Chapter 52: Hidden Feelings
Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 52: Hidden Feelings
The days blurred together in a haze of chores and a quiet sense of constant unease that was growing more exhausting as time passed.
Harry woke each morning to the same routine: wash, dress, prepare breakfast, clean.
The fog in his head never quite lifted. It became a persistent weight that made everything feel slightly distant, slightly wrong.
He would catch himself staring at nothing, trying to grasp a thought that slipped away like water through his fingers.
He didn't tell Aunt Bella about it. She would only snap at him for being lazy, for daydreaming instead of working. He had learned to keep his feelings to himself.
But the unease lingered.
He found himself looking at the house next door more often than he should.
The For Sale sign still stood in the garden, and the windows were dark and empty.
Sometimes he would stand at his bedroom window, staring at the charred patch on the roof that the repairs had missed, and try to remember the family that had lived there.
He couldn't. Their faces were blank, their names were nothing but a void.
He knew there had been a fire...he remembered the smoke, the heat and the orange glow, but everything else was lost.
'It's nothing,' he told himself again and again. 'It's nothing...you have to let it go, or it will drive you crazy.'
But he couldn't.
<><><><><><><><>
Three days after the letter arrived, there was a knock on the door.
Harry was in the kitchen, scrubbing the pans from breakfast, when he heard it.
He dried his hands on his apron and hurried to the front door, his heart beating a little faster because they rarely had visitors.
He opened the door.
A man stood on the doorstep, tall and elegantly dressed. He had long black hair streaked with grey, a well-trimmed beard, and sharp, aristocratic features.
His robes were black, embroidered with gold threads, and he held a silver-topped cane in his right hand. His eyes were completely black, and they swept over Harry with an expression that was impossible to read.
He felt as if he was being assessed or evaluated by this person.
Harry recognised him almost immediately. He had seen his face in one of the many photographs in the living room, standing stiffly beside Aunt Bella at some long-forgotten event. But he didn't know his name.
"Ehmm...hello." He said awkwardly. "Are you looking for my aunt?"
"Are you Harry Potter?" the man asked with a smooth voice.
"Yes, sir," Harry said, instinctively standing a little straighter.
The man nodded. His expression remained unchanged. "I am Sirius Black. I am an old friend of your aunt's. She asked me to accompany you on your shopping trip today."
Harry blinked. "Shopping trip?"
"For school," Mr Black said patiently. "Hogwarts. You received your letter, I assume?"
"Yes, sir, but-" Harry felt someone standing behind him and paused.
"Ah, there you are, Mister Black."
Aunt Bella appeared out of nowhere, her face softened into an approximation of warmth that Harry had rarely seen. She smiled at Mr Black.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling well enough to make the trip myself. It's such a long journey, and my old bones just can't take it."
"Of course, Arabella," Mr Black said smoothly. "I'm happy to help. It's the least I can do for...an old friend."
Harry looked between them, a flicker of confusion in his mind. He couldn't understand how this man became friends with his aunt. Not only was he much younger, but he also seemed to belong to some high echelon of society, while his aunt Bella lived a very frugal life.
Still, he did not dare to question it. And his aunt seemed to know a lot of people, even though they rarely visited.
"Harry," Aunt Bella said, turning to him. "Get your things. Mr Black will take you to Diagon Alley. He'll help you get everything on your list."
Harry nodded, still slightly dazed. "Yes, Aunt Bella."
He hurried to his room, grabbed the letter and his worn satchel, and returned to the front door.
Mr Black was already walking towards a sleek, black car that gleamed in the afternoon sun. It was the most expensive-looking car Harry had ever seen.
He glanced back at Aunt Bella, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Be good," she said. "And don't cause any trouble."
"Yes, Aunt Bella." Harry paused. "Wait...I dont have any money for the books."
His aunt shook her head. "Dont worry about that. The school has agreed to cover the costs of the materials. Mister Black will take care of everything. Just follow him and make sure to behave."
"Ehmm...yes, Aunt Bella." He responded, but at the same time, he was wondering why the school would be paying for his things.
And...did this mean that Mister Black worked for Hogwarts?.
He wished he could ask that, but already knew what answer he would get if he did ask his aunt.
Harry followed Mr Black to the car, his satchel clutched to his chest.
The interior was even more impressive than the exterior...soft leather seats, polished wood trim, a faint smell of expensive cologne. Harry sank into the seat, feeling small and out of place.
Mr Black got into the driver's seat and started the engine. The car hummed to life, smooth and silent.
"Buckle your seatbelt," Mr Black said.
Harry did as he was told.
The drive was long and silent.
Harry watched the familiar streets of Little Whinging pass by, then the suburbs, then the city. London sprawled around them, grey and bustling, a world away from the quiet of Privet Drive.
He glanced at Mr Black, who was focused on the road ahead. His profile was sharp, and his expression remained unreadable the whole time.
There was something about him that made Harry uneasy...a coldness beneath the polished surface, like a blade hidden inside a velvet glove.
'He doesn't like me,' Harry thought.
He couldn't explain how he knew, but he did. Mr Black's gaze was always just a little too sharp, a little too assessing.
It felt like he was being measured, weighed, and was found lacking.
Harry looked out the window and tried to ignore the feeling. It was not like he could do anything about it after all.
<><><><><><><><><>
Diagon Alley was as bustling as he remembered.
The cobblestones gleamed under the sunlight, and the shops were crowded with students and their families.
Harry felt a flicker of excitement as he stepped onto the main street. He had been cooped up in the house for so long, and the sights and sounds of the magical world felt like a breath of fresh air.
But Mr Black did not allow him to linger.
"We have a lot to get through," he said, his hand resting on Harry's shoulder in a grip that was just a little too firm. "Time is valuable. Let's not waste it."
Harry nodded, suppressing his disappointment.
He followed Mr Black through the crowded streets, stopping at one shop after another.
The robe shop, where a nervous woman measured him in silence. The apothecary, where Mr Black purchased his potion ingredients without any fuss. The bookshop, where Harry's list was handed to a shop assistant who filled it in minutes.
There was no browsing, no lingering, no time to look around. Everything was done with cold, clinical efficiency. Harry barely had a chance to speak.
He had hoped to run into one of his friends. Draco, Crabbe...or even Daphne. But he saw no familiar faces in the crowd, and no one called out his name.
'They haven't written to me,' Harry thought. Not a single letter all summer.
He tried to remember if he had written to them. He must have...he would have sent something, wouldn't he? But the memory was hazy, as if it belonged to someone else.
"Mr Potter."
Harry blinked, pulled from his thoughts. Mr Black was standing outside the entrance to a shop, his expression impatient.
"Focus," Mr Black said. "We are almost done."
Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Mr Black's eyes flickered with something...annoyance, perhaps, but he said nothing. He simply turned and walked into the last shop of the day.
Harry followed, his heart sinking.
The car ride back was just as silent as the journey there.
Harry sat in the back seat, his shopping bags piled beside him, as his mind worked on something.
He was trying to remember how his previous trip to Diagon Alley had gone.
He had been to Diagon Alley before. He was sure of that much. But the details were blurry, like a dream that was already fading.
He had gone with someone. He knew that. But who? Aunt Bella didn't have a car. She didn't like leaving the house. So who had taken him?.
It couldn't have been Mister Black...right?. They had just been introduced, and yet...he got a strange feeling as he sat in the car.
He looked down at the leather seat beneath him. It was soft and dark, the same deep black as the man's robes.
The smell was familiar...polish and leather and something else, something he couldn't quite place.
'Déjà vu,' he thought. 'Why do I feel like I've been in this car before?'
That was impossible. This was the first time he had met Mr Black. His aunt didn't have other friends like this. He had never been in a car like this.
And yet... the feeling was there, stubborn and insistent. A sense that something was missing, that there was a gap in his memory where something important should be.
'How did I get to Diagon Alley last year?' he wondered. 'Who took me? Why can't I remember something so simple and yet...important?'
He tried to push through the fog, to grasp the memory. He could see the Alley, the shops, the crowds. He could see himself, younger and smaller, walking through the streets.
But the person beside him was a blur, their face obscured, their voice silent.
Before he could dig deeper into his perturbed mind...the car pulled up outside the house. Mr Black turned off the engine and got out, opening Harry's door without a word.
"We're here," he said. "Get your things."
Harry scrambled to gather his shopping bags.
He stepped out of the car and turned to thank Mr Black, but the man was already walking towards his own door, his back to Harry, his cane tapping against the pavement.
Harry stood there for a moment, watching him go. Then he heard his aunt's voice from the front door.
"Harry! Get inside! You're letting the draft in!"
Harry hurried towards the house, his shopping bags clutched to his chest. He glanced back once, but the car was already pulling away.
<><><><><><><><>
Lunch was a quiet affair.
Harry prepared a simple meal. Pan-seared chicken breasts with a green salad, and set it on the table.
Aunt Bella ate in silence, her eyes fixed on her plate while Harry picked at his own food, his appetite gone.
"Eat, boy," Aunt Bella said, her voice sharp. "You need your strength."
"Yes, Aunt Bella."
He forced himself to eat, though the chicken tasted like ash. His mind was still racing, still trying to piece together the fragments of memory that eluded him.
After lunch, he cleared the table and began his chores. The bathrooms needed cleaning, and the grass was getting long.
He worked methodically, letting the physical labour distract him from his thoughts.
By the time he was done, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden. Harry was exhausted, his muscles aching, his mind still stirring countless thoughts.
He went to his room and collapsed onto his bed.
The shopping bags lay on the floor, untouched. Harry stared at them, his eyes drifting over the new robes, the books, the potion ingredients.
They felt distant, disconnected from him, as they belonged to someone else.
He should unpack them. He should put them away with last year's things.
"Oh...last year's things. That's right."
He sat up slowly, a thought forming in his mind. He hadn't unpacked his trunk from last year.
It was still in the cupboard under the stairs, where he had left it at the end of term.
He should bring it up and go through it. The old things would need to be removed before packing up for the new year.
He pushed himself off the bed and made his way downstairs.
The cupboard under the stairs was dark and dusty. Harry pulled out his old trunk, dragging it up to his room. It was heavier than he remembered, and he had to stop several times to catch his breath.
Finally, he set it down at the foot of his bed and opened it.
The trunk was filled with familiar things...old robes, worn textbooks, a few potion ingredients. He pulled them out one by one, setting them aside.
And then he found something strange.
Wrapped carefully in a fold of his old robes was a small plastic figure. It was a toy soldier...a green paratrooper with a painted-on parachute and a tiny rifle. The paint was chipped, and one of the legs had been glued back on at an odd angle.
Harry stared at it, his brow furrowed.
'What is this doing here?' he wondered. 'I don't have toys like this. Aunt Bella doesn't allow toys.'
But as he held it in his hands, something stirred in his chest. A warmth, a longing, a feeling of loss so sharp it made his breath catch.
And then, without warning, tears began to fall from his eyes.
He didn't know why. He didn't know who had given him this toy or why it mattered so much. But the tears came anyway, silent and unstoppable, as if a dam had broken inside him.
'Why am I crying?' he thought. 'What's wrong with me?'
But the fog in his head was thick, and the truth was just out of reach.
He clutched the toy soldier to his chest and wept.
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