He took a deep breath, drawing in oxygen and courage, hoping it was enough to speak the words and preserve his determination. It would have to be enough. There was no other choice. Kill or be killed, and Harry still wasn’t ready to die.
He opened his mouth, ready to yell the words he’d never used but that he’d heard so many times he knew what they would taste like. He felt the words build up in his throat and tumble across his lips. But there was no sound. Voldemort stood before him as undefeated as ever. Harry tried again, and although his mouth found the words, it was as if someone had turned off the sound. He felt like he was underwater, like in the Second Task of the TriWizard Tournament, except there weren’t even bubbles this time. There was nothing. Harry strained his vocal cords until they were taut, willing the sound to come out. But still, there was nothing. Only silence.
Kill or be killed, and Harry knew he was about to die.
With an indulgent smile, Voldemort raised his wand. It was aimed between Harry’s eyes, directly at his scar. Like a dementor, Voldemort sucked all the air out of the room, and before Harry even had time to brace himself for it, the curse came. It was green and blinding, just like every other time he had seen it. He watched as the beam of light barreled forward, hurtling undeniably towards its target. Voldemort had cast it perfectly. It would not miss. A split second before it hit, Harry screamed. It didn’t stop the curse, but it released the pain…
Harry bolted upright in his bed. His body ached and shuddered with the memory of the curse. The scar on his forehead burned like it was on fire. He was cold and sweating, and so sick that he retched several times without throwing up. It was that dream again, the same dream he’d had so many times that it came to him even when he was awake. But it was still that - just a dream, even though Harry knew that Voldemort only showed him those dreams to lure him into situations that would become reality. He reached under his pillow and felt around until he was sure his wand was still there.
With a shaky hand, Harry wiped the sweat away from his forehead, then sat still and waited for the nausea to pass and his chest to stop heaving.
Suddenly, the door to his room burst open. This time, it wasn’t a Dark Lord or a Killing Curse. It was his uncle.
“What,” Vernon roared, “is the meaning of this? Waking us up at all hours of the night with your ruddy screams! Don’t you know the neighbors could hear you?”
“Sorry,” said Harry shakily, not about to explain his nightmare to Uncle Vernon. He would never understand, anyway.
“Too right, you are,” hissed Vernon. Aunt Petunia joined him at the door, her hair in curlers and her lips pursed tightly. “This is the fifth bloody time this week. If I hear one more peep out of you, you’re going back in the cupboard, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
The door slammed behind the retreating forms of his aunt and uncle, leaving Harry alone and with a dream he couldn’t forget.
Harry knew he’d have the dream again. It was the same one he had almost every night. He also knew that Uncle Vernon would come through on his threats to lock him in the cupboard again. Harry had gotten out six years ago, and he wasn’t going back. He wasn’t going to be locked up and fed through bars like an animal, and he wasn’t going to give Voldemort any additional ammunition for nightmares. He had enough already.
Throwing the covers back, Harry jumped out of bed. He grabbed a few clothes from his wardrobe, removed the loose floorboard next to his bed and took out all his schoolbooks, threw everything in his trunk, slammed the lid shut, sat Hedwig’s empty cage on top of it, and tucked his wand into his back pocket. He was leaving Privet Drive.
The problem, of course, was how to get out of the house without waking his relatives and causing another scene. Apparating was out of the question. Though he had done it a few times, under the strict supervision of Dumbledore and Remus Lupin, he wasn’t confident enough to try it by himself, especially now, when his mind was preoccupied with so many other things. He’d have to sneak out the Muggle way.
Harry pressed his ear to the door. When he didn’t hear anything, he pulled the door open and stuck his head out. The hallway was empty and there were still no sounds. He pulled his wand out of his back pocket and cast a Locomotor charm. Harry had long ago stopped caring about the ‘no magic outside of school’ rule. The trunk followed him down the hallway, floating just a few inches above the floor. Harry crept lightly down the stairs, careful to miss the second step from the bottom that always creaked. Once on the ground floor, Harry stopped again to listen. Still silence. He crept onward to the back door, turning the lock and pulling it open as slowly and quietly as he could.
Outside, the rain fell heavy, pouring from the dark sky in continuous gray sheets. Harry was soaked to the skin after his first two steps. Lightning crashed and thunder rumbled overhead. When he got through the puddles and to the end of the driveway, he stuck out his wand hand. The Knight Bus wasn’t the most comfortable form of transportation, but it would do in a pinch, and Harry was definitely in a pinch.
Almost immediately, Harry heard a bang! and the large, purple triple-decker bus appeared before him. The doors opened to reveal a bright purple poncho, the bulk of the conductor invisible through the dark curtain of rain.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus!” the conductor yelled over the downpour. “Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard!”
“I know what the Knight Bus is,” said Harry, annoyed. He just wanted to get in out of the rain. “Stand back, would you?”
The conductor seemed a bit cross at Harry’s assertive manner, but nonetheless, he moved to one side so that Harry, with trunk and cage in tow, could climb aboard.
“Where’re ya headed?” the conductor asked. “We can take you anywhere, long as it’s on land. Can’t go underwater.”
“Yes,” sighed Harry, “I know. Just take me to Ottery St. Catchpole.”
“Aye, that we can do.”
Now, in the light from the candles on the wall, Harry could see the conductor’s face, framed by the plastic purple poncho. The pimples were unmistakable. It was Stan Shunpike.
“Still riding with Ernie, I see,” Harry laughed. “Whatever happened to your campaign to become the youngest-ever Minister of Magic?”
Stan’s forehead crinkled around his pimples. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I never wanted to be Minister.”
“Sure you did,” Harry said, poking fun at Stan’s attempts to impress one of the veelas at the Quidditch World Cup. “So, how long have you been working the Knight Bus now? Must be at least four years. You’re wasting valuable time.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Stan, obviously very annoyed. “I’ve only been on this job for three months.”
“No, you haven’t. Remember me? Neville Longbottom?”
“You’re not Neville, you’re Harry Potter,” said Stan, eyeing Harry suspiciously.
“I know that,” said Harry. “I told you I was Neville, though, remember? I guess it’s been about four years ago now.”
Now it was Stan’s turn to laugh at Harry. “You got me mixed up with my brother! I’m Stuart, not Stan! Stan was runnin’ the bus back then. I just started.” Stuart found the case of mistaken identity highly amusing.
Stuart had a very annoying laugh, made even more annoying now that Harry was the reason for it. “Forget it,” Harry said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Dry off first, would ya? Don’t want the sheets wet!” Stuart called as Harry started up the stairs.
There were a few other passengers, two witches and a wizard, but they were all sleeping soundly, evidently unaware of the latest stop and newest occupant. Harry looked at them enviously, wishing sleep would be so easy and untroubled for him.
Even if it weren’t for the violent shakes and jarring of the bus, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He lay down, anyway, just grateful to be leaving Privet Drive and on his way to the Burrow.
****
Stuart’s face, still wreathed by the purple poncho, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Ottery St. Catchpole!” he called.
Harry followed him down the stairs and to the luggage compartment, where he found his trunk and Hedwig’s cage.
“See ya, Harry,” Stuart said as Harry walked off the bus. “Hope ya stay dry!”
Harry cast an angry look at Stuart as the rain pelted down on his head and dripped off the end of his nose. Stuart may have looked ridiculous in the poncho, but Harry would’ve gladly taken it, had he offered. It was a pretty good walk to the Burrow from where the bus let him off, and silly or not, Harry would’ve done anything to stay dry.
****
Half an hour later, his clothes saturated with enough water to fill a large bathtub, Harry walked up the drive to the Burrow. All the lights in the house were off, an indication that the Weasleys were asleep.
The driveway was spotted with ruts filled to overflowing, and though Harry tried to sidestep them, he wasn’t always successful. He plunged ankle-deep into a particularly large one, the mud squelching under his shoes. With some determined tugging, Harry freed himself, and very forlornly, climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
After a few minutes with no answer, Harry knocked again. He felt bad about coming so late, unannounced, and waking everyone up, but he had no other place to go. A light came on in one of the rooms near the back of the house, and after some muttering and shuffling, Mr. Weasley’s sleepy face appeared behind the door. He was in his pajamas and dressing gown. He blinked his eyes and shook his head before he finally noticed Harry.
“Harry, do come in!” Mr. Weasley said as he stepped back to allow Harry room. “Sorry about that. We don’t normally get visitors who use the front door.”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said sheepishly, “but I-”
“You don’t have to apologize, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, raising his hand. “Another fight with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, not wanting to tell Mr. Weasley the whole story.
Mr. Weasley looked solemn. “I thought so. You know you’re always welcome here. Let me get Molly.”
“No,” Harry started. “Please, sir, I’ll just go upstairs, if that’s okay. Don’t wake her.”
“Nonsense!” Mr. Weasley said. “She’d have me hanged if I didn’t tell her you were here.”
At that moment, Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen, her hair in pins and her hands on her hips.
“Arthur, what in the world - Harry, dear!” She ran over to hug him, but stopped short when she saw his wet clothes. “What are you doing out on a night like this?” she demanded. “You could catch your death out there!”
“I - I had a fight with the Dursleys,” Harry said softly.
“Oh, you poor dear!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him despite his wet clothes. “Go upstairs and wake Ron. You can borrow some of his clothes. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’m really sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I don’t know why Albus has you staying with those horrible people, anyway. Now, go upstairs and get into some dry clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
****
Harry climbed the stairs slowly, careful to step over the ones that creaked. He would’ve given the Weasleys every galleon, sickle, and knut in his vault if they would’ve taken it. He owed them so much, and a simple ‘thank you’ didn’t seem like nearly enough. He sometimes wondered what would’ve happened if he and Ron hadn’t become friends and he’d never met Ron’s family. Harry could honestly say that he had no idea what he would do without them. They were the only real family he’d ever had, and while he felt a little selfish for disturbing them so late, he knew Mrs. Weasley would’ve scolded him for not calling on them when he needed to.
Ron was asleep, his long legs tangled up in the sheets, when Harry entered his bedroom. Harry crept over to the wardrobe and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, and Ron let out a grunt. Harry glanced over at him, but Ron slept on, apparently not aware that anyone was there.
Harry changed silently, slipping on a pair of Ron’s trousers that were much too long for him and a shirt that was faded and worn. It was comfortable, though, and far better than the soggy clothes he’d been wearing. As Harry let himself out of the bedroom, Ron grunted again. Harry paused in the doorway and looked over at him.
“Glad you’re here, Harry,” Ron said. Then he turned over and went back to sleep.
****
Harry ate a very late dinner downstairs in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They asked questions about his summer, like how much studying had he gotten done, had he been getting the owls Ron had sent him, and lastly, the touchiest subject, how the Dursleys had been treating him. Harry answered as honestly as he could. In truth, the Dursleys hadn’t been any worse than normal.
The nightmares were the worst part, by far. They kept him up at night, refusing to let him get even a few hours of modest sleep, and they played and rewound themselves in his mind while he was awake. He chose not to tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about them, not wanting to trouble them further. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d been through worse and lived to tell about it. Some things were better kept quiet.
After his midnight meal, Harry thanked Mr. and Mrs. Weasley again, apologized for waking them, and wished them a good night. He climbed the stairs to Ron’s room, where he knew he’d be sleeping without even having to ask. Harry was tired. Exhausted, more like, and although he was afraid of sleeping, he needed to lie down and rest.
Because he hadn’t owled the Weasleys beforehand to let them know he was coming, there was no usual camp bed for him to sleep on. There was no other bed in the room except for Ron’s. Well, it’ll have to do, Harry thought, as he climbed between the covers and lay down next to Ron. It was cramped, Ron’s bed not being any bigger than the ones at Hogwarts, but it was better than sleeping on the floor, and much better than sleeping at Privet Drive. Keeping close to the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake Ron but trying to allow him as much room as possible in the small bed, Harry curled his arm underneath his head and tried to keep his eyes open.
****
Fading black. Encompassing green. An open mouth and silent scream. Hermione flat. Ron broken. Neville bent. Dead. Dead. Dead. Silence. Then, a laugh. Cold like ice. Frozen. A raised wand. A mouth full of empty words. Silence. Panic. Fear. Another raised wand. A Death spell. More green light, brighter, closer. Perfectly aimed. Then red, like blood. Long fingers. A firm grip…
“Harry? Harry!”
Harry’s eyes flew open and he drew a deep breath. Ron was staring down at him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him. But Ron was dead.
“Wha…?” Harry mumbled, trying to make his eyes focus without his glasses. His scar was throbbing, and sweat was running off his neck and trickling down between his shoulder blades.
“Harry, what was it? Another nightmare?” Ron asked in an anxious voice.
“Yeah,” Harry said, as his breath came back at last and he relaxed into the damp pillow. “Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay, mate. Wanna talk about it?” Ron drew his knees up to his chest, a little uncertain, yet curious and attentive.
“No, it’s…it’s nothing.” Harry turned away from Ron, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Harry-”
“I said no.”
Harry knew that Ron was just concerned about him, and although he regretted being so cross, he didn’t want to scare Ron or worry him more than was necessary. Ron knew that Harry’s dreams sometimes came true; dreaming about Ron being dead was something Harry wanted to keep to himself.
As he lay there, trying to push the dream out of his mind, Harry realized he’d made a mistake in coming to the Burrow. It was the first place he’d thought to go when he left Privet Drive, but now he saw how much danger his presence was to the Weasleys’ safety. He should’ve gone to the Leaky Cauldron. He’d gone there before when he ran away from his relatives. He had the money to rent a room for the remainder of the summer vacation. He could pick up his books and school supplies, get started on his summer assignments, maybe get fitted for a new set of robes. It wouldn’t be the same as staying with the Weasleys, but at least he wouldn’t be a danger or a bother to anybody.
****
“I won’t hear of it, Harry! You’re not going off to London by yourself!”
That was Mrs. Weasley’s immediate reaction when Harry told her and Mr. Weasley about his plans to leave the Burrow. He wanted to tell her that he’d been to London before by himself and that he didn’t need anyone to look after him, but he knew better than to argue with her. He’d seen her angry at Ron and the twins too often.
“Molly’s right,” Mr. Weasley said, glancing approvingly at his wife. “London’s too dangerous.”
“But I don’t have anywhere else to go,” said Harry. “I’m not going back to Privet Drive.”
“Of course, not. We wouldn’t-”
At that moment, Bill entered the kitchen, shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting, blue plaid pajama pants, and Harry didn’t hear another word Mr. Weasley said. His eyes followed Bill as he walked by, and Harry suddenly realized that it had been a year since he’d last seen him. Bill poured himself a cup of tea and sat the kettle back on the stove.
“Harry?”
Harry quickly turned his attention back to Mr. Weasley. He hoped the pink color in his cheeks wasn’t obvious. “Oh…yes, sir?”
“We’ve been in contact with Dumbledore,” Mr. Weasley continued, “and we know about your nightmares.”
“You know?”
Harry’s respect for Dumbledore had waned through the years, and now it was at its lowest degree ever. This was just more evidence of Dumbledore’s complete lack of respect for Harry’s private life and personal decisions. If Harry had wanted the Weasleys to know about his nightmares, he would’ve told them himself. He didn’t think Dumbledore had the right to divulge his secrets.
“Yes, dear, we know,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “We’ve talked with Dumbledore, and we’ve made some arrangements for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry started, “but I’ve told you, I can’t stay here-”
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. “Not here, exactly.”
“Oh? Where, then?” Harry knew he did a poor job hiding the sarcasm in his voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the Weasleys’ kindness and forethought, but he was tired of others trying to control his life. He could make his own decisions without consulting Dumbledore.
Mr. Weasley looked nervously at Bill for a moment before he answered. “We think it would be a good idea for you to spend the rest of the summer in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” asked Harry, quite taken aback. He looked quickly over to Bill.
Bill’s eyebrows shot up over the top of his cup. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“We meant to ask you about it,” Mr. Weasley explained carefully, “but well…there wasn’t enough time.”
Bill hummed in disapproval and sat his teacup down. “So that’s why you sent me the owl and asked me to come over?” he asked.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley nodded like a pair of trained seals.
Bill leaned against the sink and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t suppose I have much of a choice, do I? When do we leave?”
“Today, if you can pack quickly,” said Mrs. Weasley, seeming pleased that Bill had readily, if not happily, agreed to the plan.
“I’ve arranged a Portkey,” Mr. Weasley said, “and the Ministry has given me permission to activate it when you’re ready.”
“Hang on,” said Harry, taking a step forward. He didn’t appreciate being talked about like he wasn’t in the room, and he certainly didn’t appreciate them making plans for his future without consulting him. “What makes you think Egypt is safe? Won’t Voldemort send people out to look for me once he knows I’ve gone missing?”
Ron flinched at Harry’s use of the name, and even Bill and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed taken aback, but only momentarily.
“True,” said Mr. Weasley, taking a deep breath. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “You-Know-Who has a large network of spies, but Egypt is an unlikely place for you to go. They wouldn’t think to look for you there, at least not at first. Gringotts only uses specialized wizards for their curse-breaking expeditions. You’ll be well protected.”
Harry thought it over for a minute. It made sense, he couldn’t argue with that. But his summer plans hadn’t included visiting Egypt and hiding out in adobes. “Don’t I get a say in any of this?”
“I’m afraid not, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. Her tone was gentle but firm, and Harry knew there was no room for discussion.
Harry looked desperately over at Ron, who had been silent the entire time. He hoped Ron might side with him, that he would see how unfair this whole arrangement was and suggest an alternate plan. Ron’s eyes were apologetic, but he just shrugged helplessly.
“I’ll go pack,” Harry muttered.
****
Under other circumstances, Harry wouldn’t complain about spending the summer with Bill in Egypt. He’d always thought Bill was cool, and Harry liked him best out of Ron’s brothers. In fact, Harry liked Bill quite a lot. More than he would ever admit to Ron. Harry had noticed last year, while staying at Grimmauld Place, that his body had certain reactions whenever Bill was around. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time because he had other things on his mind, like warding off dementors and the trial that followed. It wasn’t until this morning, when Bill walked into the kitchen, his long hair curling around his bare shoulders, that Harry remembered just how much he liked him.
No, Harry’s complaints had nothing to do with spending the summer with Bill. What Harry was upset about was that no one was listening to him. An entire conversation had just been had about him, and not once had anyone asked him how he felt about any of it. Now he had become Bill’s responsibility, and no one asked Bill how he felt about that, either. Harry was honestly grateful to the Weasleys for all they had done for him throughout the years, giving him a place to stay when the Dursleys became unbearable, being the supportive, caring family he’d never had, and always making sure he was safe and never needed anything. But Harry was seventeen now and legally an adult, and he thought it was time other people stopped treating him like he was a helpless child.
****
Bill had spent last year as an active member of the Order, but he’d become restless with the desk job. He was unaccustomed to the large amount of paperwork and the confines of such a small office. He’d only recently moved back to Egypt and resumed curse-breaking, not realizing how much he missed it until his first day back when they spent forty-two straight hours raiding a tomb.
He was still available if the Order needed him; he made that clear to both his parents and Dumbledore. Though he was young during You-Know-Who’s first reign, Bill still remembered the fear, panic, and chaos the Wizarding World had been in during that time. Even now, his parents talked in hushed voices about it when they thought none of their children were listening. Bill wanted to participate this time around, to offer his knowledge and abilities in the fight against You-Know-Who. Apparently, though, his knowledge and abilities weren’t currently needed. Only his flat.
He didn’t mind looking after Harry. He liked the kid. Honestly. But Bill had lived mostly by himself for the last 10 years, other than the passing girlfriends or boyfriends, and having a kid around would certainly change things. Cramp his style, more like.
****
Bill’s feet hit the ground and he stumbled forward. He hated Portkeys. It was so much easier to Apparate.
“Well, here we are,” he said once he regained his balance.
Harry let go of the handle on his trunk and looked around at what would be his home for the next month. It wasn’t anything like what he expected.
They were standing in a room furnished almost entirely in a tropical blue. The walls were teal, the color of the ocean, and decorated with large, wooden carvings illustrating various scenes of ancient Egyptian life. Two stuffed chairs and a sofa, in contrasting blue tapestry, sat around a square alabaster table topped with round glass vases and a tall stone statue. A chandelier with colorful beads, like raindrops reflected in a rainbow, was suspended from above, and a blue and white partition stood in the far corner next to a pile of tasseled turquoise pillows.
For some reason, Harry always pictured Bill living in a mud house, with holes for the door and windows. Ron had never bothered to tell Harry otherwise.
“I don’t stay here often,” Bill explained. “Our assignments take up most of our time, and more often than not, we’re sleeping in tents.”
“That’s all right,” said Harry. He wasn’t quite sure what else to say.
“Well…” said Bill, rubbing his chin, “I’ll show you the rest of the place, okay?”
The other rooms looked much like the first room Harry had seen. Though they weren’t blue, they were decorated in a similar fashion, with bright colors, bold accents, and heavy architecture. There were no doors, only sheer curtains, and the windows were carved wood, but had no glass in them. Oriental rugs were laid over the dark, shiny wood floors, and similar hangings lined the wide hallway that lead to the bedrooms at the back.
The subject of sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to Harry until now, and he was relieved to find that there were two bedrooms. Bill’s was the larger of the two, with an adjacent sitting area and a balcony that provided a wide view of the surrounding areas. With a quick glance at the tall buildings and congested traffic outside, Harry saw that Bill’s flat was in a very noisy, very busy part of the city. Quite a contrast from Harry’s initial idea of Bill living in a primitive village in the middle of nowhere.
“This’ll be your room,” Bill said, leading Harry to the second bedroom.
It was smaller than the first, but the décor retained the same cultural influences. The bed, low and narrow, was dressed in crisp white sheets that looked impossibly clean. The rest of the furniture was dark wood, like the floors, and accented with various ethnic details.
“I’ve got to check in with the department, let them know I’m back in case they need me. Shouldn’t take long,” Bill tapped his fingers against his leg nervously. “Just, um, make yourself at home.”
Rarely having houseguests, Bill didn’t know the proper way to play host, and now that he had shown Harry the entire flat, he didn’t know what else to do with him. Harry understood how Bill felt, because he, too, felt awkward and even a little embarrassed. Although he had known Bill for a few years, and even attended the Quidditch World Cup with him, he’d never been around him for more than a day or two at a time, and Ron, the twins, and the rest of the family had always been there.
“Thanks,” said Harry lamely.
Bill nodded courteously and Disapparated.
Harry would’ve unpacked, but what few belongings he brought were in his trunk and there was really no need to put them anywhere else. It would save him time and trouble when he got ready to leave for Hogwarts.
He sat Hedwig’s empty cage on a table next to the window. Harry knew she would find him, she always did, but he wished she were here now. He would’ve liked to owl Hermione, or even Ron, though he was still angry with him, to let them know that he had arrived and everything was okay. Any place was better than Privet Drive, but here Harry was, in a strange flat in a foreign land, and the only person he knew in the entire country had just disappeared to Merlin knows where. Harry would’ve been alone at the Leaky Cauldron, but he knew Tom the innkeeper and he’d been to Diagon Alley enough to know his way around. At least it was in England.
On account of his poor sleep quality and the hectic morning that had abruptly changed his travel plans, Harry was so tired he felt like he could sleep standing up. He didn’t need a bed, although the one in his new room looked like something he could crawl into and never come out of. Instead, he picked a stiff wooden chair, grabbed his sixth year Charms textbook, and got an early start on his summer reading.
****
It was happening again. Harry knew it. He was in the Department of Mysteries. With Voldemort. Alone. His friends were dead. There was no one to save him. The blue flames from the candles on the walls flickered. Harry was afraid they’d go out and he’d be left in total darkness, but they still burned, though faintly. He took a step forward and raised his wand…
“Hey, Harry? Harry, wake up.”
Harry’s eyes shot open and he lifted his head from where it had fallen on his shoulder. Bill was crouching in front of the chair with his hands on the armrests.
“It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Harry admitted quietly. He stared down at the book in his lap, not seeing any of the printed words. He’d only been at Bill’s a few hours, and he’d already had another nightmare. He was embarrassed, causing such a scene and being a bother so soon after his arrival. He was sure Bill would think he was some scared little kid who couldn’t handle a bad dream.
“I need to go to the market and pick up a few things,” Bill said after several minutes of strained silence. He stood up and scratched his arm distractedly. “Why don’t you come with me? You can see the city.”
Bill didn’t know what else to do with Harry. He knew his job was to protect him, and that was something he could do. He was trained for that. But comforting and consoling was never something he was particularly good at, or something he felt confident doing.
****
The open-air markets in Egypt were just a few blocks down from where Bill lived, and after a short walk, Harry found himself in an older part of the city.
Vendors called loudly from behind their stands, advertising their merchandise and trying to convince the shoppers that they couldn’t live without it. Some spoke in broken English while others spoke a language Harry had never heard before.
There were straw mats and baskets, clay pottery and gilded busts of various gods, rich tapestries and woven rugs. Harry’s eyes darted around, trying to take it all in but not look too much like a tourist. Bill, of course, was used to it all, and he chuckled at Harry’s suppressed wonder.
“I guess it’s a bit different than what you’re used to,” he said.
“Is all of this Muggle stuff?” Harry whispered to Bill.
“Mostly,” Bill explained. “You’d think otherwise, but there’s only a very small population of wizards here. Muggles scared them off hundreds of years ago. They fled to the remote areas and started their own civilization, and most haven’t bothered to come back.”
Harry nodded absently as they walked by a stand selling what looked like leeches and raw fish heads. It reminded him of the things he’d seen in Knockturn Alley. They passed women in black robes with scarves wrapped around their faces, balancing baskets on their heads. Some of the men wore casual pants and shirts, but most of them, too, wore white or blue robes.
Harry sidestepped a cluster of white chickens as they scampered out from under a table, clucking and flapping their wings in agitation.
“Unfortunately, there aren’t any places like Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade over here,” Bill continued. “I live like a Muggle out of habit and convenience, though I use magic for travel and work. And cooking. I never did understand Muggle cooking.”
Bill stopped at a stand selling produce. Bananas, oranges, apples, potatoes, lettuce, pistachios, olives, and even peppers. At last, something Harry was familiar with, and something he wasn’t unsure about eating. Bill picked out a few things and tossed them in a basket, then paid the man behind the counter with a large, multi-colored note.
On the corner was what looked like a newsstand. World, national, and regional newspapers were stuffed in rusted metal racks, and magazines, ranging from the latest fashions to parenting, lined a long row of shelves. Harry guessed the subject by the pictures on the covers, because when it came to reading the print, it was like trying to read ancient spells. It looked more like symbols than actual letters, and Harry squinted his eyes as he looked, trying to pick out something, anything, that resembled his own language.
“It’s Arabic,” Bill said over Harry’s shoulder.
“Can you read any of it?” asked Harry.
“A bit. I know enough to read the headlines and argue with the shopkeepers about prices. I wouldn’t want to go up against a native speaker, though. I’m better at translating hieroglyphics.”
Bill picked up a bodybuilding magazine and flipped through a few pages before throwing it into the basket along with the vegetables. He grinned at Harry. “What can I say? I like the pictures.”
Harry stood still and stared after him. So Bill was… Harry wouldn’t have guessed it. Of course, he didn’t know Bill that well, and he knew nothing about his personal life. This was something else that Ron had failed to mention. Maybe Ron didn’t know about it. Harry felt his stomach flip-flop, but he tried to ignore it and ran to catch up with Bill, who had walked on ahead.
On their left was a colorful display of bright beads and worthless trinkets. An obvious tourist trap that Harry found interesting in spite of himself. The streets were narrow and crowded, and Harry had to pause and wait on a man pushing a flower cart to pass by before he crossed over.
A short, fat, balding man with a dark gray beard stood behind the counter. The distrustful look on his face suggested to Harry that he was the shopkeeper. On either side of the man were tall glass cases where shiny rings with dark colored stones were stacked. Small gilded statues and busts, demanding to be bought and worshipped, were spread on a low table. On the wall behind them were beaded necklaces and bracelets hanging down from rusty nails. Under each was a small label with a name and a description, assuring the buyer of magical ability if used correctly, or certain catastrophe if used incorrectly. The words were written in English, no doubt to attract tourists who might otherwise not take the time to browse through them.
“They aren’t really magical, are they?” Harry asked.
Bill examined the string of beads and rolled them around between his thumb and forefinger. “Not these,” he said, “though you’ll find some that are. There’s a witch who owns a shop a few streets over. She’s not a very friendly sort. Sells amulets and idols that would be considered Dark objects in England. She can get away with that here because the Ministry doesn’t waste their time monitoring such a small wizard population. I’ll take you over there if you’d like.”
“Yeah, all right,” Harry said, afraid he sounded too eager. He wanted to see what Egyptian wizards were like.
“Just let me get a few more things, then we’ll go.”
At a fish market, Bill pointed to a tray of pink filets and held up two fingers. The vendor nodded curtly and began packing the fish. While they waited, Harry got a chance to see the other varieties. There were pale gray, triangle-shaped pieces, much like shark fins. A clear tank held chopped octopus, which was soaking in a milky substance. Skinned eels hung down like pale chains of sausages. Some looked liked they’d been left out in the sun too long, and the ripe smell seemed to confirm it. Harry’s nose crinkled up, and Bill chuckled.
“That’s another reason I use magic to cook,” Bill said under his breath. “You won’t believe some of the stuff they eat over here.”
“Shukran,” the vendor said as he handed Bill two small packages wrapped in white paper. Bill returned the sentiment, then lead Harry the few streets over to where the Wizarding shop was located.
A bronze colored sign, peeling and worn, hung down from the awning. The words were Arabic, and underneath them were two Egyptian figures, much like the sketches Harry had seen in Muggle textbooks. One figure held what was unmistakably a wand, and the other figure was prostrated in front of the first. It looked so obviously like a magical shop that Harry was surprised Muggles weren’t curious or suspicious about it.
“It means ‘We’re Superior,’” Bill said when he saw Harry’s eyes squinting up at the sign. “Creepy place, if you’re not used to this sort of thing.”
It was indeed a creepy place, and the creepy feeling Harry got when he walked in the door was probably what kept Muggles away. The shop was small and dimly lit. Smells of must, cloves, and over-ripe fruit made the air stagnant, and made Harry a little queasy.
A skinny woman with long black hair and a prominent nose, almost as pointed as Snape’s, was perched on a wooden stool, like a thin brown bird. Her arms were covered in rows of golden bangles, nearly up to her elbows. She didn’t speak, but she eyed Harry and Bill suspiciously under her turquoise colored lids.
“Madame Fahrida, the proprietress,” Bill whispered as he nodded in the woman’s direction. “She knows me, of course, but she doesn’t like strangers.” He looked pointedly at Harry. “I’ll go talk to her, keep her distracted. You can look around all you want, but don’t touch anything.”
Though Harry was cautious, he was mostly curious. Other than his wrong turn on the Floo network that landed him at Borgin and Burkes, he’d never been in a Dark Arts shop before, much less one as exotic as this. He would have loads to tell Ron and Hermione when he saw them again.
Harry cast a last, quick glance at Madame Fahrida to make sure that she wouldn’t hex him for being in her shop. Bill was giving her his whitest, toothpaste smile and tilting his head just often enough so that his long ponytail swung across his back. Though Madame Fahrida’s face was impassive, her eyes were amused and Harry had a feeling that he was the last person in the room she was noticing.
A huge golden coffin, taller than Harry and twice his width, stood upright in the very center of the shop. The carved face was stern and attentive, with wide, black-rimmed eyes that gave a sense of surveillance even when Madame Fahrida’s eyes were diverted. Black canvas bags tied roughly with coarse rope lay at the foot of the coffin with a sign reading Embalming Supplies. It gave Harry an uneasy feeling, and he moved a safer distance away.
Tall, fat candles in glass vases lined a wall of shelves on Harry’s left. Most were topped with colored flames, which gave that side of the shop a prismatic glow. They burned steady and bright, not wavering or faltering, and gave off a spicy fragrance that made Harry’s nose tingle and his eyes water. Leaning against the wall in the back of the shop were thick rolls of carpet, like woven towers, in different sizes and colors. No doubt Ali Bashir’s illegal flying carpet business was profiting, despite Mr. Weasley’s warnings. Harry wondered if he could get away with buying one…just as a souvenir, of course.
More statues, like Harry had seen in the open-air markets, sat on display on tables and behind glass cases. These weren’t cheap replicas, but authentic sculptures, made of gold, bronze, and alabaster. Some were eagles, their wings spread in flamboyance and regality. Others were sleek jackals with sharp ears and watchful eyes, and even others were busts of Egyptian deities. A particular statue, one with a human body and falcon head caught Harry’s eye. He’d seen the image before, but never knew which god it was or what it represented. He studied it for a minute, then, forgetting Bill’s warning about not touching anything, reached out his hand.
Bill walked up and nudged Harry’s shoulder with his elbow. “I don’t think you want any of those,” he whispered. “They’re fertility idols. That one there, Atem, he masturbated his children into existence.”
“He what?” Harry wished his voice hadn’t chosen that moment to crack.
Bill laughed at the expression on Harry’s face. “It’s a myth, of course, but that’s what they say. Imagine that. Wanking, thinking it’s the safest thing, then ending up with a litter of kids.” Bill shook his head. “Poor bloke.”
Deciding that fertility idols were definitely not something he was interested in, Harry told Bill that he had seen quite enough and suggested that they go back to the flat.
****
“Here,” said Bill, handing Harry a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. “Don’t tell Mum I gave it to you. She’d hex me into next week.”
“I’ve had some before,” Harry said quickly. In truth, all he’d had was butterbeer, but he didn’t want Bill to know that.
“All right, then,” Bill said. “We’ll sit outside, if you’d like. The nights are nice. Much cooler than the days.”
Harry followed Bill to the back of the flat and through his bedroom to the balcony. Bill sat in one of the straw chairs and propped his feet up on the table. Harry sat down in the other chair and took a sip of his beer. The air was warm, but lacked the humidity that Harry had expected.
“So,” Bill started after a relaxed silence, “what do you think of Egypt so far? Is it what you expected?”
Harry thought for a moment. “It’s not. It’s different, but it’s interesting. I think I like it.”
“You think?” Bill smiled as he swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Well, you’ve got the rest of the summer to find out.”
“Yeah.” Harry took another small sip. The beer was bitter, and didn’t taste like he imagined it would. “I never know what to expect from one summer to the next. Staying in Egypt shouldn’t have been a surprise.”
“Sorry about that,” Bill said, feeling strangely responsible for Harry’s sudden change in plans. “I didn’t know anything about it, either.”
“I know,” replied Harry quickly, not wanting Bill to think he was blaming him. “This is far better than staying with the Dursleys.”
“Those relatives of yours,” Bill shook his head and Harry noticed the way his ponytail swung back and forth, “they’re something, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are,” Harry agreed. “I wish I didn’t have to stay with them at all.”
“What’s it like, not having parents?” Bill asked suddenly. “I couldn’t imagine. Sure, Mum is always after me to cut my hair, and Dad refuses to leave his rubbish job at the Ministry, but I don’t know what I’d do without my family.”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Harry said, taking a larger drink. “I never knew what it was like to have parents, so I don’t know what to compare it to. I know about them from Dumbledore and Professor Lupin and…and Sirius, but I don’t remember them. Except that night when…when Voldemort showed up.”
Harry stared out over the city. The lights from the streetlamps dotted the highways like tiny watch fires. Two of the large overpasses intersected each other, forming a burning cross right through the heart of the city. Animated billboards burned with colored bulbs, and club fronts glowed florescent. Small, white lights shone on the horizon out towards the ocean. But Harry didn’t see any of it. That assembly of light was darkness compared to what he saw behind his eyes at night.
“I’m sorry, Harry.” Bill took his feet off the table and leaned forward. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” Harry answered truthfully. “Everyone asks. I should have better answers by now.”
“Still, I shouldn’t have pried,” Bill said, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “You get enough of that from everyone else. New subject. Music. What do you listen to?”
“I don’t, really,” Harry shrugged. “The Dursleys won’t let me, and radios don’t work at Hogwarts.”
“I’ve got something I think you’ll like.”
Bill stood up and went inside. He returned a few minutes later with a Muggle CD player and two more bottles of beer. “The Darkness. Ever heard of them?” Harry shook his head, and Bill continued. “They’re a UK band, don’t hear much of them over here.”
Bill pushed a button and a song started playing, even though the CD player wasn’t plugged into an outlet and didn’t have a cord. He handed one bottle of beer to Harry, who still hadn’t finished his first, and twisted the cap off the other bottle for himself.
A heavy guitar riff started, then cymbals clashed in on every other beat, interspersed with a deeper guitar. It sounded exactly like something Bill would listen to. Harry decided that he liked it, too. Dudley would whine about it. Aunt Petunia would never allow it. Uncle Vernon would roar about it. The neighbors would complain about it. Harry would be sure to take one of the CDs to Privet Drive when he went back next summer.
When the second song started, Bill leaned over and turned the volume down. “What’d you think?”
“I like it,” Harry said with a smile. “I’d never heard it before.”
“I thought you would. Ron says it’s too noisy.” Bill rolled his eyes.
Harry laughed. “Loan me the CD, and I’ll change his mind.”
“Deal.”
Bill reached out his hand and Harry stood up to shake it. Bill’s calloused grip was firm, but his touch was warm and Harry’s knees would’ve given out had he not sat down quickly.
“How about I take you to the temples tomorrow?” Bill asked suddenly, surprising even himself. He downed the last of his beer and sat the empty bottle next to his chair, trying to seem indifferent in case Harry declined. “We’re finishing up an excavation.”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” Harry said, feeling that Bill’s invitation was only sympathetic. “I can hang around here. Do homework and stuff.”
“You won’t be in the way,” Bill assured him. “We can use the extra help. There’re just four of us left. The rest have been transferred to a different site.”
“Well…okay.”
“Best get to sleep, then. I’ll have to wake you early.” Bill stood up and stretched, and Harry took a last swallow of beer.
“Not much for beer, are you?” He gestured to Harry’s half full bottle.
“No, I…I just wasn’t very thirsty,” Harry explained.
“I see…” Bill turned and went inside, and Harry followed after him.
“Well, I guess I’ll…” Harry started, but his words were cut short.
Bill had taken his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. He looked up at Harry, leaving his jeans unbuttoned, showing a v-shape of dark underwear. “Yes?” he asked.
“Yes…I mean, um, I’ll see you in the morning.” Harry knew he was gaping like the fish he’d seen in the market that day, but he couldn’t stop staring. Bill’s arms and chest were tan and dotted with brown freckles. The lights from the city reflected off the defined muscles in his stomach, making them look sleek and shiny.
“Right,” Bill said as his attention went back to undressing. “You’ll want to wear something old and comfortable.” He pushed his jeans down over his hips and kicked them off. "Those tombs are filthy and we’ll be working all day.”
“Mm-hm,” Harry muttered, unaware of everything Bill had just said. All he could focus on was Bill’s body, infinitely smooth and developed, and completely bare except for a thin pair of boxers.
Bill loosened his ponytail and pulled the band out of his hair. It fell around his broad shoulders in loose, dark waves. Harry’s mouth went dry.
“Good night, Harry,” Bill said sleepily as he stretched out on top of the covers.
Harry tried to swallow, but he just nodded, unable to form any words.
****
Harry found himself in a dark, circular room with blue candles. Three dead bodies lay at his feet. In front of him stood Voldemort - a wicked laugh and slanted red eyes. The Dark Lord had accomplished everything, save one. Killing Harry. Harry knew he had to react, respond, rebound. Do something, anything, to save himself. Voldemort took a step forward, then paused. Only a breath of a pause, just long enough for Harry to take that breath for himself. He felt his head tingle, like tiny spiders crawling under his scalp, as his lungs expanded. In the same moment that he exhaled, he cast the Curse. The Killing Curse. The Curse that would put an end to all of this. Freedom. Safety. Reassurance. All of it rested in those two words. Avada Kedavra.
But there were no words, only the faint wheeze of Harry’s breath as it left his lungs. His last breath. He would not take another. Voldemort didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The Curse would reach Harry. There was no uncertainty. Voldemort raised his wand, pointed it at Harry’s scar, and hissed the words Harry had tried so hard to say himself. Avada Kedavra…
Harry cried out when he felt pressure on his chest. The Curse had missed his scar, but still found its target. His body jerked and his eyes flew open. He was lying on his back, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet. He was still breathing.
Harry didn’t recognize the room, but he recognized the face above him.
“Are you okay?” Bill asked as he took his hand away from Harry’s chest.
Harry sat up. “I’m…I’m fine,” he said. Sweat ran down his neck and made tracks down his back, but he was cold and shivering.
Bill didn’t have to ask if it was another nightmare. He knew it was, and he felt responsible for it because he had been asking Harry about his parents, and about You-Know-Who, just hours ago. He had hoped that with Harry being in Egypt, the nightmares would go away, or at least be less frequent. Obviously, that wasn’t happening.
“Can I get you anything?” Bill asked. “A blanket or something?”
“No, thanks, it’ll pass in a minute.” Harry forced his voice not to shake. He wasn’t going to trouble Bill. He’d already become a burden by staying here, and now he’d woken Bill in the middle of the night.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come with me tomorrow. It might be dangerous. You could stay here and rest-”
“No,” said Harry quickly. “I want to come. I don’t want to stay here by…by myself.” Harry hung his head and stared down at the crumpled sheets on his bed.
“Well…all right,” Bill said finally. “Let me know if you need anything.” He squeezed Harry’s shoulder, knowing it wasn’t enough but not knowing what else to do, then went back to his own bed.
He’d always seen Harry as a child, but now, after just one day with him, Bill knew Harry was much older. Had he been a child, Bill could’ve hugged him, read to him, and stayed until he fell asleep again. Being the oldest, Bill had done that with all his brothers, and Ginny, too. But Harry was most definitely not a child, and a bedtime fairy tale or strong shoulder wasn’t going to chase the nightmares away. He couldn’t just crawl into bed with Harry.
But Bill didn’t know that was exactly what Harry wanted.
tbc
Pairing: Harry/Bill
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance, Angst, Drama
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry, Bill, or any of the Weasleys. They all belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for my story, which I will make absolutely no money from. If you don't believe me, look at my bank account. It's empty.
A/N: A big, big thank you to my beta, Lena. She put up with me when I got frustrated and almost gave up on the story, but as always, she was there to encourage me and get me through it.
Challenge #2/Summary: Harry flees his abusive relatives, not able to handle them on top of the nightly gruesome dreams he has been having of Voldemort. He goes to the Weasleys but refuses to stay for more than a few days, concerned that he will be a danger to them. Molly decides that Bill Weasley, currently visiting his family, has to take Harry with him to Egypt for protection until the end of summer, if not longer.
The lurid green light devoured the darkness, snuffing out the blue flamed candles and eating its way into the black recesses of the circular room. Harry’s eyes followed the glowing light as it hit Hermione in the chest so hard that she staggered backwards a few steps before her body went limp and she fell. In an instant, the green light was gone and the blue flames flared timidly again.
Harry hadn’t yet grown accustomed to how easily and quickly a life could be lost.
Hermione lay spread eagle. Her face was frozen forever with wide eyes and an open, pleading mouth. Her hair was spread in a dark circle around her head, like a deep pool of blood, though there were no marks anywhere on her. Ron had been the first to fall, with a trivial wave and flick of a wand. His body was twisted in an angle that Harry knew no living person could ever contort themselves into. Neville was slumped against the wall, his head drooping grotesquely on his shoulders. Like his parents, Neville had been put under the Cruciatus curse, but then effectively killed in the end because, after his screams of pain, he had served his purpose.
The room was still and silent. Dead.
Then there was the laugh. The same high, cold, piercing laugh that haunted Harry’s dreams. It echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and magnifying itself until Harry’s ears rang with it. Harry turned toward the source of the laughter, finding Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the wizard who was feared above all others, and the very wizard who he, Harry, had the task of destroying. Harry always knew it would come to this. It was prophesied before he was born. It was his destiny and the only true purpose in his life. Kill or be killed, and Harry didn’t want to die yet.
There was only one thing to be done. Casting the Killing curse, of course. Harry knew this, too. He’d been trained for it, filled with it, and had it burrowed so deeply in his mind that he even dreamt about it. Knowing that concentration and purpose were imperative in giving the curse its full power, Harry drew up all the anger and hurt he’d ever known. Losing his parents, being raised by the Dursleys, being mocked by Snape and taunted by Malfoy, having his own blood taken from him and used to resurrect his nemesis, Sirius falling through the veil...
Harry drew up these memories and held them on the tip of his tongue, ready to spit them out along with the curse.
This was who had killed his parents, and Harry was about to kill him.
Harry raised his wand with a surprisingly steady hand and pointed it directly at Voldemort’s chest. He took a deep breath, drawing in oxygen and courage, hoping it was enough to speak the words and preserve his determination. It would have to be enough. There was no other choice. Kill or be killed, and Harry still wasn’t ready to die.
He opened his mouth, ready to yell the words he’d never used but that he’d heard so many times he knew what they would taste like. He felt the words build up in his throat and tumble across his lips. But there was no sound. Voldemort stood before him as undefeated as ever. Harry tried again, and although his mouth found the words, it was as if someone had turned off the sound. He felt like he was underwater, like in the Second Task of the TriWizard Tournament, except there weren’t even bubbles this time. There was nothing. Harry strained his vocal cords until they were taut, willing the sound to come out. But still, there was nothing. Only silence.
Kill or be killed, and Harry knew he was about to die.
With an indulgent smile, Voldemort raised his wand. It was aimed between Harry’s eyes, directly at his scar. Like a dementor, Voldemort sucked all the air out of the room, and before Harry even had time to brace himself for it, the curse came. It was green and blinding, just like every other time he had seen it. He watched as the beam of light barreled forward, hurtling undeniably towards its target. Voldemort had cast it perfectly. It would not miss. A split second before it hit, Harry screamed. It didn’t stop the curse, but it released the pain…
Harry bolted upright in his bed. His body ached and shuddered with the memory of the curse. The scar on his forehead burned like it was on fire. He was cold and sweating, and so sick that he retched several times without throwing up. It was that dream again, the same dream he’d had so many times that it came to him even when he was awake. But it was still that - just a dream, even though Harry knew that Voldemort only showed him those dreams to lure him into situations that would become reality. He reached under his pillow and felt around until he was sure his wand was still there.
With a shaky hand, Harry wiped the sweat away from his forehead, then sat still and waited for the nausea to pass and his chest to stop heaving.
Suddenly, the door to his room burst open. This time, it wasn’t a Dark Lord or a Killing Curse. It was his uncle.
“What,” Vernon roared, “is the meaning of this? Waking us up at all hours of the night with your ruddy screams! Don’t you know the neighbors could hear you?”
“Sorry,” said Harry shakily, not about to explain his nightmare to Uncle Vernon. He would never understand, anyway.
“Too right, you are,” hissed Vernon. Aunt Petunia joined him at the door, her hair in curlers and her lips pursed tightly. “This is the fifth bloody time this week. If I hear one more peep out of you, you’re going back in the cupboard, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
The door slammed behind the retreating forms of his aunt and uncle, leaving Harry alone and with a dream he couldn’t forget.
Harry knew he’d have the dream again. It was the same one he had almost every night. He also knew that Uncle Vernon would come through on his threats to lock him in the cupboard again. Harry had gotten out six years ago, and he wasn’t going back. He wasn’t going to be locked up and fed through bars like an animal, and he wasn’t going to give Voldemort any additional ammunition for nightmares. He had enough already.
Throwing the covers back, Harry jumped out of bed. He grabbed a few clothes from his wardrobe, removed the loose floorboard next to his bed and took out all his schoolbooks, threw everything in his trunk, slammed the lid shut, sat Hedwig’s empty cage on top of it, and tucked his wand into his back pocket. He was leaving Privet Drive.
The problem, of course, was how to get out of the house without waking his relatives and causing another scene. Apparating was out of the question. Though he had done it a few times, under the strict supervision of Dumbledore and Remus Lupin, he wasn’t confident enough to try it by himself, especially now, when his mind was preoccupied with so many other things. He’d have to sneak out the Muggle way.
Harry pressed his ear to the door. When he didn’t hear anything, he pulled the door open and stuck his head out. The hallway was empty and there were still no sounds. He pulled his wand out of his back pocket and cast a Locomotor charm. Harry had long ago stopped caring about the ‘no magic outside of school’ rule. The trunk followed him down the hallway, floating just a few inches above the floor. Harry crept lightly down the stairs, careful to miss the second step from the bottom that always creaked. Once on the ground floor, Harry stopped again to listen. Still silence. He crept onward to the back door, turning the lock and pulling it open as slowly and quietly as he could.
Outside, the rain fell heavy, pouring from the dark sky in continuous gray sheets. Harry was soaked to the skin after his first two steps. Lightning crashed and thunder rumbled overhead. When he got through the puddles and to the end of the driveway, he stuck out his wand hand. The Knight Bus wasn’t the most comfortable form of transportation, but it would do in a pinch, and Harry was definitely in a pinch.
Almost immediately, Harry heard a bang! and the large, purple triple-decker bus appeared before him. The doors opened to reveal a bright purple poncho, the bulk of the conductor invisible through the dark curtain of rain.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus!” the conductor yelled over the downpour. “Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard!”
“I know what the Knight Bus is,” said Harry, annoyed. He just wanted to get in out of the rain. “Stand back, would you?”
The conductor seemed a bit cross at Harry’s assertive manner, but nonetheless, he moved to one side so that Harry, with trunk and cage in tow, could climb aboard.
“Where’re ya headed?” the conductor asked. “We can take you anywhere, long as it’s on land. Can’t go underwater.”
“Yes,” sighed Harry, “I know. Just take me to Ottery St. Catchpole.”
“Aye, that we can do.”
Now, in the light from the candles on the wall, Harry could see the conductor’s face, framed by the plastic purple poncho. The pimples were unmistakable. It was Stan Shunpike.
“Still riding with Ernie, I see,” Harry laughed. “Whatever happened to your campaign to become the youngest-ever Minister of Magic?”
Stan’s forehead crinkled around his pimples. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I never wanted to be Minister.”
“Sure you did,” Harry said, poking fun at Stan’s attempts to impress one of the veelas at the Quidditch World Cup. “So, how long have you been working the Knight Bus now? Must be at least four years. You’re wasting valuable time.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Stan, obviously very annoyed. “I’ve only been on this job for three months.”
“No, you haven’t. Remember me? Neville Longbottom?”
“You’re not Neville, you’re Harry Potter,” said Stan, eyeing Harry suspiciously.
“I know that,” said Harry. “I told you I was Neville, though, remember? I guess it’s been about four years ago now.”
Now it was Stan’s turn to laugh at Harry. “You got me mixed up with my brother! I’m Stuart, not Stan! Stan was runnin’ the bus back then. I just started.” Stuart found the case of mistaken identity highly amusing.
Stuart had a very annoying laugh, made even more annoying now that Harry was the reason for it. “Forget it,” Harry said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Dry off first, would ya? Don’t want the sheets wet!” Stuart called as Harry started up the stairs.
There were a few other passengers, two witches and a wizard, but they were all sleeping soundly, evidently unaware of the latest stop and newest occupant. Harry looked at them enviously, wishing sleep would be so easy and untroubled for him.
Even if it weren’t for the violent shakes and jarring of the bus, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He lay down, anyway, just grateful to be leaving Privet Drive and on his way to the Burrow.
****
Stuart’s face, still wreathed by the purple poncho, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Ottery St. Catchpole!” he called.
Harry followed him down the stairs and to the luggage compartment, where he found his trunk and Hedwig’s cage.
“See ya, Harry,” Stuart said as Harry walked off the bus. “Hope ya stay dry!”
Harry cast an angry look at Stuart as the rain pelted down on his head and dripped off the end of his nose. Stuart may have looked ridiculous in the poncho, but Harry would’ve gladly taken it, had he offered. It was a pretty good walk to the Burrow from where the bus let him off, and silly or not, Harry would’ve done anything to stay dry.
****
Half an hour later, his clothes saturated with enough water to fill a large bathtub, Harry walked up the drive to the Burrow. All the lights in the house were off, an indication that the Weasleys were asleep.
The driveway was spotted with ruts filled to overflowing, and though Harry tried to sidestep them, he wasn’t always successful. He plunged ankle-deep into a particularly large one, the mud squelching under his shoes. With some determined tugging, Harry freed himself, and very forlornly, climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
After a few minutes with no answer, Harry knocked again. He felt bad about coming so late, unannounced, and waking everyone up, but he had no other place to go. A light came on in one of the rooms near the back of the house, and after some muttering and shuffling, Mr. Weasley’s sleepy face appeared behind the door. He was in his pajamas and dressing gown. He blinked his eyes and shook his head before he finally noticed Harry.
“Harry, do come in!” Mr. Weasley said as he stepped back to allow Harry room. “Sorry about that. We don’t normally get visitors who use the front door.”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said sheepishly, “but I-”
“You don’t have to apologize, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, raising his hand. “Another fight with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, not wanting to tell Mr. Weasley the whole story.
Mr. Weasley looked solemn. “I thought so. You know you’re always welcome here. Let me get Molly.”
“No,” Harry started. “Please, sir, I’ll just go upstairs, if that’s okay. Don’t wake her.”
“Nonsense!” Mr. Weasley said. “She’d have me hanged if I didn’t tell her you were here.”
At that moment, Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen, her hair in pins and her hands on her hips.
“Arthur, what in the world - Harry, dear!” She ran over to hug him, but stopped short when she saw his wet clothes. “What are you doing out on a night like this?” she demanded. “You could catch your death out there!”
“I - I had a fight with the Dursleys,” Harry said softly.
“Oh, you poor dear!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him despite his wet clothes. “Go upstairs and wake Ron. You can borrow some of his clothes. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’m really sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I don’t know why Albus has you staying with those horrible people, anyway. Now, go upstairs and get into some dry clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
****
Harry climbed the stairs slowly, careful to step over the ones that creaked. He would’ve given the Weasleys every galleon, sickle, and knut in his vault if they would’ve taken it. He owed them so much, and a simple ‘thank you’ didn’t seem like nearly enough. He sometimes wondered what would’ve happened if he and Ron hadn’t become friends and he’d never met Ron’s family. Harry could honestly say that he had no idea what he would do without them. They were the only real family he’d ever had, and while he felt a little selfish for disturbing them so late, he knew Mrs. Weasley would’ve scolded him for not calling on them when he needed to.
Ron was asleep, his long legs tangled up in the sheets, when Harry entered his bedroom. Harry crept over to the wardrobe and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, and Ron let out a grunt. Harry glanced over at him, but Ron slept on, apparently not aware that anyone was there.
Harry changed silently, slipping on a pair of Ron’s trousers that were much too long for him and a shirt that was faded and worn. It was comfortable, though, and far better than the soggy clothes he’d been wearing. As Harry let himself out of the bedroom, Ron grunted again. Harry paused in the doorway and looked over at him.
“Glad you’re here, Harry,” Ron said. Then he turned over and went back to sleep.
****
Harry ate a very late dinner downstairs in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They asked questions about his summer, like how much studying had he gotten done, had he been getting the owls Ron had sent him, and lastly, the touchiest subject, how the Dursleys had been treating him. Harry answered as honestly as he could. In truth, the Dursleys hadn’t been any worse than normal.
The nightmares were the worst part, by far. They kept him up at night, refusing to let him get even a few hours of modest sleep, and they played and rewound themselves in his mind while he was awake. He chose not to tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about them, not wanting to trouble them further. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d been through worse and lived to tell about it. Some things were better kept quiet.
After his midnight meal, Harry thanked Mr. and Mrs. Weasley again, apologized for waking them, and wished them a good night. He climbed the stairs to Ron’s room, where he knew he’d be sleeping without even having to ask. Harry was tired. Exhausted, more like, and although he was afraid of sleeping, he needed to lie down and rest.
Because he hadn’t owled the Weasleys beforehand to let them know he was coming, there was no usual camp bed for him to sleep on. There was no other bed in the room except for Ron’s. Well, it’ll have to do, Harry thought, as he climbed between the covers and lay down next to Ron. It was cramped, Ron’s bed not being any bigger than the ones at Hogwarts, but it was better than sleeping on the floor, and much better than sleeping at Privet Drive. Keeping close to the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake Ron but trying to allow him as much room as possible in the small bed, Harry curled his arm underneath his head and tried to keep his eyes open.
****
Fading black. Encompassing green. An open mouth and silent scream. Hermione flat. Ron broken. Neville bent. Dead. Dead. Dead. Silence. Then, a laugh. Cold like ice. Frozen. A raised wand. A mouth full of empty words. Silence. Panic. Fear. Another raised wand. A Death spell. More green light, brighter, closer. Perfectly aimed. Then red, like blood. Long fingers. A firm grip…
“Harry? Harry!”
Harry’s eyes flew open and he drew a deep breath. Ron was staring down at him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him. But Ron was dead.
“Wha…?” Harry mumbled, trying to make his eyes focus without his glasses. His scar was throbbing, and sweat was running off his neck and trickling down between his shoulder blades.
“Harry, what was it? Another nightmare?” Ron asked in an anxious voice.
“Yeah,” Harry said, as his breath came back at last and he relaxed into the damp pillow. “Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay, mate. Wanna talk about it?” Ron drew his knees up to his chest, a little uncertain, yet curious and attentive.
“No, it’s…it’s nothing.” Harry turned away from Ron, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Harry-”
“I said no.”
Harry knew that Ron was just concerned about him, and although he regretted being so cross, he didn’t want to scare Ron or worry him more than was necessary. Ron knew that Harry’s dreams sometimes came true; dreaming about Ron being dead was something Harry wanted to keep to himself.
As he lay there, trying to push the dream out of his mind, Harry realized he’d made a mistake in coming to the Burrow. It was the first place he’d thought to go when he left Privet Drive, but now he saw how much danger his presence was to the Weasleys’ safety. He should’ve gone to the Leaky Cauldron. He’d gone there before when he ran away from his relatives. He had the money to rent a room for the remainder of the summer vacation. He could pick up his books and school supplies, get started on his summer assignments, maybe get fitted for a new set of robes. It wouldn’t be the same as staying with the Weasleys, but at least he wouldn’t be a danger or a bother to anybody.
****
“I won’t hear of it, Harry! You’re not going off to London by yourself!”
That was Mrs. Weasley’s immediate reaction when Harry told her and Mr. Weasley about his plans to leave the Burrow. He wanted to tell her that he’d been to London before by himself and that he didn’t need anyone to look after him, but he knew better than to argue with her. He’d seen her angry at Ron and the twins too often.
“Molly’s right,” Mr. Weasley said, glancing approvingly at his wife. “London’s too dangerous.”
“But I don’t have anywhere else to go,” said Harry. “I’m not going back to Privet Drive.”
“Of course, not. We wouldn’t-”
At that moment, Bill entered the kitchen, shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting, blue plaid pajama pants, and Harry didn’t hear another word Mr. Weasley said. His eyes followed Bill as he walked by, and Harry suddenly realized that it had been a year since he’d last seen him. Bill poured himself a cup of tea and sat the kettle back on the stove.
“Harry?”
Harry quickly turned his attention back to Mr. Weasley. He hoped the pink color in his cheeks wasn’t obvious. “Oh…yes, sir?”
“We’ve been in contact with Dumbledore,” Mr. Weasley continued, “and we know about your nightmares.”
“You know?”
Harry’s respect for Dumbledore had waned through the years, and now it was at its lowest degree ever. This was just more evidence of Dumbledore’s complete lack of respect for Harry’s private life and personal decisions. If Harry had wanted the Weasleys to know about his nightmares, he would’ve told them himself. He didn’t think Dumbledore had the right to divulge his secrets.
“Yes, dear, we know,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “We’ve talked with Dumbledore, and we’ve made some arrangements for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry started, “but I’ve told you, I can’t stay here-”
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. “Not here, exactly.”
“Oh? Where, then?” Harry knew he did a poor job hiding the sarcasm in his voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the Weasleys’ kindness and forethought, but he was tired of others trying to control his life. He could make his own decisions without consulting Dumbledore.
Mr. Weasley looked nervously at Bill for a moment before he answered. “We think it would be a good idea for you to spend the rest of the summer in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” asked Harry, quite taken aback. He looked quickly over to Bill.
Bill’s eyebrows shot up over the top of his cup. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“We meant to ask you about it,” Mr. Weasley explained carefully, “but well…there wasn’t enough time.”
Bill hummed in disapproval and sat his teacup down. “So that’s why you sent me the owl and asked me to come over?” he asked.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley nodded like a pair of trained seals.
Bill leaned against the sink and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t suppose I have much of a choice, do I? When do we leave?”
“Today, if you can pack quickly,” said Mrs. Weasley, seeming pleased that Bill had readily, if not happily, agreed to the plan.
“I’ve arranged a Portkey,” Mr. Weasley said, “and the Ministry has given me permission to activate it when you’re ready.”
“Hang on,” said Harry, taking a step forward. He didn’t appreciate being talked about like he wasn’t in the room, and he certainly didn’t appreciate them making plans for his future without consulting him. “What makes you think Egypt is safe? Won’t Voldemort send people out to look for me once he knows I’ve gone missing?”
Ron flinched at Harry’s use of the name, and even Bill and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed taken aback, but only momentarily.
“True,” said Mr. Weasley, taking a deep breath. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “You-Know-Who has a large network of spies, but Egypt is an unlikely place for you to go. They wouldn’t think to look for you there, at least not at first. Gringotts only uses specialized wizards for their curse-breaking expeditions. You’ll be well protected.”
Harry thought it over for a minute. It made sense, he couldn’t argue with that. But his summer plans hadn’t included visiting Egypt and hiding out in adobes. “Don’t I get a say in any of this?”
“I’m afraid not, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. Her tone was gentle but firm, and Harry knew there was no room for discussion.
Harry looked desperately over at Ron, who had been silent the entire time. He hoped Ron might side with him, that he would see how unfair this whole arrangement was and suggest an alternate plan. Ron’s eyes were apologetic, but he just shrugged helplessly.
“I’ll go pack,” Harry muttered.
****
Under other circumstances, Harry wouldn’t complain about spending the summer with Bill in Egypt. He’d always thought Bill was cool, and Harry liked him best out of Ron’s brothers. In fact, Harry liked Bill quite a lot. More than he would ever admit to Ron. Harry had noticed last year, while staying at Grimmauld Place, that his body had certain reactions whenever Bill was around. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time because he had other things on his mind, like warding off dementors and the trial that followed. It wasn’t until this morning, when Bill walked into the kitchen, his long hair curling around his bare shoulders, that Harry remembered just how much he liked him.
No, Harry’s complaints had nothing to do with spending the summer with Bill. What Harry was upset about was that no one was listening to him. An entire conversation had just been had about him, and not once had anyone asked him how he felt about any of it. Now he had become Bill’s responsibility, and no one asked Bill how he felt about that, either. Harry was honestly grateful to the Weasleys for all they had done for him throughout the years, giving him a place to stay when the Dursleys became unbearable, being the supportive, caring family he’d never had, and always making sure he was safe and never needed anything. But Harry was seventeen now and legally an adult, and he thought it was time other people stopped treating him like he was a helpless child.
****
Bill had spent last year as an active member of the Order, but he’d become restless with the desk job. He was unaccustomed to the large amount of paperwork and the confines of such a small office. He’d only recently moved back to Egypt and resumed curse-breaking, not realizing how much he missed it until his first day back when they spent forty-two straight hours raiding a tomb.
He was still available if the Order needed him; he made that clear to both his parents and Dumbledore. Though he was young during You-Know-Who’s first reign, Bill still remembered the fear, panic, and chaos the Wizarding World had been in during that time. Even now, his parents talked in hushed voices about it when they thought none of their children were listening. Bill wanted to participate this time around, to offer his knowledge and abilities in the fight against You-Know-Who. Apparently, though, his knowledge and abilities weren’t currently needed. Only his flat.
He didn’t mind looking after Harry. He liked the kid. Honestly. But Bill had lived mostly by himself for the last 10 years, other than the passing girlfriends or boyfriends, and having a kid around would certainly change things. Cramp his style, more like.
****
Bill’s feet hit the ground and he stumbled forward. He hated Portkeys. It was so much easier to Apparate.
“Well, here we are,” he said once he regained his balance.
Harry let go of the handle on his trunk and looked around at what would be his home for the next month. It wasn’t anything like what he expected.
They were standing in a room furnished almost entirely in a tropical blue. The walls were teal, the color of the ocean, and decorated with large, wooden carvings illustrating various scenes of ancient Egyptian life. Two stuffed chairs and a sofa, in contrasting blue tapestry, sat around a square alabaster table topped with round glass vases and a tall stone statue. A chandelier with colorful beads, like raindrops reflected in a rainbow, was suspended from above, and a blue and white partition stood in the far corner next to a pile of tasseled turquoise pillows.
For some reason, Harry always pictured Bill living in a mud house, with holes for the door and windows. Ron had never bothered to tell Harry otherwise.
“I don’t stay here often,” Bill explained. “Our assignments take up most of our time, and more often than not, we’re sleeping in tents.”
“That’s all right,” said Harry. He wasn’t quite sure what else to say.
“Well…” said Bill, rubbing his chin, “I’ll show you the rest of the place, okay?”
The other rooms looked much like the first room Harry had seen. Though they weren’t blue, they were decorated in a similar fashion, with bright colors, bold accents, and heavy architecture. There were no doors, only sheer curtains, and the windows were carved wood, but had no glass in them. Oriental rugs were laid over the dark, shiny wood floors, and similar hangings lined the wide hallway that lead to the bedrooms at the back.
The subject of sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to Harry until now, and he was relieved to find that there were two bedrooms. Bill’s was the larger of the two, with an adjacent sitting area and a balcony that provided a wide view of the surrounding areas. With a quick glance at the tall buildings and congested traffic outside, Harry saw that Bill’s flat was in a very noisy, very busy part of the city. Quite a contrast from Harry’s initial idea of Bill living in a primitive village in the middle of nowhere.
“This’ll be your room,” Bill said, leading Harry to the second bedroom.
It was smaller than the first, but the décor retained the same cultural influences. The bed, low and narrow, was dressed in crisp white sheets that looked impossibly clean. The rest of the furniture was dark wood, like the floors, and accented with various ethnic details.
“I’ve got to check in with the department, let them know I’m back in case they need me. Shouldn’t take long,” Bill tapped his fingers against his leg nervously. “Just, um, make yourself at home.”
Rarely having houseguests, Bill didn’t know the proper way to play host, and now that he had shown Harry the entire flat, he didn’t know what else to do with him. Harry understood how Bill felt, because he, too, felt awkward and even a little embarrassed. Although he had known Bill for a few years, and even attended the Quidditch World Cup with him, he’d never been around him for more than a day or two at a time, and Ron, the twins, and the rest of the family had always been there.
“Thanks,” said Harry lamely.
Bill nodded courteously and Disapparated.
Harry would’ve unpacked, but what few belongings he brought were in his trunk and there was really no need to put them anywhere else. It would save him time and trouble when he got ready to leave for Hogwarts.
He sat Hedwig’s empty cage on a table next to the window. Harry knew she would find him, she always did, but he wished she were here now. He would’ve liked to owl Hermione, or even Ron, though he was still angry with him, to let them know that he had arrived and everything was okay. Any place was better than Privet Drive, but here Harry was, in a strange flat in a foreign land, and the only person he knew in the entire country had just disappeared to Merlin knows where. Harry would’ve been alone at the Leaky Cauldron, but he knew Tom the innkeeper and he’d been to Diagon Alley enough to know his way around. At least it was in England.
On account of his poor sleep quality and the hectic morning that had abruptly changed his travel plans, Harry was so tired he felt like he could sleep standing up. He didn’t need a bed, although the one in his new room looked like something he could crawl into and never come out of. Instead, he picked a stiff wooden chair, grabbed his sixth year Charms textbook, and got an early start on his summer reading.
****
It was happening again. Harry knew it. He was in the Department of Mysteries. With Voldemort. Alone. His friends were dead. There was no one to save him. The blue flames from the candles on the walls flickered. Harry was afraid they’d go out and he’d be left in total darkness, but they still burned, though faintly. He took a step forward and raised his wand…
“Hey, Harry? Harry, wake up.”
Harry’s eyes shot open and he lifted his head from where it had fallen on his shoulder. Bill was crouching in front of the chair with his hands on the armrests.
“It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Harry admitted quietly. He stared down at the book in his lap, not seeing any of the printed words. He’d only been at Bill’s a few hours, and he’d already had another nightmare. He was embarrassed, causing such a scene and being a bother so soon after his arrival. He was sure Bill would think he was some scared little kid who couldn’t handle a bad dream.
“I need to go to the market and pick up a few things,” Bill said after several minutes of strained silence. He stood up and scratched his arm distractedly. “Why don’t you come with me? You can see the city.”
Bill didn’t know what else to do with Harry. He knew his job was to protect him, and that was something he could do. He was trained for that. But comforting and consoling was never something he was particularly good at, or something he felt confident doing.
****
The open-air markets in Egypt were just a few blocks down from where Bill lived, and after a short walk, Harry found himself in an older part of the city.
Vendors called loudly from behind their stands, advertising their merchandise and trying to convince the shoppers that they couldn’t live without it. Some spoke in broken English while others spoke a language Harry had never heard before.
There were straw mats and baskets, clay pottery and gilded busts of various gods, rich tapestries and woven rugs. Harry’s eyes darted around, trying to take it all in but not look too much like a tourist. Bill, of course, was used to it all, and he chuckled at Harry’s suppressed wonder.
“I guess it’s a bit different than what you’re used to,” he said.
“Is all of this Muggle stuff?” Harry whispered to Bill.
“Mostly,” Bill explained. “You’d think otherwise, but there’s only a very small population of wizards here. Muggles scared them off hundreds of years ago. They fled to the remote areas and started their own civilization, and most haven’t bothered to come back.”
Harry nodded absently as they walked by a stand selling what looked like leeches and raw fish heads. It reminded him of the things he’d seen in Knockturn Alley. They passed women in black robes with scarves wrapped around their faces, balancing baskets on their heads. Some of the men wore casual pants and shirts, but most of them, too, wore white or blue robes.
Harry sidestepped a cluster of white chickens as they scampered out from under a table, clucking and flapping their wings in agitation.
“Unfortunately, there aren’t any places like Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade over here,” Bill continued. “I live like a Muggle out of habit and convenience, though I use magic for travel and work. And cooking. I never did understand Muggle cooking.”
Bill stopped at a stand selling produce. Bananas, oranges, apples, potatoes, lettuce, pistachios, olives, and even peppers. At last, something Harry was familiar with, and something he wasn’t unsure about eating. Bill picked out a few things and tossed them in a basket, then paid the man behind the counter with a large, multi-colored note.
On the corner was what looked like a newsstand. World, national, and regional newspapers were stuffed in rusted metal racks, and magazines, ranging from the latest fashions to parenting, lined a long row of shelves. Harry guessed the subject by the pictures on the covers, because when it came to reading the print, it was like trying to read ancient spells. It looked more like symbols than actual letters, and Harry squinted his eyes as he looked, trying to pick out something, anything, that resembled his own language.
“It’s Arabic,” Bill said over Harry’s shoulder.
“Can you read any of it?” asked Harry.
“A bit. I know enough to read the headlines and argue with the shopkeepers about prices. I wouldn’t want to go up against a native speaker, though. I’m better at translating hieroglyphics.”
Bill picked up a bodybuilding magazine and flipped through a few pages before throwing it into the basket along with the vegetables. He grinned at Harry. “What can I say? I like the pictures.”
Harry stood still and stared after him. So Bill was… Harry wouldn’t have guessed it. Of course, he didn’t know Bill that well, and he knew nothing about his personal life. This was something else that Ron had failed to mention. Maybe Ron didn’t know about it. Harry felt his stomach flip-flop, but he tried to ignore it and ran to catch up with Bill, who had walked on ahead.
On their left was a colorful display of bright beads and worthless trinkets. An obvious tourist trap that Harry found interesting in spite of himself. The streets were narrow and crowded, and Harry had to pause and wait on a man pushing a flower cart to pass by before he crossed over.
A short, fat, balding man with a dark gray beard stood behind the counter. The distrustful look on his face suggested to Harry that he was the shopkeeper. On either side of the man were tall glass cases where shiny rings with dark colored stones were stacked. Small gilded statues and busts, demanding to be bought and worshipped, were spread on a low table. On the wall behind them were beaded necklaces and bracelets hanging down from rusty nails. Under each was a small label with a name and a description, assuring the buyer of magical ability if used correctly, or certain catastrophe if used incorrectly. The words were written in English, no doubt to attract tourists who might otherwise not take the time to browse through them.
“They aren’t really magical, are they?” Harry asked.
Bill examined the string of beads and rolled them around between his thumb and forefinger. “Not these,” he said, “though you’ll find some that are. There’s a witch who owns a shop a few streets over. She’s not a very friendly sort. Sells amulets and idols that would be considered Dark objects in England. She can get away with that here because the Ministry doesn’t waste their time monitoring such a small wizard population. I’ll take you over there if you’d like.”
“Yeah, all right,” Harry said, afraid he sounded too eager. He wanted to see what Egyptian wizards were like.
“Just let me get a few more things, then we’ll go.”
At a fish market, Bill pointed to a tray of pink filets and held up two fingers. The vendor nodded curtly and began packing the fish. While they waited, Harry got a chance to see the other varieties. There were pale gray, triangle-shaped pieces, much like shark fins. A clear tank held chopped octopus, which was soaking in a milky substance. Skinned eels hung down like pale chains of sausages. Some looked liked they’d been left out in the sun too long, and the ripe smell seemed to confirm it. Harry’s nose crinkled up, and Bill chuckled.
“That’s another reason I use magic to cook,” Bill said under his breath. “You won’t believe some of the stuff they eat over here.”
“Shukran,” the vendor said as he handed Bill two small packages wrapped in white paper. Bill returned the sentiment, then lead Harry the few streets over to where the Wizarding shop was located.
A bronze colored sign, peeling and worn, hung down from the awning. The words were Arabic, and underneath them were two Egyptian figures, much like the sketches Harry had seen in Muggle textbooks. One figure held what was unmistakably a wand, and the other figure was prostrated in front of the first. It looked so obviously like a magical shop that Harry was surprised Muggles weren’t curious or suspicious about it.
“It means ‘We’re Superior,’” Bill said when he saw Harry’s eyes squinting up at the sign. “Creepy place, if you’re not used to this sort of thing.”
It was indeed a creepy place, and the creepy feeling Harry got when he walked in the door was probably what kept Muggles away. The shop was small and dimly lit. Smells of must, cloves, and over-ripe fruit made the air stagnant, and made Harry a little queasy.
A skinny woman with long black hair and a prominent nose, almost as pointed as Snape’s, was perched on a wooden stool, like a thin brown bird. Her arms were covered in rows of golden bangles, nearly up to her elbows. She didn’t speak, but she eyed Harry and Bill suspiciously under her turquoise colored lids.
“Madame Fahrida, the proprietress,” Bill whispered as he nodded in the woman’s direction. “She knows me, of course, but she doesn’t like strangers.” He looked pointedly at Harry. “I’ll go talk to her, keep her distracted. You can look around all you want, but don’t touch anything.”
Though Harry was cautious, he was mostly curious. Other than his wrong turn on the Floo network that landed him at Borgin and Burkes, he’d never been in a Dark Arts shop before, much less one as exotic as this. He would have loads to tell Ron and Hermione when he saw them again.
Harry cast a last, quick glance at Madame Fahrida to make sure that she wouldn’t hex him for being in her shop. Bill was giving her his whitest, toothpaste smile and tilting his head just often enough so that his long ponytail swung across his back. Though Madame Fahrida’s face was impassive, her eyes were amused and Harry had a feeling that he was the last person in the room she was noticing.
A huge golden coffin, taller than Harry and twice his width, stood upright in the very center of the shop. The carved face was stern and attentive, with wide, black-rimmed eyes that gave a sense of surveillance even when Madame Fahrida’s eyes were diverted. Black canvas bags tied roughly with coarse rope lay at the foot of the coffin with a sign reading Embalming Supplies. It gave Harry an uneasy feeling, and he moved a safer distance away.
Tall, fat candles in glass vases lined a wall of shelves on Harry’s left. Most were topped with colored flames, which gave that side of the shop a prismatic glow. They burned steady and bright, not wavering or faltering, and gave off a spicy fragrance that made Harry’s nose tingle and his eyes water. Leaning against the wall in the back of the shop were thick rolls of carpet, like woven towers, in different sizes and colors. No doubt Ali Bashir’s illegal flying carpet business was profiting, despite Mr. Weasley’s warnings. Harry wondered if he could get away with buying one…just as a souvenir, of course.
More statues, like Harry had seen in the open-air markets, sat on display on tables and behind glass cases. These weren’t cheap replicas, but authentic sculptures, made of gold, bronze, and alabaster. Some were eagles, their wings spread in flamboyance and regality. Others were sleek jackals with sharp ears and watchful eyes, and even others were busts of Egyptian deities. A particular statue, one with a human body and falcon head caught Harry’s eye. He’d seen the image before, but never knew which god it was or what it represented. He studied it for a minute, then, forgetting Bill’s warning about not touching anything, reached out his hand.
Bill walked up and nudged Harry’s shoulder with his elbow. “I don’t think you want any of those,” he whispered. “They’re fertility idols. That one there, Atem, he masturbated his children into existence.”
“He what?” Harry wished his voice hadn’t chosen that moment to crack.
Bill laughed at the expression on Harry’s face. “It’s a myth, of course, but that’s what they say. Imagine that. Wanking, thinking it’s the safest thing, then ending up with a litter of kids.” Bill shook his head. “Poor bloke.”
Deciding that fertility idols were definitely not something he was interested in, Harry told Bill that he had seen quite enough and suggested that they go back to the flat.
****
“Here,” said Bill, handing Harry a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. “Don’t tell Mum I gave it to you. She’d hex me into next week.”
“I’ve had some before,” Harry said quickly. In truth, all he’d had was butterbeer, but he didn’t want Bill to know that.
“All right, then,” Bill said. “We’ll sit outside, if you’d like. The nights are nice. Much cooler than the days.”
Harry followed Bill to the back of the flat and through his bedroom to the balcony. Bill sat in one of the straw chairs and propped his feet up on the table. Harry sat down in the other chair and took a sip of his beer. The air was warm, but lacked the humidity that Harry had expected.
“So,” Bill started after a relaxed silence, “what do you think of Egypt so far? Is it what you expected?”
Harry thought for a moment. “It’s not. It’s different, but it’s interesting. I think I like it.”
“You think?” Bill smiled as he swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Well, you’ve got the rest of the summer to find out.”
“Yeah.” Harry took another small sip. The beer was bitter, and didn’t taste like he imagined it would. “I never know what to expect from one summer to the next. Staying in Egypt shouldn’t have been a surprise.”
“Sorry about that,” Bill said, feeling strangely responsible for Harry’s sudden change in plans. “I didn’t know anything about it, either.”
“I know,” replied Harry quickly, not wanting Bill to think he was blaming him. “This is far better than staying with the Dursleys.”
“Those relatives of yours,” Bill shook his head and Harry noticed the way his ponytail swung back and forth, “they’re something, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are,” Harry agreed. “I wish I didn’t have to stay with them at all.”
“What’s it like, not having parents?” Bill asked suddenly. “I couldn’t imagine. Sure, Mum is always after me to cut my hair, and Dad refuses to leave his rubbish job at the Ministry, but I don’t know what I’d do without my family.”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Harry said, taking a larger drink. “I never knew what it was like to have parents, so I don’t know what to compare it to. I know about them from Dumbledore and Professor Lupin and…and Sirius, but I don’t remember them. Except that night when…when Voldemort showed up.”
Harry stared out over the city. The lights from the streetlamps dotted the highways like tiny watch fires. Two of the large overpasses intersected each other, forming a burning cross right through the heart of the city. Animated billboards burned with colored bulbs, and club fronts glowed florescent. Small, white lights shone on the horizon out towards the ocean. But Harry didn’t see any of it. That assembly of light was darkness compared to what he saw behind his eyes at night.
“I’m sorry, Harry.” Bill took his feet off the table and leaned forward. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” Harry answered truthfully. “Everyone asks. I should have better answers by now.”
“Still, I shouldn’t have pried,” Bill said, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “You get enough of that from everyone else. New subject. Music. What do you listen to?”
“I don’t, really,” Harry shrugged. “The Dursleys won’t let me, and radios don’t work at Hogwarts.”
“I’ve got something I think you’ll like.”
Bill stood up and went inside. He returned a few minutes later with a Muggle CD player and two more bottles of beer. “The Darkness. Ever heard of them?” Harry shook his head, and Bill continued. “They’re a UK band, don’t hear much of them over here.”
Bill pushed a button and a song started playing, even though the CD player wasn’t plugged into an outlet and didn’t have a cord. He handed one bottle of beer to Harry, who still hadn’t finished his first, and twisted the cap off the other bottle for himself.
A heavy guitar riff started, then cymbals clashed in on every other beat, interspersed with a deeper guitar. It sounded exactly like something Bill would listen to. Harry decided that he liked it, too. Dudley would whine about it. Aunt Petunia would never allow it. Uncle Vernon would roar about it. The neighbors would complain about it. Harry would be sure to take one of the CDs to Privet Drive when he went back next summer.
When the second song started, Bill leaned over and turned the volume down. “What’d you think?”
“I like it,” Harry said with a smile. “I’d never heard it before.”
“I thought you would. Ron says it’s too noisy.” Bill rolled his eyes.
Harry laughed. “Loan me the CD, and I’ll change his mind.”
“Deal.”
Bill reached out his hand and Harry stood up to shake it. Bill’s calloused grip was firm, but his touch was warm and Harry’s knees would’ve given out had he not sat down quickly.
“How about I take you to the temples tomorrow?” Bill asked suddenly, surprising even himself. He downed the last of his beer and sat the empty bottle next to his chair, trying to seem indifferent in case Harry declined. “We’re finishing up an excavation.”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” Harry said, feeling that Bill’s invitation was only sympathetic. “I can hang around here. Do homework and stuff.”
“You won’t be in the way,” Bill assured him. “We can use the extra help. There’re just four of us left. The rest have been transferred to a different site.”
“Well…okay.”
“Best get to sleep, then. I’ll have to wake you early.” Bill stood up and stretched, and Harry took a last swallow of beer.
“Not much for beer, are you?” He gestured to Harry’s half full bottle.
“No, I…I just wasn’t very thirsty,” Harry explained.
“I see…” Bill turned and went inside, and Harry followed after him.
“Well, I guess I’ll…” Harry started, but his words were cut short.
Bill had taken his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. He looked up at Harry, leaving his jeans unbuttoned, showing a v-shape of dark underwear. “Yes?” he asked.
“Yes…I mean, um, I’ll see you in the morning.” Harry knew he was gaping like the fish he’d seen in the market that day, but he couldn’t stop staring. Bill’s arms and chest were tan and dotted with brown freckles. The lights from the city reflected off the defined muscles in his stomach, making them look sleek and shiny.
“Right,” Bill said as his attention went back to undressing. “You’ll want to wear something old and comfortable.” He pushed his jeans down over his hips and kicked them off. "Those tombs are filthy and we’ll be working all day.”
“Mm-hm,” Harry muttered, unaware of everything Bill had just said. All he could focus on was Bill’s body, infinitely smooth and developed, and completely bare except for a thin pair of boxers.
Bill loosened his ponytail and pulled the band out of his hair. It fell around his broad shoulders in loose, dark waves. Harry’s mouth went dry.
“Good night, Harry,” Bill said sleepily as he stretched out on top of the covers.
Harry tried to swallow, but he just nodded, unable to form any words.
****
Harry found himself in a dark, circular room with blue candles. Three dead bodies lay at his feet. In front of him stood Voldemort - a wicked laugh and slanted red eyes. The Dark Lord had accomplished everything, save one. Killing Harry. Harry knew he had to react, respond, rebound. Do something, anything, to save himself. Voldemort took a step forward, then paused. Only a breath of a pause, just long enough for Harry to take that breath for himself. He felt his head tingle, like tiny spiders crawling under his scalp, as his lungs expanded. In the same moment that he exhaled, he cast the Curse. The Killing Curse. The Curse that would put an end to all of this. Freedom. Safety. Reassurance. All of it rested in those two words. Avada Kedavra.
But there were no words, only the faint wheeze of Harry’s breath as it left his lungs. His last breath. He would not take another. Voldemort didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The Curse would reach Harry. There was no uncertainty. Voldemort raised his wand, pointed it at Harry’s scar, and hissed the words Harry had tried so hard to say himself. Avada Kedavra…
Harry cried out when he felt pressure on his chest. The Curse had missed his scar, but still found its target. His body jerked and his eyes flew open. He was lying on his back, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet. He was still breathing.
Harry didn’t recognize the room, but he recognized the face above him.
“Are you okay?” Bill asked as he took his hand away from Harry’s chest.
Harry sat up. “I’m…I’m fine,” he said. Sweat ran down his neck and made tracks down his back, but he was cold and shivering.
Bill didn’t have to ask if it was another nightmare. He knew it was, and he felt responsible for it because he had been asking Harry about his parents, and about You-Know-Who, just hours ago. He had hoped that with Harry being in Egypt, the nightmares would go away, or at least be less frequent. Obviously, that wasn’t happening.
“Can I get you anything?” Bill asked. “A blanket or something?”
“No, thanks, it’ll pass in a minute.” Harry forced his voice not to shake. He wasn’t going to trouble Bill. He’d already become a burden by staying here, and now he’d woken Bill in the middle of the night.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come with me tomorrow. It might be dangerous. You could stay here and rest-”
“No,” said Harry quickly. “I want to come. I don’t want to stay here by…by myself.” Harry hung his head and stared down at the crumpled sheets on his bed.
“Well…all right,” Bill said finally. “Let me know if you need anything.” He squeezed Harry’s shoulder, knowing it wasn’t enough but not knowing what else to do, then went back to his own bed.
He’d always seen Harry as a child, but now, after just one day with him, Bill knew Harry was much older. Had he been a child, Bill could’ve hugged him, read to him, and stayed until he fell asleep again. Being the oldest, Bill had done that with all his brothers, and Ginny, too. But Harry was most definitely not a child, and a bedtime fairy tale or strong shoulder wasn’t going to chase the nightmares away. He couldn’t just crawl into bed with Harry.
But Bill didn’t know that was exactly what Harry wanted.
tbc