the siphon | h. potter

~twenty four~

Although it seemed impossible, the fear inside the Dursleys' eyes grew even larger. Even they understood the gravity of the current situation concerning Voldemort. He wasn't containing his destruction to the Wizarding World, muggles were dying too and it was becoming hard to ignore. When Harry had told his Aunt and Uncle that it had been wizards who destroyed the bridge in London, they were frozen with terror. The next day, Dudley was told he was no longer allowed out of the house alone.

Dumbledore ignored their reaction and continued, "You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as your own. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands." Dumbledore paused and sent a nasty stare through his half-moon glasses.

"I-" Uncle Vernon began, but Dumbledore swiftly cut him off.

"Nevertheless, the magic invoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection as long as he is able to call this house 'home'. However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him a houseroom. This magic will cease to operate when Harry becomes of age. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will insure the protection will continue until that time."

Uncle Vernon only nodded in response. His fear had been turned to fury after listening to Dumbledore to insult him inside his own home. But Uncle Vernon was smart enough to stay quiet.

After Dumbledore was finished with the conversation, he led Harry from the house and down the empty streets of Little Whinging. Their stroll lasted only a moment before Dumbledore stopped moving and plucked a strange metal object from his robes.

The trinket resembled an intricate lighter. When it was flipped open every light on the street left its lamp and flew to Dumbledore's hand. Harry found himself standing in complete darkness. 

"Am I correct to assume you have never Apparated before?"

"Yes sir."

"Right then, if you please," Dumbledore smiled and held out his left hand. Hesitantly, Harry reached and grabbed Dumbledore's palm.

The surrounding neighborhood vanished in an instant. Harry's eyes shut as his body tumbled through the void. An invisible force was crushing him on all sides.

As quick as the sensation had began, it vanished. Harry was now standing on a different residential street.

Although the crushing sensation has disappeared upon his arrival, Harry was now feeling an overwhelming sense of nausea. A stern hand on his shoulder kept Harry from losing his balance.

"For your first time, that wasn't bad," Dumbledore nodded, but Harry was focused on something else. Dumbledore's hand. Spreading up from his fingertips was a dark black mark encompassing most of his hand. It looked as if it was rotting.

"Professor, what happened to your hand?"

"No time to explain now. It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice."

Before Harry could ask anymore questions, Dumbledore began walking toward the house in front of them. It was, of course, the only house on the street that looked as if it hadn't been lived in for ages. Not a single light shone through the windows or a single car parked outside.

"Would you mind telling me what we're doing here, sir?" Harry asked.

"We are here to persuade a friend of mine out of retirement."

It seemed impossible, but Dumbledore's answer only made Harry even more confused. Instead of asking more questions and receiving vague answers in return, he decided it was best to stay quiet.