Chapter 172
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Harry woke up, gasping for breath as if he had been running. He pressed both hands tightly to his face. Beneath his fingers, the lightning-shaped scar burned painfully, as though someone had pressed a white-hot wire against his skin.
He sat up, holding the scar with one hand and fumbling in the darkness for his glasses on the bedside table with the other. Once he put them on, the room slowly came into focus. The streetlights outside filtered through the curtains, bathing the bedroom in a dim orange-red glow.
It was obvious — he had had another dream. And seen something.
This was not the first time it had happened during the holidays. He often woke with a start, convinced he had witnessed something real, yet unable to fully believe it.
Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It still throbbed.
He turned on the bedside lamp, slipped out of bed, crossed the room, opened the wardrobe, and looked into the mirror on the inside of the door. A thin fourteen-year-old boy stared back at him. Messy black hair, bright green eyes — confused and uneasy.
He leaned closer, examining the scar carefully.
There was nothing unusual about it.
But it still hurt.
He tried desperately to recall the dream. Even though it had felt vivid, he couldn't grasp the details.
There had been two men.
He knew both of them.
One was Peter Pettigrew.
The other was Voldemort.
He knew from the way the former addressed the latter.
A cold weight seemed to drop into his stomach. Fear tightened around his heart.
They had been standing in a deserted courtyard on a cold night. Harry tried to remember their conversation, but only fragments remained — Pettigrew's fawning tone, his frightened expression.
It made Harry feel sick.
He wanted to believe it had only been a dream.
But it had felt too real.
Shaking his head, he crept quietly to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face.
He felt his way back to his room carefully so he wouldn't wake his relatives. Dudley was snoring loudly upstairs anyway, so there was little risk.
Back in his room, lit faintly by the neon glow outside, Harry looked at the photograph on his bedside table. Several young men in the moving picture smiled at him.
Hagrid hadn't given him this.
Sirius had found it in the old house and given it to him.
"Fortunately, my parents didn't destroy it."
When Sirius had handed him the photographs, he had explained that many things in the house had been protected by his own spells. Otherwise, even Dumbledore might have had trouble retrieving them.
Sirius knew Harry wanted to know more about his parents.
That was why he had given him the photo.
Harry felt completely lost.
Should he tell someone about the pain in his scar?
Hermione would certainly tell him to contact Professor Dumbledore — or consult a heavy book about magical injuries — or suggest a visit to St Mungo's.
Ron would panic and probably tell Mrs Weasley immediately. Then the whole Weasley family would know he had a headache.
Fred and George might even give him some "experimental" sweets.
And Sirius?
Harry thought Sirius would understand.
He missed him more and more.
Not long ago, he had spent time with his friends and his godfather. He had been sure this would be the best holiday of his life.
Then Dumbledore's letter had arrived.
"Harry, this may be difficult for you to accept, but you must return to your uncle's house immediately. I cannot explain the reason for now, but please trust me. This is for your safety."
The familiar handwriting was unmistakable.
Albus Dumbledore.
If the letter hadn't added that he could still attend the Quidditch World Cup later, Harry felt he might have collapsed.
Reluctant as he was, he obeyed.
They had agreed to meet again after the World Cup.
Harry walked to the window and stared at the dark blue sky.
A small black dot appeared in the distance.
It grew larger.
Closer.
An owl.
It landed outside the window.
Harry recognized it — the owl Sirius had bought for Ron in Hogsmeade. Ron still hadn't named it.
"Come in."
Harry opened the window quickly and let it inside. The night air was cold.
Hedwig watched from her cage, her eyes fixed on the newcomer, not very friendly.
"This is Ron's owl — his new pet," Harry whispered to her, then took the letter from the owl's leg.
"Harry, how are you? I thought we'd spend the whole holiday together. Your relatives didn't give you trouble, did they?"
"I'm fine," Harry muttered, even though Ron wasn't there.
Compared to strange magic, the reputation of a murderer was far more intimidating. At least the Dursleys now treated him more cautiously.
Sometimes Uncle Vernon even talked about whether they should call the police.
Harry always had to stop himself from laughing.
Azkaban hadn't been able to hold Sirius. A Muggle prison certainly wouldn't.
Harry kept reading.
Ron wrote about Dumbledore's letter, the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, and Mrs Weasley asking about him. Fred and George had invented new things and were eager for him to try them.
Harry could easily imagine the chaos at the Burrow.
He smiled as he read.
Then one line caught his attention.
The Ministry had been planning staff cuts.
Mr Weasley had been worried, though it turned out to be a false alarm — only a few idle employees had been dismissed.
Harry relaxed.
Further down, Ron mentioned something else.
Lucius Malfoy had donated a large sum to St Mungo's.
Harry frowned.
He remembered the unpleasant encounter at Sirius's house.
And most of all—
Malfoy had driven Lupin away.
That was unforgivable.
At the end of the letter, Ron mentioned that Mr Weasley had obtained excellent tickets for the World Cup. Sirius had accepted.
They would all go together.
After finishing the letter, Harry suddenly felt hungry.
He pulled out a large box from under his bed.
Food Sirius had given him.
Dudley was on a diet, and to "be fair," Harry's meals had also been reduced.
He rarely ate enough.
But only a few more days.
Then he would leave this place.
---
Meanwhile—
After the potion incident, Draco never mentioned punishment again.
Perhaps what had happened to Pansy that day was punishment enough.
"Let's just pretend none of this happened, Draco," she said, lying in bed and drinking brown sugar water, her face flushed.
"In my opinion, this simply means you're growing up," Draco replied calmly. "Your mind may still be that of a little girl, but your body is developing."
Pansy nearly died of embarrassment.
'We're the same age!' she complained inwardly, though she still looked pitiful on the surface.
"I'll never be able to get married in the future," she said tearfully. "So you have to take responsibility, Draco."
She covered her face, but peeked through her fingers to watch his reaction.
Draco remained expressionless.
"You should rest," he said. "When you're better, we'll discuss your… unrealistic ideas."
Then he left.
The door closed.
Draco leaned against it and sighed.
Youthful feelings.
If so many things hadn't happened, Pansy should still have been a carefree young lady.
Well — she still was.
Just… a little more troublesome.
He had indulged her before because he wanted to leave some changes in this world — to influence the people around him, to keep something worth protecting.
Pansy was trying to grow in her own way.
She understood right and wrong now.
But feelings were not about right or wrong.
He had long known how she felt.
He had simply pretended not to notice.
To him, it was only the hazy affection of adolescence. It would fade with time.
But he was not truly her age.
His mentality was that of an adult.
His tolerance toward her had always been like that of an older brother, not a lover.
More importantly—
The path he intended to walk was dangerous.
The less she was involved with him, the safer she would be.
Voldemort would use anyone close to him.
That was also why he had deliberately distanced himself from Hermione.
He had been impulsive that day in the candy shop.
Afterward, he realized how easily his actions could endanger others.
Maybe, he thought bitterly, he simply couldn't bear to see girls cry.
After a moment, his expression steadied again.
He opened the door.
Pansy, who had secretly gotten out of bed, hurriedly lay back down.
"I just got up to check something," she said quickly.
"Let's talk properly, Pansy," Draco said, ignoring the excuse and looking at her seriously.