Chapter Text
Part I
Chapter 1: Perfection is Often A Harmful Endeavor
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were clearly proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. But until the middle of the previous summer, there was a hitch in their armor of perfectly manicured grass and flower beds, a stain on their reputation. They couldn’t be happier that their nephew had been taken away, and could only hope he would never be coming back. Their lives were, in their fine opinion, far better off without the weirdness that seemed to follow Harry James Potter like a dense fog.
So the light summer evening the Dursleys were enjoying with their son was, in all respects and ways possible, perfectly normal. Until it wasn’t.
A man appeared on the corner of Privet Drive, so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. Albus Dumbledore was tall, thin, old, and very troubled.
Barely a week had passed since the wizarding world had witnessed the return of Lord Voldemort. From what Dumbledore had been told by those close to Harry, having the boy return to Privet Drive for another summer was not an option, but in light of this recent event he had no choice but to consider it. After Harry had been taken to Grimmauld Place last summer, Albus had faced the fury of nearly every member of the Order for leaving him there in the first place. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly to come here this evening, but all options had to be seen.
With Sirius free and exonerated, it was no longer a question of trying to find the boy people who would love and support him--people who could be his family. Once, Dumbledore had naively hoped the Dursleys could do that. He had been mistaken, and Harry had had to find that support on his own. Nor was it a question of simply finding people who would provide for the boy--Harry had always had people willing to do that.
It remained, as it always had, a matter of safety.
Tom Riddle’s plan had been exposed, he was no longer constrained by secrecy and shadows. People did not need to be Seers to feel what was coming, and those who were choosing still to ignore it were foolish. That Dumbledore would even consider returning a child of his school to a family seriously reported as abusive and neglectful truly highlighted the level of danger the boy was in.
For now, he had allowed Harry to return to Grimmauld Place with his godfathers, his soulmate, and his soulmate’s father. Short of returning him to Privet Drive, that was the best Dumbledore could do. But without the strength of Blood Wards protecting Harry, Dumbledore knew he would live in fear for the boy’s safety every waking moment. Furthermore, Harry was a danger to those in proximity to him, and Dumbledore wasn’t sure they could afford to jeopardize the Order like that.
Even now, he could feel the wards on Privet Drive weakening; at this point they were practically paper-thin. If Harry did not return soon, they would fail completely and Harry would lose the best protection he could have. So there Dumbledore was, seeing if he could afford to break yet another promise to the boy and force him to return to his mother’s family.
Petunia Dursley opened the door with an air of forced, highly fabricated, almost synthetic genial welcome. The moment she took in who Albus was, this faded to icy contempt.
“What do you want now?” she demanded harshly.
“As always,” Dumbledore said, his voice steady with an evenness that did not betray his true emotions, “to discuss the safety and wellbeing of your nephew. Perhaps I should come inside.” It wasn’t a question.
Scowling, Petunia ushered him inside, peeking around out the door after he crossed the threshold as if she was expecting to catch a neighbor spying on her. She slammed the door behind her, turning on him angrily.
“Why should we agree to take him back?” Petunia sneered, spitting out even the pronoun referring to Harry like it left a bad taste in her mouth.
“I would have hoped,” Dumbledore said slowly, “for the same reasons I asked you to take him in the first place; because he is, no matter how you wish to deny it, of your blood, and if not for that, simply because he has no one else. Of course the latter is no longer true, but it holds that your home offers Harry a level of protection it would be difficult to give him anywhere else.”
“The boy was never a member of this family,” Petunia muttered. “His relation to my freakish sister means nothing to me. Why should we take him back? What more do you want from us--we’ve raised him all these years?”
Dumbledore looked at her darkly. “Petunia, I do believe you may have mistaken the purpose of my visit here this evening. I did not come here to convince you to take Harry back, you have little choice in the matter. Did it never occur to you that Harry’s protection here extended to you and your family? My intention here is to assess whether I trust Harry’s safety within these walls, if I allow you to take him back.”
Petunia swallowed. “Of course--what are you accusing us of?!” she spluttered, waving a hand about futilely. “Never liked the boy but I wouldn’t--we wouldn’t…”
“Ah,” Dumbledore said, his tone nothing but conversational. “Do I take it you deny that young Harry ever came to harm while in your care?”
Petunia was silent far too long.
“We never asked for this!” she finally shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at Dumbledore. “Before he came along...we were perfect!”
Dumbledore didn’t immediately respond, his gaze had traveled and come to rest on the door to the cupboard underneath the stairs. He felt a chill go down his spine and rest heavily against his heart--there was unsettling energy within. Ignoring Petunia’s desperate rantings, he walked forward and opened the door.
Dust greeted him, like the space had been intentionally forgotten by the other residents of the house. But it was clear that once, years ago, this place had been occupied. A crude drawing, done on what appeared to be some sort of aging wrapper, proclaimed ‘Harry!’ in an odd green color. A handful of broken toy soldiers marched across the shelf. An old cot still occupied the corner.
A darkness lingered, a thick fog that had settled upon the cupboard that had clearly once been the boy-- Harry’s-- room. It was pain and it was sorrow and it was anger and it was loneliness. It was heartbreaking. And the moment Dumbledore felt it hit him, he wanted to cry. His hand was shaking, clutching the door so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Perfection is a rather harmful endeavor…” he muttered, mostly to himself. Now that he had sensed the darkness in that cupboard, it was easier to see where it lingered everywhere, like magical dust. Somehow, the weight of what he had left Harry to began to settle on him in a concrete way, heavier than it had been before.
They were damn lucky the Dursleys hadn’t created an Obscurus.
“Tuney, who is it?” a gruff voice called from the other room, presumably Mr. Dursley.
“It’s--” Petunia swallowed hard, and when she spoke her voice was strained with fear. “It’s him. ”
“Who?” Mr. Dursley asked, waddling into the hallway. “Oh.”
Dumbledore looked between the two of them, tension building in the air as he decided what to do. He could feel anger rising within him--Petunia’s fear was not unfounded. He had hoped, he had reasoned, that the descriptions of abuse came from people who cared deeply about Harry, and were, at least to some extent, drawn out of proportion. From the kind of darkness that lingered in that cupboard, however, the reports were likely understatements.
“Legilimens,” he muttered under his breath, staring Petunia directly in the eyes.
Memory is, by its very nature, fluid. Consciousness is a river of thoughts, a river that turns and crosses itself in a maze of swirling pathways. Memory is something held in perpetual motion by that river, and the river is inevitably influenced by the emotions and perceptions of the mind it belongs to.
Dumbledore sifted through a haze of meaningless memories traveling on the currents, memories that hardly mattered and would inevitably join the hazy fog of forgetfulness that lies in the deeper parts of the mind.
Soon he was standing in the master bedroom of the house, watching the scene flash before him. Petunia and Vernon were sitting in bed quietly when the door was abruptly slammed open. Petunia shrieked. Remus Lupin walked in, his eyes flashing dangerously, and it was abundantly clear in that moment that the man was a werewolf all days of the month, for all that he normally did not show it. “Where is it?” he demanded flatly, drawing his wand. “Where is Harry’s wand?” The memory shifted.
Dumbledore traveled backwards, and eventually came to a breakfast that looked at least five years younger. A morbidly heavy child stuffed his face with eggs, while a much smaller child sat on the step stool of the kitchen, away from the table and the family, eating a charred piece of bread that could be called toast by a stretch. Sad, piercing green eyes…He took the memory of Harry and followed it further, bringing him to a new moment in the past.
“Freakish boy!” Petunia shrieked, dragging a younger Harry down the hallway. “Complaining about bruises now? Are you trying to be trouble?” Unceremoniously she shoved him in the cupboard, clearly not caring when he landed with a pained whimper. A lock slid into place when the door closed, and Petunia spoke through a grate. “No food for three days, and just wait until your Uncle gets home!”
His heart dreading what he might find, Dumbledore followed the pathway of memories of the Uncle tied to Harry. This memory was much more recent, it couldn’t have been more than two years old. The Harry in this memory was the same boy Dumbledore had come to know and care for during his years at Hogwarts.
But there was none of that Gryffindor fire in his eyes now.
Harry was sitting on the bed in the spare bedroom, staring listlessly at the wall. Whatever bruises he had were not visible, but the expression on his face was strained and the way he held himself was pained. Petunia, after unlocking the numerous locks on the door, dropped a list on the ground.
“Chores,” she muttered. For once, Petunia seemed to be actually noticing the state her nephew was in, except there wasn’t any of the sympathy that should have been there. It was only annoyance, distaste, disgust. “Clean yourself to avoid infection,” she muttered, as if the only reason she would suggest this was for Harry to avoid inconveniencing them.
The memories shifted. Harry was younger, much younger, less than seven. His primary teacher’s hair turned bright green, and Uncle Vernon unbuckled his belt. The memories shifted. Petunia swung a frying pan, and Harry had the experience to duck in time. The memories shifted. Harry was left outside as the rain came down in sheets, not allowed inside until his chores were finished. The family sat down to watch the television as if he didn’t exist. The memories shifted.
Worthless, boy, freak. No food, no hugs, no care. The smack of a hand, the dull thud against a wall, the sound of a belt…
Almost desperately, Dumbledore pulled himself out. Again, he looked between Petunia and Vernon. Petunia was deathly pale and shaking, leaning against the wall for support and muttering incomprehensible phrases. Vernon looked ready to burst with rage.
Albus Dumbledore turned on the spot and left, slamming the door open and not bothering to close it or look back. If he had spared a moment more within the walls of that...building--house and home seem far too nice of words for places that have seen such cruelty--Dumbledore was afraid he would draw his wand and live to regret it. Or that he would draw his wand and not regret it at all.
Only one thing was clear; he had made a very grave mistake.
Harry could only distantly feel Sirius put an arm around his shoulders as they Apparated on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place-- home . The light of the funeral pyre was still burned into his mind’s eye with a strange spectral sort of glow. As that fire had burned, the hollowness left behind after Thea’s death had ached so much he figured it was a wonder they didn’t all bleed to death with the pain of it.
Minutes later he found himself sitting at the kitchen table, one hand clutching a mug of warm tea and the other interlaced tightly with Cedric’s. Unceremoniously discarded on the table was a week’s worth of Daily Prophet articles, headlines Harry didn’t need to read to remember.
HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?
SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDES FUDGE
SIRIUS BLACK DECLARED INNOCENT
Beyond that was a variety of pamphlets on Defense published by the Ministry. At the moment that was the only concrete action that had really been taken, Harry could only hope Scrimgeour would be an improvement. The pamphlets were filled with forgettable information that, as far as Harry could see, didn’t seem to be altogether practical.
Not to mention, Harry thought bitterly, his blood starting to boil about the article published the other day on Werewolves, bigotedly misguided.
There was also a smaller headline the other day, on a later page, that he would never forget reading. “Remembering Althea Diggory.” Harry wanted to cry, scream, and puke all at once when he saw it. How was it fair that they were all front page news, while she was relegated to a page past the Quidditch updates?
In the week since Sirius’ trial the five of them had barely left the house, only Amos or Remus leaving if there were essentials that needed to be picked up. They were worried about security for Cedric and Harry; considering what had happened the last time one of them left the protection of Hogwarts, Harry couldn’t blame them. But, surely, they had to be safe at Grimmauld…
He was safe in a way he hadn't been before, at the Dursleys, but he was also in danger in a way he hadn’t been before, at the Dursleys. It was incredible, to be able to truly start to let go of the lingering dread he always carried around about going back to Privet Drive. But he couldn’t help but worry that, despite what Dumbledore had said, he would be going back. The world wasn’t a safe place...but Harry had to believe they were safe at Grimmauld, because that’s what he kept promising Cedric, that they were safe.
They all said those words an awful lot over the week between the trial and the funeral. It was said softly to pull people out of panic attacks and flashbacks. It was whispered in the darkness of night between soulmates (Harry could not fathom how Amos faced his dreams alone. Maybe that was why it seemed the man never got enough sleep--not that any of them did). It was a promise they kept repeating like a latin incantation.
Watching Cedric try to cope, when he was so used to being the strong one...it was heartbreaking. It reminded Harry horribly of himself, all those times he’d felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He felt that weight now, and he could see Cedric felt it too. And it was somehow much easier to watch someone he loved hold up that burden than carry the burden himself.
For the last week Cedric was somehow worse than he had been at Hogwarts. Maybe both of them, relieved of the pressure of the eyes of their peers, were finally starting to let go of some emotional barriers. Logically, Harry supposed that was important. Emotionally, he would have given anything not to have to see Cedric so hurt.
Cedric was so tense, all the time, like he felt he had to be constantly on guard. Harry didn’t comment on the fact Cedric slept with a hand around Thea’s-- Cedric’s wand, he was practically doing the same. Loud noises startled him like never before. Both of their panic attacks were back, but Harry had only had a couple and they weren’t nearly as bad as he expected. Cedric’s, however…
He never wanted to talk about the flashbacks, just like they didn’t talk about the nightmares.
The past week had, more often than not, felt like an exercise in futility. They were all hurting in different ways, with similar and different pains. Sometimes they were just hurting for each other. Amos and Sirius really tried not to show it, Harry got the sense they both felt they had...a responsibility to Thea to be strong in her absence. But Sirius had almost lost his soulmate, had spent a week in Ministry custody with no word, facing the prospect of being thrown back in Azkaban. Amos had almost lost his son, had lost his wife of almost two decades. It was a lie to say they were any more okay than Harry and Cedric, they were just better at hiding it.
And Remus...Remus, who had come the closest of all them to the edge of death, was somehow the most stable one left. Maybe that was because, unlike the rest of them, it seemed Remus had developed a system of practices to handle his issues. So he became the steady rock of the household, a point to which they could all gravitate.
Most of this went completely unspoken about in the Grimmauld household. Harry got the feeling the adults had decided to give Cedric and him the week to...well, ‘ recover’ was a pretty far fetched goal, but...settle in, at least.
He felt Cedric’s hand tighten softly around his own. Unconsciously, Harry realized he’d been rubbing a small, rhythmic circle over the lowest joint of Cedric’s thumb. Those casual moments of soft intimacy that he had grown so accustomed to with his soulmate still caught him off guard sometimes.
Third year, when Cedric caught him during that Quidditch match...Harry would have never guessed they would end up here.
“Alright you two,” Sirius said softly just as Harry was finishing his tea. “Up to bed now. Tomorrow…” he trailed off, clearly wrestling with a question. Sirius looked conflicted, Amos looked pained, and Remus just looked...sad.
“Sirius,” Remus said, walking up and putting a hand on his shoulder. “We can’t avoid it any longer.”
Sirius nodded, “Tomorrow we need to talk. The Order’s meeting here on the 5th, day after tomorrow. We need to know how--what went wrong. We can’t afford another...don’t worry about it too much.”
Harry tried to ignore the twinge of anxiety in his heart-- Cedric is out of Hogwarts now...is he going to join...Merlin…
“Okay,” Cedric’s voice was strained in the same way whenever ‘what happened’ was alluded to. “We’ll talk, tomorrow.”
But, late that night as Harry struggled to fall asleep, ‘tomorrow’ seemed an age and a half away. Seconds crept by like spiders soldiering on through molasses, deliberately slow. In a strange way though, Harry didn’t mind it.
It wasn’t the first summer night he had spent counting seconds tick by. In the past, all he had usually wanted was a way to jump forward to the school year, to escape the present. He’s spent the past alone. He wasn’t alone anymore. This present, as broken as it felt at times, wasn’t something Harry was keen on quickly escaping. Every moment was something to be kept close to his heart.
“Love…” Cedric's voice was a hoarse whisper in the silence of the room. “Harry, are you--”
Harry shook his head, pulling Cedric slightly closer to his chest. “I’m not sleeping.”
There had been an unspoken shift between the two of them--once, Cedric had been the protector. Harry had always been ready, at a moment’s notice, to give his life to protect Cedric, to comfort him but...Cedric had never needed before. Not like this.
“I don’t know…” Cedric sighed heavily, “I don’t know what they want us to tell them tomorrow, Harry.”
Harry tensed, tightening his hand around Cedric’s and pressing a kiss against his head. “You don’t have to--”
“Talk about anything I don’t want to,” Cedric muttered. There was a bitterness in his voice Harry understood, but didn’t like. “Harry, if I did that I don’t think I would ever talk about it. Really talk about it.”
They were both silent for a long moment.
Finally Harry took a deep breath and started talking, “I just keep thinking that I should have put more work into DA lessons, to be honest.”
“What? Harry, you, we put a lot of time into those.”
“We said, at the Hog’s Head, that we were going to try to teach them how to survive this.” Harry closed his eyes, hating the tears that were threatening. “I don’t think we could really teach that, Cedric. But what if the one spell one of them needed we didn’t get to, what if--”
“Shh,” Cedric soothed. “You do what you can do, Harry.”
“...the same applies to you,” Harry whispered, at a loss for the right words to break through to Cedric. It was clear that, on some level at least, he blamed himself.
“She…” Cedric’s voice broke, and along with it Harry’s heart. “She died because of me, Harry.”
And finally, something that had happened and a feeling about it was addressed out loud. Why does moving forward have to hurt so much? Harry thought to himself, holding his boyfriend as they both cried. Guilt, guilt for someone who had fought and died to protect you, was another thing Harry understood, another similar pain they were sharing.
“No, Cedric,” Harry said softly. “She didn’t die because of you. You didn’t cause her death. She died for you. She fought for you. That was her choice. There’s a difference.”
His finger brushed against the scar tissue covering Cedric’s left wrist, and he shuddered slightly. There was another scar on the other side of his hand, hateful words he could just feel ridged outlines of every time they held hands. So many old wounds, to many to count, and they had only just begun to talk about one. That was alright though, between the two of them they had too many scars to unpack in one insomnia-filled night.
They still had time.
Harry still had glamours over his skin. He had reapplied them at some point, he couldn’t even remember when. Used to be that the illusions were to hide the secrets from other people. If Harry was being entirely honest, at least to some degree, he was hiding the scars from himself now. They were reminders of a past he didn’t want to remember. If only mental scars were so easy to hide from himself. If only perfection were easy, only the matter of a wave of a wand.