𝗷𝗮𝗻𝗲, harry potter

˗ˋ 64

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
✧
-: fourth year :-

── IN WHICH HARRY
BREAKS OUT

. . .

Harry felt like a prisoner.

He hadn't felt like this in a long time - the freedom that Jane had given him over the summer that released him from the confines of Number 4 Privet Drive had caused that. And now, it was like the last few summers. Almost like he had bars on his windows agaim.

But this time, there wouldn't be Ron, Fred and George to pull the metals away with the use of Mr Weasley's flying Ford Anglia and whisk him away from the Dursleys for the remainder of the summer. Now, he couldn't leave.

And he had no idea what was going on - and nobody would tell him. 

Sirius had told him not to in a short snippet of a letter filled with organised panic. The news of what had happened with the Dementor attack spread quickly around those who cared for him, all worried about him, his whereabouts and how he was feeling. Nothing about how he was threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts, and whether Dumbledore's attempts to remedy that were succesful or futile. 

Harry couldn't care less about himself. He couldn't care about Dudley - all he cared about was Jane. He couldn't stop thinking about her either, how apparently she was a Squib, and that somehow she was more connected to the world of magic then he could have ever thought. And she had been attacked by Dementors, that was her first introduction to it all. 

He couldn't think of anything worse, the dull sadness that spread through you when coming into the vicinity of one. Harry couldn't imagine Jane not being happy again, and couldn't imagine the pain of reaching some of your worst memories - ones that he had heard about. 

He was all alone in his room, Hedwig having been sent of with three identical letters for Ron, Hermione and Sirius, and he stared down at a fourth piece of parchment as the hours ticked by. He couldn't for the life of him try and figure out what to write to her or how he was going to get it there. 

And it was that which fillied his mind through the next day as well. He couldn't leave, Aunt Petunia stuffing food through the cat flap attached to the bottom of his door, and finally he managed to turn his attention to his school work, filling his time with that and the letter, which he had still only just managed to address to Jane, nothing else beneath it.

He didn't know what to say, didn't know how she would be feeling after the attack. Flora would explain it to her - she had no choice now really, and he felt as though the elderly witch couldn't  be so cruel as to wipe the memories from her mind.

Finally, as the second night came, Harry began to write, apologies and brief explanations covering the page, promises made to explain things properly one day, but he couldn't meet up with her or even leave the house.

Jane, he wrote in the final paragraph of the letter, swearing as the end of the quill flicked and ink splotched over his hand, I can't even begin to explain it here, but I know you'll understand that I couldn't tell you. I just regret not being honest as soon as I felt I could trust you, and that your first introduction to the world I managed to escape to was as awful as it was. One day, I hope that I can show you the rest of it as it came to me.