The Power He Knows Not (Harmione)

Chapter 1 - The Flying Lesson

The sun shone warmly on the streets of Little Whinging, and the wind brushed happily through the trees. Birds chirped in pleasant conversation, and the distant laughter of children brightened an already beautiful day. The weather seemed to beckon everyone out of their homes, and the park bustled with activity. On a noticeably deserted swing, sat that unusual boy the neighborhood had come to avoid. The messy-haired boy with the lightning bolt scar on his head sat swinging alone, staring blankly into the distance, lost in thought.

Harry didn't seem to mind the lack of activity around him. He'd grown used to being alone and frankly found it much easier to contemplate the things weighing so heavily on him lately. Harry sat on the swing with one picture after another floating through his mind, one disjointed sentence following the next. He thought about Sirius, the conversation he had with Dumbledore, Sirius, his parents, Sirius, the D.A., Ron, and Hermione. It had only been two weeks, but it might have been two months. Harry had never been more alone. Even the Dursleys had taken far greater leave of him since their reunion at King's Cross. After their encounter with the Order, Dudley had reduced himself to mere whimpers and squeaks anytime Harry was within shouting distance of him. Uncle Vernon merely spoke at him, telling him how much better his holiday was this year than in years past. Harry knew Vernon intended him to write these very words in the owls he sent to the Order every two or three days. It wasn't as if Harry obliged Uncles Vernon's attempts. The little solace he found resided firmly in making Vernon wonder if Harry quietly begged for the cavalry when he wrote to the likes of Mad Eye Moody and Remus Lupin.

He thought about Dumbledore's explanation of why he had to return here every summer. He knew he had to make his home with Aunt Petunia and her family, though he really wondered if he'd ever feel like he had a "home" or not. He was unsure what "home" was supposed to feel like, but felt rather confident the impeccable Dursley residence was a substandard approximation.

"Home," Harry harrumphed as he suddenly found himself staring at number 4 Privet Drive. Somewhere in his musings, he had left the park and walked back to the Dursleys without even noticing that he had moved.

Harry walked into the house and rejoiced in the silence. Uncle Vernon was at work, no doubt bellowing orders to dozens of underpaid workers. Dudley was unmistakably searching for the next 10 year-old victim of his latest boxing moves. Harry walked up the stairs to his room. The door opened with a familiar squeak, and for a moment, he had to refocus his eyes to ensure they were working properly. On his bed sat Aunt Petunia. Her face carried such a familiar expression. She looked, for only the second time in Harry's memory, human. He understood the emotion behind her expression. It was sadness, a deep and seemingly incurable sadness.

In a flash, it was gone.

Petunia seemed to realize her expression the second Harry had glimpsed it, and it was quickly replaced by something more recognizable. She leaped up from the bed and the familiar pursed lips and furrowed brow returned to her face.

"Harry! We have opened our home to you for years. Will there ever be a moment when you decide to keep it clean?" Aunt Petunia roared. "It simply doesn't fit with the rest of our home. "It's disgraceful!" she added.

"It's nice to know that my room and I have something in common then, right?" Harry said coolly. Aunt Petunia dropped a few of his rumpled clothes back to their places. She threw the burgundy sweater Ms. Weasley knitted last Christmas back down on the bed where she had been sitting and stormed from the room. Just before slamming the door, she decided to make a point of her exit.

"You will clean up this mess, or you will have no supper!" Aunt Petunia barked as she slammed the door behind her.

Last summer, anger would have pulsed in every vein of his body, not now. He just didn't care. He flopped onto the bed, still strewn with his clothes, and stared at the ceiling. He had spent last summer so angry, and in many respects, it was better then. At least he could feel something. As it was now, he couldn't feel at all. He was numb, and had existed in that state since his return "home." His thoughts began to drift to their familiar place, the same thoughts he never seemed to keep far from his mind. He had no idea how long he'd lain there when a tapping came at his window.