Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

SATURNINE ILLUMINATIONS

By CestPasDuBaudelaire

*

***

*

Prologue

Horrible Person

"Everything was easy for her. Everything. It was falling right into her hand, and she needed to do nothing but smile. People just... loved her. By default. She would enter their life and, in a blink, she was all they would talk about. Even when they had been in my life for much longer. It was about her. At the time we still went to school together, she cultivated that image. Of the dreamy, kind girl that didn't need nor want many friends, only quality ones. Yet the whole school would have done everything to spend time with her. When I was alone, she would come to me and offer me her company as if I was some kind of begger. But even then, it wasn't her I wanted..."

"It was what she had."

"..."

          Poets had often associated night with silence.

          They had just as often been wrong.

          Few things were as noisy as nights, as the ears, spoiled with rest and indolence, had the luxury to become sensitive in their exploration of the world, taking umbrage at the slightest murmur of that great lady that was darkness.

          The hooting of the nocturnal birds, the wind rustling the leaves and knocking on the windows, the vague whispers of distant cars driving to distant places, the deafening absence of the diurnal sounds. And the loudness of one's thoughts. Just as many little devils chanting for their demons in the night.

"Then she left. For that school. And everyone was just so proud of her. Our parents, so blessed that someone as exceptional has been willing to be born from them. And I went to that regular school, with those regular children. The regular daughter."

"Unexceptional."

"And I lost my sister. I lost it to that world. She left, she found her place, her family. And, without a glance for me, she disappeared from this world. My world. And I remained there. Alone."

"And still unexceptional."

          Petunia Dursley was sitting in her kitchen, an empty glass of water in her hand. Or was it wine? She wasn’t sure.

          It was late. Or early. More likely, it was exactly between these two. Nightmares had driven her out of bed. They were more and more common for some reasons. Both nightmares and insomnia. Had been so since the beginning of the summer vacation. Petunia couldn't find any logical explanation for them, and she could do little but to withstand them, night after night.

          Hannibal Lecter was sitting in front of her, facing her, only half of his face and his two red eyes visible in the darkness. He had been there, in the kitchen, where her woken steps had led her. Looking like he was expecting her. Though he couldn't have been, of course. None but she knew of the nightmares that were plaguing her at night.

"You said she left you."

          It was easy to talk to him. Something about his face, his eyes... Or maybe his voice. Whatever it was, it was listening. And the words were flowing out of Petunia Dursley's mouth with the despair of those who had been locked up their entire life.

"Yes."

"But did she really?"

"She left for that world."

"Did she leave for that world, or did you banish her from this one? Did she leave, or did you forbid her to stay?"

"She couldn't be in both at once!"

"According to whom?"

          Or maybe poets had been right. Maybe there was something silent in the night.

          Words. They had no obstacle to send them back to the talkers.

          During the night, words had no echo. They were simply lost in the distance

"If she had been able to stay, don't you think she would have? With her big sister whose loneliness she couldn't bear the sight of, in the playground. Had she been able to come back to you, had she been as surrounded and supported as you say she was, don't you think she wouldn't have died alone? In pain and in fear?"

          The summer of 1996, Harry Potter witnessed something he would have never even pictured in his wildest dream.

          Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon deciding together that a wizard could be something other than utter scum. More precisely, that they could appreciate someone despite their great flaw of being a wizard.

          For Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon liked Hannibal Lecter.

          Their new guest was everything they wished their neighbors could see. Well-dressed, well-combed and well-behaved, Hannibal looked like money, high-education and proper upbringing. There was something regal about him and the Dursleys didn't mind at all if the Patels or the Mitchells were to notice the kind of people they were welcoming into their home.

          The first day, Hannibal had been rather silent and observant, as if trying to pick up on something, but once he had been given twenty-four hours, he had found his place in the family effortlessly. Becoming Aunt Petunia's gossip buddy, Uncle Vernon's views sharer, and Dudley's clever advisor. After less than a week, Hannibal had seemed to have always lived among the Dursleys, being more deeply rooted in this family than Harry was after fifteen years. He had understood on his own the sole true rule of this household: pretend, and he revealed himself to be exceptionally gifted for it. Not a word was uttered about witchcraft or Hogwarts, not a mention of a life outside of Surrey or a family other than the Dursleys. So much so that he had not only been accepted by the house, but also by the neighbourhood. The first week, he had made it a priority to meet every soul living around them, getting to know them and like them. All had been charmed by his warm smiles and his pristine politeness. It was now impossible for him to get out of the house without being greeted by half the neighbourhood, as if he had always been one of them.

          In few words, Hannibal was thriving.

          At least, that is what one could have thought.

          But Harry was slowly beginning to read Hannibal a little better and was now picking up on other tells than his smiles and wordy answers.

          They were both in Harry's room that night.

          Half of it had been arranged to accommodate the new sleeper.

          Harry's cupboard had been moved around, and split between two users, and the place left empty had been filled with a bed and a small bedside table. There was not enough room for two desks, therefore they had to share, even if Hannibal was using it more than Harry, who didn't mind writing and working from his bed or even on the floor. Ultimately, they didn't have much space, the two of them cramped together in the smallest bedroom of the house, but Hannibal's extreme tidiness, which had reorganized the whole space to be more efficient and pleasant to live in, was making it nearly more bearable than when Harry had been alone here.

          This night, Harry was on his bed, and Hannibal sitting at the desk, their eyes wide open despite the late hour.

          It was nothing unusual with them both. Harry had noticed that, if he was quick to go to sleep, and late to rise, Hannibal was well awake and active in the middle of the night. About that matter, he had said it was simply how he was organizing his night, and there was nothing worrying or even surprising about that. As for Harry’s wakefulness, it had nothing to do with sleep patterns, and everything to do with sleeplessness.

          For the few hours of sleep Harry was able to manage, he would find himself haunted by variations of the same nightmares, over and over.

          The Battle of the Atrium.

          With each time, new, darker outcomes. Worse.

          Some nights, Will and Hermione would not come to them in the middle of the final fight, their corpses resting, with Luna's and Ginny's, in the darkness of the Department of Mysteries.

          Some nights, Hannibal wouldn't wake up and remain forever cold and still in his boyfriend's waiting arms.

          Some nights, Sirius would join them only to die, Harry precipitating the exact loss he had tried to prevent.

          Most nights, Harry was the only one left standing.

          All nights would end up with him waking up to that very simple and crushing fact: if some of the losses were only a dream, one of them was a reality, and there was no waking up from Luna's demise.

          Therefore, it was easier to not sleep at all and, involuntarily, Harry had begun to develop a parody of Hannibal's rhythm, with waken nights and sleepy days.

          In that moment, however, he had found the perfect way to prevent sleep and, as a direct consequence, nightmares.

          Homework.

          Rarely had he been that dedicated and up-to-date with his schoolwork during vacations. The teachers hadn't given them as much as the other years, as they didn't know which students would continue or drop their subject at the beginning of the next term, but they had nonetheless made sure to give a bit of everything to do for their students.

          Harry was currently working on his Herbology essays. He had already taken care of the subjects he was certain he had done well for the OWLs, like Defense Against the Dark Arts or Charms, and he had disregarded those he knew for sure he had failed. His Potion textbook, or his Divination notes had not been looked up even once since the start of the break.

          Now, he was working on what he had a chance to maybe continue, and Herbology was on the top of that list. He didn't need it to become an Auror, but, once again, he had failed Potion and, with it, had buried his hopes to pursue that career. He therefore had to keep his options open and take as many NEWTs as he could.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Harry?" Hannibal asked without taking his eyes off the parchment he was blackening with his quill.

"What's the scientific name of Bloodroots? It's not in the book."

"It is, I assure you. The name you are looking for is Sanguinaria Canadensis, however."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome."

          Harry wrote down the name but, as he read the next question, all the words mixed up in his tired brain and he decided to put down his quill for now and stretch the muscles of his back, mistreated by his bad posture.

          From the corner of his eyes, he detailed Hannibal.

          His friend had changed in the month they had spent in Surrey. As if his body had waited to be on vacation to speed up its growth, Hannibal had gained a few more inches in a relatively short time. Harry knew that Hannibal had always been taller than him, but now he suspected he was even taller than Ron. Hannibal had the stature of the adult he would soon become. But that wasn't what was the most obvious, at least to Harry, who had daily been around him for ten months. The most noticeable change was how much weight Hannibal had lost since the beginning of the summer. He had always had a long silhouette with a thin waist, but July had brought an increase of those features. It was especially visible on his face which had no roundness left to it at all. His skin following the exact curves of his bones was revealing a harsh and marked face, with high cheekbones and hollow eyes.

          When Harry had mentioned it to Hannibal, he had not gotten much of an answer.

"Adulthood," Hannibal had simply stated. "It carves the face."

          But Harry knew it wasn't about that at all. It was true that Hannibal had lost the last of the natural fat of childhood, and surely enough, it seemed like he had now gotten most of his adult features, but there was more to it.

          Hannibal didn't eat. At all. Not that Harry could see at least. Certainly, he had to eat something, but it wasn't much. Assuredly not enough in any case.

          Harry had first thought it was because of the food itself. Hannibal was very picky with his meals. He had said so himself to Harry once. And he had illustrated it during the last winter break, where he would not touch any food that had not been prepared by him.

          Here, it was a worse alternative of the same idea, with the difference that he wasn't cooking his own food anymore. If Harry had first believed that it was so as to not impede his growing relationship with the Dursleys, he now thought better of it.

          Harry's eyes left Hannibal to fall on his friend's bedside table. Apart from a lamp, the furniture was only bearing the weight of one object. A long wooden box, which always seemed to glow with a strange halo, result of the many spells working to its constant protection. Inside it, Harry knew that every letter Will Graham had written to his boyfriend was being safely kept. Hannibal couldn't write back, as Will was hidden away, but he had kept the letter religiously, organizing them per theme, and though he had never read even one of them a second time, his eyes would always linger on the box, as if he could contemplate them through the wood.

          It was those lingering looks which told Harry the truth. Hannibal was not changing because he was growing. He was changing because he was decaying. It wasn't easy to tell because his smiles were quick, and his wit was easy. Both of them equally charming. But, for Harry who had known him from Hogwarts, he could tell that his silences weighed more than they usually did, that his breathing was deeper than it normally was. It wasn't something easy to pinpoint. It was like when one was looking at two images only featuring variations so small that they could say there was something different without being able to name any of them.

          And there were more telling signs, though just as subtle. When Hannibal was alone and Harry would catch a glimpse of him through a half-open door or a hazardous path crossing. When he was alone, though the smile wouldn't waver, gone was the charm. Instead, there was something else on his turned-harsh features.

          Anger.

          A coldly burning bitterness steaming and bubbling behind his eyes.

          Hannibal was battling with resentment. That was that, and not adulthood, that was carving his face. As if it was now easier for him to stand still and contemplate the depths of his grievance than it was to merely eat.

"How is Will?" Harry dared to ask after a time had passed. "You received a letter today, didn't you?"

"He is as well as yesterday. As well as tomorrow," was Hannibal’s laconic answer.

          Harry remembered how he had felt, the last few days at Hogwarts, after the Battle of the Atrium. Craving for loneliness in the midst of the crowd, and for company in the heart of solitude. Hannibal seemed in a similar mindset. Not wanting to mention Will, yet suffering from keeping him silent. Knowing full well that no path was a good one, Harry continued.

"It sucks here. Trust me, I know how it feels. I'm stuck here every summer."

          Slowly, Hannibal looked away from his parchment and his slow cold eyes found Harry's. His face didn't change, but his eyes displayed the extent of the displeasure this comment had brought, and Harry cursed himself mentally.

"You do not know how it feels," Hannibal simply stated before turning back to his work.

"Yeah... I know... But... I guess what I wanted to say is that..."

"I heard what you said, Harry," he cut as he continued to blacken the paper in front of him. "And your empathy for me is moving. But I already have someone who understands me, you don't have to take on the role."

"Yeah, I'm sure Will feels just as bad as you."

"Oh, I assure you he doesn't."

          For a second, Harry thought that Hannibal was only looking for comfort and being told otherwise. Knowing his friend however, he should have known better.

"Don't say that! I'm sure he does."

"I do not doubt Will's feelings for me. But he has always been good at separation. Better than me at least."

          Harry wasn't sure it was true. Hannibal had always struck him as someone independent and outgoing, when Will, though Harry had been able to witness from the front row that there was more to him than what met the eyes, was still the exact opposite of that, hiding in his boyfriend's shadow to avoid any interaction.

          Hannibal must have sensed Harry's silent doubts, for he addressed them on his own.

"I know you don't believe it. But it is simply because you know me more accurately than you know Will."

"You're... talking about what happened in the Department of Ministry?"

          Harry felt his heart speed up. Both from the fear that the mere name could rise in his gut, but also from apprehension.

          A month after the events, he still had no idea what had happened with Will. He had seen from him two displays of sheer power, both of them still haunting most of his dreams, and no explanation had been given. Dumbledore may have said some words about blood magic, but even he had seemed at a loss, and Harry couldn't make sense of anything he had seen.

"I am not," Hannibal answered.

          But Harry ached for answers, and he couldn't be more certain that, if someone had them, it was Hannibal.

"I know you weren't there but... When we were in the Department of Mysteries, something happened, Hannibal. With Will. Do you know what it was?"

"It was Will. Empathetic."

"No, it was... It was black and powerful. Like some kind of... pet storm or whatever. It deflected all the attacks coming our way. And it was talking... with Will's voice. As if Will was the storm. But then it stopped, and Will was just fine. But he did it again. To allow us to run. Is it... Is it some kind of spell, or... What is it?"

"It was not a spell. It was unaltered magic. Will's."

"How do we do that?"

"We do not. When we use magic, we alter it. We shape and tint it. Will may well be the only person alive that can conjure and tame the kind of magic you saw that day."

"Why? How does he do it, then?"

"Only Will knows. But even if he were to tell you, you couldn't replicate his process. It requires a whole new sense that we do not possess. To him, we are blind men asking him how to tell colours. His nature is outside of our reach."

"Even you, you don't know how he does it?"

"I know. I don't understand, but I know. I humbly told him a bit about it."

"You knew he could do that. That's why you weren't worried about him not having his wand."

"Will has many resources, and it gives me just as many reasons not to worry. The world will meet its end before Will is defeated by anyone but himself."

"That... storm. That's what happened at Ilvermorny?"

"No."

          The 'no' was definitive, and Harry knew at once that nothing more would be said on the matter.

          He wasn't sure he was really understanding what Hannibal was telling him, but it was more than he had gotten in a month, and he knew respecting Hannibal boundaries was cleverer than forcing his way. The Battle of the Atrium had taught him that.

          Harry sighed at length, and reopened his Herbology textbook, trying to focus on his homework again. He had no desire to write about bubotubers or whatever the sixth question was about, but the alternative was sleep, therefore he tried his best.

          However, he couldn't prevent his mind from wandering off to lands far away from his schoolwork, no more than he could prevent his eyes from falling back on his temporary roommate.

"What are you working on?" he asked, as Hannibal was starting yet another page from the top. "It's not Herbology, is it?"

"No, I am working on an article."

"An article? Like for a newspaper?"

"For a magazine."

"Really?"

          Interested and eager to know more, Harry let his poor, unloved textbook fall on his mattress and he got off his bed to walk to the desk. There, he looked over Hannibal's shoulder to try to guess what the article was about.

"What kind of magazine?"

"The Erudite."

"I think I've seen this one before. It's an English magazine?"

"You can find a version of it in every European and North American country. It is rather popular. It deals with vulgarisation and its goal is to make magical theory and progress a popular matter."

"Awesome! And you're gonna send something to them and see if it can get published?"

"They contacted me, actually."

"Why for?"

"While most of you were working on your OWLs and the teachers had nearly stopped giving class, I wrote an article for Saint Thaddeus' Journals. The Erudite was interested in publishing it too, therefore I have to rewrite a more... approachable version."

"What's the topic?"

"A few months ago, I extrapolated a new alchemical theory that can heal recently occurred disabling injuries. Experimented it. Worked wonderfully. I wrote about it and the Mediwizarding community was willing to hear more."

"That's awesome," Harry repeated.

          He felt dumb. Not only because he couldn't find anything better to say than that single and generic word, but also because it was an impossible ordeal to feel clever when standing next to Hannibal.

          Harry sat down on his bed, detailing his friend's straight back.

"You're really gonna go places, right..."

          Hannibal frowned, not understanding the remark, and he stopped his writing to observe Harry.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're my age, and you're already successful at a job you don't even have yet."

          Sensing where those remarks were going from, Hannibal went back to his parchment.

"Though it should not become a dogma, it is often the best strategy to plan for one's future ahead of time. You should too, Harry."

"My future's Voldemort. I don't really have time to build up a resume."

"Voldemort is not eternal, Harry. Neither are you."

"Yeah, maybe. Still. It's hard to see past that."

"I can understand. Do not worry. You will always have time, until the very moment when you won't."

"I... Are you sure what you just said was not meant to worry me?"

          Hannibal put down his quill and smiled.

"I assure you. It wasn't meant to worry you."

          With that said, Hannibal, after gathering his stuff to leave behind him a clean desk, got up from the chair and began to walk to the door.

"Where're you going?"

"To the kitchen."

"You gonna eat something?"

"No. I am simply going to honour an appointment with introspection. Do you need me to fetch anything for you along the way?"

"Uh... A glass of water would be nice, thanks."

"I was invited to her wedding. She invited me."

"Did you go?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Well. Vernon was starting his new job and I was already expecting Dudley, and..."

"Why didn't you go, Petunia?"

          Petunia always forgot he was a boy.

          It was the first thing she would forget about him when they would sit down, face to face, in the kitchen.

          The first one she would forget about herself was that she had any worth at all.

"Because I didn't want my Vernon to see just how much of a freak they all were."

"Yet you had told him before. He knew the truth. And had promised you he would never blame you for your sister. You told me so two weeks ago."

          He remembered. He always remembered. Petunia couldn't trick his inquisitive brain. His inescapable brain.

          He remembered and she forgot.

"Yes, but I didn't want to drag him into it. He deserves better than having to smile for that filth."

"Why didn't you go without him?"

"With Dudley and..."

"Petunia."

          He never raised his voice. Maybe because it was the middle of the night. And because they were a secret. Were they? Petunia didn't remember anything being said in that sense, but still, it felt like a secret.

          In any case, he never raised his voice. But he could lower it. And deepen it. Which was worse.

"Why didn't you go on your own?" he asked.

"Because I didn't want them to believe I didn't already have what they were getting!"

          His face was hard to read in the darkness of the kitchen. But she could always spot his smiles.

"You got married before her."

"Yes."

"Which makes you better than her."

"I was loved before her. I was wanted before her."

"By Vernon only. By no one else."

          A silence settled in the kitchen. Only in the kitchen, however. For the last sentence continued to echo in Petunia's head, despite her best effort to quieten it. She knew she was powerless against those echoes. She wasn't at their source. Those red eyes in front of her were. Somehow.

          Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was all coming from her. She wasn't sure anymore. Two weeks ago, it had been much clearer in her mind. But now... Everything was moving under muddy waters.

"How did you feel when you learned about your little sister's death?"

          Petunia ripped her eyes off the boy's shining ones. Somehow, she felt like it was a physical effort that consumed her last strength, leaving her with a short breath and an aching body. But she didn't feel any better. She could still sense their reversed shadow burning her retinas.

"How did that make you feel?" he asked again.

          Suddenly, another thought was brought to the front of Petunia's mind, without her truly understanding why. As if it was somehow linked, when she could easily tell it wasn't.

"I have been having nightmares lately. Many."

"I know. How did your sister's death make you feel?"

          But all Petunia could think of was those nightmares. As if it was what the conversation was about, ultimately.

"I don't usually have nightmares. It is very strange, when I think about it."

"Your sister, Petunia. Her death. What were your thoughts?"

          There was something about those nightmares. Something important. That she needed to get out. She wanted to talk about them, tell someone. Anyone. Nothing was more urgent than that. It was a matter of... survival?

"In the nightmares, I am always..."

"I know about your nightmares."

          His voice had whipped the silence. It had threatened its fabric with a harsh slap that Petunia felt on her cheek.

"I am not interested in hearing about them. Tell me about the death of your sister."

          His voice had settled, but Petunia could still feel its burn on her cheek. She was frustrating him. It was a bad idea.

"What were your thoughts when you learned about it?" he asked again.

"I thought that there was nothing left of her to be jealous of."

"And...?"

"And I hated myself for it."

"Because thinking that makes you a horrible person."

"Yes."

“I beg your pardon."

"That makes me a horrible person."

"Good."

          Gone was the frustration, back was his amusement.

"And a guilty one," he added.

"I didn't d..."

"But you enjoyed."

"I was sad and ..."

"But you were relieved. In the end, Petunia, it is all everyone will care to remember. How much of a horrible person you are for feeling relief."

          Harry had spent the morning in the garden, making the best of the cooler hours of the day to remain out of the house and breathe some fresh air.

          Last summer, he had barely been in the yard at all, taking long walks around the neighbourhood and, more often than not, out of it. But this summer, he was more careful. He now knew that getting away from the house was dangerous and though he didn't mind himself, he had no idea what would become of Hannibal if anything were to happen to him. Would the protection Will had created from his blood remain without Harry around to be its source? And if not, would Hannibal simply be more vulnerable? Or would his second chance at life be taken back and he would drop as dead as he had been after the Battle of the Atrium.

          Harry didn't dare to ask those questions for he was too afraid of the answers but, in any case, he was now living as if Hannibal's life depended on his caution. As if everyone’s life depended on his caution.

          He had already been the sole culprit for one of his friends' death. He now knew the great cost of his mistakes. And he had sworn himself he wouldn't let anyone else pay for them.

          That was the reason why, no matter how unbreathable life was here, he would not set foot outside the Dursleys' garden. But that didn't mean he was not doing his best to avoid his family.

          Yet it was now lunch time, and, after a morning of relative peace, Harry knew he had to go back to his Uncle, his Aunt and his Cousin.

          When he arrived in the kitchen, Vernon and Dudley were already sitting at the table, and Hannibal was setting it with his usual level of precision.

          Harry fetched the lacking forks in the kitchen but let his friend place them, as he knew his work wouldn't pass Hannibal's meticulous screening.

"Oh, for about fifty thousand pounds," Uncle Vernon said, continuing the conversation Harry had not witnessed the start of. "And fifty more to come before the end of the summer."

"I presume Defor's Drills must not be so thrilled about it," Hannibal stated, putting the last fork down. “Thank you, Harry.”

"Ha! I hope so!” Vernon exclaimed. “Took the client right under their nose! You were right!"

"About?"

"Offering the deal at a hundred thousand pounds. He jumped right on it."

"Defor was being greedy."

"And still, I got the deal for more than what we normally ask for! But just because it was less than them..."

"Serves you well. Both of you. You for your bottom line, them for the lesson they will get from it."

"You're certain you don't fancy yourself working in drills, once you're done with all that... once you're done with your studies."

"I am quite certain. But thank you for the offer, Vernon."

          Hannibal sat down at his usual place, by Harry's side.

"You're giving out business advice, now?" Harry asked.

"How about you stay out of matters that don't concern you," Uncle Vernon barked before Hannibal could even answer.

          The liking the Dursleys' family had taken for Hannibal had certainly not been extended to Harry.

"They concern Hannibal? Weird. I didn't know drills were part of Hogwarts' curriculum. Must have not been very attentive in class..."

"Don't. Say. That. Name," Vernon choked. "Not under this roof!"

          Harry didn't answer but he didn't apologize either. He was past fearing the Dursleys. He had grown out of it.

          Before his lack of answer could become an awkward silence, Petunia entered the living room, carrying a plate in her hands.

"What's that?" Dudley asked right away, bored with his father's conversation.

"I made some Sunday Roast. You like that, right Diddykins?"

"It's fine..." he simply shrugged.

          She brought the plate to her son and served him first, before continuing with Uncle Vernon, Hannibal, herself, and only then Harry, giving him the smallest piece that, he believed, she had let burn on purpose. He didn’t mind. He knew Hannibal would give him his part before the end of the meal. That, he minded more than a burnt piece of meat... Once she was done, Petunia went back to the kitchen to fetch a small white bowl filled with sauce and came back to them with it.

"Those Defor's managers...," Hannibal breathed, contemplative.

"Yes?"

"Horrible, horrible persons."

"I abs..."

          But before Uncle Vernon could even voice his agreement, he was interrupted by a resonating fracas.

          The white bowl had slipped from the hands holding it and had crashed on the floor, in a cascade of broken pieces of ceramics.

          Petunia, her hands still stretched in front of her, her eyes and mouth opened wide, was looking in front of her with horror, the bowl forgotten at her feet.

          At first, Harry thought she had witnessed something terrifying behind them and he turned around to see what it could be but noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon barked at him as if he was shouting at the culprit of the incident. "Clean up that mess! Now!"

          Used to reacting quickly, Harry stood up at once and knelt by the broken bowl, carefully picking up the biggest pieces.

"Petunia, go clean your hands, darling, you're going to burn yourself."

          Vernon didn't have the same compassion for Harry, as the sauce covering the pieces of ceramic was smoking and burning the tips of Harry's fingers.

          He tried to blow on them, but that only spread the sauce even more, and Harry gave up. Carefully picking up the few pieces he had already safely gathered, he stood up and walked to the kitchen to fetch something to mop up the disaster.

          In the adjacent room, he found Petunia, her hands under the water. He passed by her, to take the towel hanging from the extractor hood.

"Can I take this one?"

          It seemed old and unloved, but he didn't want to make any mistakes that could tense up the situation even more. However, he got no answer from his aunt. When he turned around, he noticed Petunia wasn't even looking at what he was holding out for her.

"Aunt Petunia?"

          Her hands were perfectly still under the strong water of the tap, her eyes were on the brown sauce staining the bottom of the sink. She didn't seem to hear him at all.

          Harry stepped forward and put his hand on her elbow to catch her attention.

"Aunt Petunia?"

          He half expected her to jump out of her skin, taken by surprise by his presence, but she did not. She slowly turned around, and her eyes met his.

          For a long second, an awkward one, they looked at each other in silence, as if they were meeting for the first time. Then she whispered.

"You have so much of her..."

"I have what?"

"May I help you, Petunia?"

          Hannibal had appeared in the doorframe, in his hand, wrapped in his napkin, the last few pieces Harry hadn't picked up.

          Maybe it was something in his voice, but he ended up being more efficient than Harry at bringing Petunia back to herself. She smiled at once, the distance in her eyes gone.

"No, not at all" she said, walking to him, "give me that, and be careful not to cut yourself."

          Then she turned to Harry, with the usual frown she had every time he would enter her sight.

"What are you waiting for? The sauce will ruin the floor."

          She then passed by them with her quick short steps and left the kitchen. Harry and Hannibal both stayed behind in silence.

"That was strange..." Harry finally said.

"What was?"

"Her. She was all weird before you arrived. Like... she was somewhere else."

"Strange indeed. Must have been lost in some thoughts."

"Yeah, probably."

"Fetch more towels!" Petunia's voice snapped from the dining room.

          And Harry decided that, all things considered, he did not care enough.

"There was this boy, at school. His name was Fernand. He was in the running team and was too much above school to care about bad grades and bad behaviours."

"He was liked."

"Adored. He had repeated a year, thus he looked a bit older, and seemed a bit more mature than the other boys."

"When was it?"

"When I was in primary school. Long before I met Vernon. He was a bit of a bully, but I didn't mind. He was confident so I didn't care to see past that."

"Were you liked, in primary school?"

          Petunia laughed. At least, she heard her laugh. Yet she didn't feel it passing her throat and vibrating in her mouth. She didn't feel anything anymore. Experiencing the world from the inside of her skull, unable to sense her own self through the thickness of her bones.

"No, I wasn't. But, Fernand... He noticed me. Our teacher paired us for a project for class, and I got us a good grade. Certainly, he saw an opportunity there. But I didn't care. He would talk to me in class. Him. He wouldn’t be nice. He would ask me to do his homework for him, and take the blame for his bad behaviour. But he would be present. He would spend time with unliked, unpopular me. And everyone could see that. Him, with me. She saw that too... She confronted him. She was half his size, but she could give an earful when she wanted to. She told him that she wouldn't let him be mean to me. It was a ridiculous scene. She was standing in the middle of the playground, not even tall enough to look him in the eye, her arm crossed with all her usual entitled rightfulness. And he scoffed, or course he did. But no one could scoff at her for too long. And he grew distant quickly after that."

"He was a bully, you said. Mean to you and looking for the good grades you could earn him."

"Him to a t."

"She saw that, and stood up for you."

"That was the thing with her. She had a certain idea about the world, and never thought twice about the fact that not everything was about her feelings and her opinions. She saw something she didn't like, she destroyed it. She didn't consider that maybe..."

"Maybe you wanted it..."

"I didn't care about the added work. I didn't care I was a means to an end."

"You cared that you were liked. And useful. To someone like him."

"And she destroyed that."

"And you were left unloved, and useless all over again."

          His voice didn't have much tonality anymore. Most of the inflections were gone, and she couldn't tell His frustration apart from His amusement. Which didn't worry her. What truly worried her was that now, it was nearly impossible for her to tell for certain when that voice was His or hers.

          That only could still stir up a fear painful enough to be felt through the bones of her skull.

"You had a solitary childhood. Isolated in the playground, disregarded in the house. In some ways, you are closer to Harry than you are to your own son."

"No, it's not true. I have nothing to do with him."

"Don't you, now? Yet you made sure to create for him the childhood you felt his mother was the cause of. An isolated and disregarded childhood. His solitude echoes yours. His secondary position by Dudley's side answers yours to your sister."

"You want me to feel sorry for that... that boy?"

"Why would you? You wished nothing but your sister's death. Your behaviour toward her son, it is simply telling of the kind of person you are. Why would you feel sorry about your nature? Except, of course, if your nature is wicked."

          The light in the room was so weak, so shy, it looked as black as night itself. Not daring to enlighten His skin. And Petunia couldn't tell it apart from the shadows dressing Him. The only thing she could see, the only thing telling her she wasn't alone in that darkness, was the two red eyes burning brightly.

"Do you know where the word ‘wicked’ comes from?" he asked.

          She didn't answer.

"From wicca. An old English word to say witch. How very ironic..."

"I am not a witch," Petunia whispered, afraid of her own voice.

          Afraid that her word, coming out of her mouth, would somehow borrow His voice.

"Yet, you are wicked."

"I am not..."

"How then do you explain the suffering spreading around you, like a purulent wound on once healthy skin. Crowned in necrosis. Your sister. Who stood up for you. Who sat in solitude with you. Dead for your greatest pleasure. Her son, entrusted to you, dependent on you, miserable, suffering a hundredfold the ills you chose for yourself as a child. Maybe your parents were right. Maybe when they chose your sister over you, they saw something in you. Something wicked. So much so that even your witch of a sister appeared less rotten in comparison, when standing by your side."

          The shadows were still dancing around her, indolent friends. A breath, mimicking the wind, blowing on Petunia's brain. But there was no one with her. There hadn’t been anyone. Ever.

          The two red eyes were but reflections of the outside streetlights.

          Petunia had always been alone with her thoughts. And it was her thoughts that continued to resonate with a whistling noise between the walls of that kitchen.

"Purulent wounds, they spread, and spread their death and their misery around them. To their husbands. To their sons. Ever growing web of necrosis. Until their unworthy selves are cut off completely."

          The knocks on Harry's door were soft and gentle, making it impossible to refuse them anything.

"Yes?" Harry called from his bed, where he had been lying down for a while now.

"May I come in?"

          It was Hannibal's voice that resonated from the other side of the door panel.

"Of course," Harry said.

          The door opened and Hannibal popped his head in the room.

"You know it's your place too. You don't have to ask for permission."

"It is the polite thing to do," Hannibal simply explained. "I wouldn't want to interrupt anything intimate."

"I was just lost in my thoughts."

"I see... Though it is intimate, I believe it could use an interruption, then."

          Yet, Hannibal didn't enter, and stayed by the entrance of the room.

"Uh, you're not going in?" Harry asked.

"I am heading the other way, actually. I will take a walk outside, care to accompany me?"

          Harry sat up on his bed.

          The thought of it was more than pleasant. Last summer, he had spent most of his days outside, walking further and further away from the house, as if that could create some distance between him and his thoughts. And it had.

          But now, with what he knew about both the dangers and the protections around them, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea.

"Don't you think it's a bit... reckless?"

"Reckless? How so?"

"With Voldemort and... You know. Dumbledore kinda let us know that the house is the only place where we should be."

          Hannibal smiled and put a hand on his chest.

"Harry, there is no path that shouldn't be walked, when you have a great wizard and a good friend by your side. I would be humbled to be that company for you, if only you accept to be mine too."

"I'm not sure you're getting the better end of the deal."

"That is the appanage of good trades. All sides believe they have the better end."

          Harry shrugged. Maybe it would have been wiser to refuse, but the idea was simply too seducing. He wanted so badly to get out of the house, and he didn't have it in him to fight the lure.

          He quickly put his shoes on and jumped to his feet before following Hannibal in the corridor.

"Where are we going?"

"Where our feet and thoughts bring us."

          Their feet and thoughts made their first stop at the end of the corridor, however, when Hannibal knocked on the door of Dudley's room.

"Yeah?" A voice answered, muffled by the closed door.

"May I open?"

"Sure."

          Hannibal slightly opened the door, just enough to get a glimpse of the messy, crowded room, full of broken objects and forgotten gifts.

"Heading outside," Hannibal said without a glance at the littered floor. "You want to come along?"

          If Harry had known Dudley would be coming, he would have thought twice about it.

          Hannibal had quickly become close to the whole family. Dudley included. Much to Harry's surprise.

          Hannibal was one to mind politeness and good manners. And Dudley, in that aspect, was his exact opposite. And so were Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, to be honest. Yet, Hannibal was getting along with all of them, as if he had decided to momentarily take a break off his moral principles, for the sake of his cohabitation with the Dursleys'.

"Yeah, 'm comin'."

          Harry was not surprised by the quick response. Dudley had been rather distant with Hannibal at first, suspicious of that boy whom his parents were cordial and then friendly to. But then he had warmed up, when he had realized that the said boy could be a wonderful company.

          Harry had thought he was hallucinating, the first time he had seen Hannibal among Dudley's gang, along with Piers, Dennis, Gordon and Malcom. They were all big and stupid, and even thought Hannibal was as tall as them, more than odd, he seemed otherworldly with his mannered posture, among those boys with their broad shoulders and muscular chests.

          And that impression was before any of them would open their mouths. Because, at the second they would, it would become a pure comical spectacle. Hannibal, with his precise vocabulary and his outdated expressions, surrounded by these boys unable to utter words longer than two syllables, and who barely stepped above groans to make themselves be understood.

          Yet, the gang seemed to genuinely like Hannibal, for a reason that eluded Harry.

          Maybe it was because Hannibal was respected by most, or maybe because he was listening to them as if what they were saying was worthy of the interest of someone as educated as him.

          In any case, watching the patience and the benevolence he was displaying when with the boys, Harry could see why his friend had been sorted in Hufflepuff. It was nearly charitable, at that point.

          Dudley had quickly adopted him in his gang. As soon as he had understood that Hannibal had no desire to take his place and was happy standing a step behind, he had seen the potential of having someone like him among his allies and he now acted with a respect and an enthusiasm he had never even thought of showing for Harry.

          Therefore, the fact that he accepted easily enough, or the fact that Hannibal had offered him to come in the first place shouldn't have come as a surprise for Harry.

          Yet, when Dudley stepped out of his room, with the brand-new shoes his mother had gotten him for his birthday, a few days ago, he stopped in the middle of his track, his eyes detailing Harry.

          Hannibal had not spelled out Harry's presence and certainly, just like his cousin, Dudley had believed it would be only him and Hannibal.

          Now, he was hesitating. The positive perspective of being seen with Hannibal being compared to the negative one of being seen with Harry.

          However, Hannibal didn't seem to acknowledge his internal hesitation, and he simply kept moving. Nearly instinctively, the two other boys followed, though they still weren't sure they truly wanted to be there anymore.

          By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, Dudley seemed to have made up his mind and he stopped by the entrance hall.

"I'm just gonna tell mum that..."

"Aren't we old enough to come and go as we please?" Hannibal asked, heading to the door without slowing down. "Let her be, the outside world is calling us."

          Dudley followed easily enough, and Harry closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?" Dudley asked as Harry had a minute ago.

"Where do you want to go, Dudley?" Hannibal answered.

          Dudley first shrugged then pointed toward his left and their small group began to walk up Privet Drive.

"You have a plan?" Harry asked.

"Enjoying the sun and the leisure," Hannibal answered. "I know you could use them, Harry."

"Why?" Dudley wondered.

"Why what?"

"Why you said he could use them?"

"Haven't you noticed that your cousin has had a hard time since the beginning of the summer. Sleep deprivation is a struggle, but nothing compared to peace deprivation. A walk outside would do us all a world of good."

          From the corner of his eyes, Dudley observed Harry, as if trying to see on his cousin's face the trace of Hannibal's words.

"Why you're struggling?" he finally asked Harry after a long minute of observation.

"You care?" Harry scoffed.

          Dudley simply shrugged and they continued in silence for about a minute.

"But why are you struggling, though?" he asked again with a frown.

          Either because he was annoyed that he didn't have the answer he had asked for, or because he had made the mistake of trying to make his atrophied brain work on its own and was now suffering from the consequences of his recklessness: curiosity.

"You wouldn't understand."

"I ain't stupid!" he exclaimed with a stupid expression.

"Guess we learn something new every day."

          Unsure if what Harry had said was mean or not, Dudley decided to turn to Hannibal.

"Why is he struggling?"

"We have had a rough year."

"Is it cause of Cedric?" Dudley asked from nowhere.

          Harry first frowned, and then remembered Dudley, overhearing Harry's nightmares, had mentioned it before, last summer.

"No," Harry cut him harshly.

"Someone else died," Hannibal explained with a kinder voice. "A witch named Luna."

          At the word 'witch', Dudley's face spasmed with repressed fear and disgust.

"I always forget you're... you're a... one of them."

"I know."

          Harry suspected Hannibal was working hard on having everyone forget it.

"I don't like 'em," Dudley added.

"Who?"

"Witches."

"Why?"

"Cause they are mean to me."

"They are?"

          This time, Hannibal seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yeah. Once, when I was twelve, one of them cursed me with a pig's tail."

"A p... Why would they do that?"

"Because I was eating cake," Dudley said with his slow, sullen voice.

          Hannibal detailed him for a second, then Harry, before letting his eyes lose themselves in the distance.

"I find it to be unspeakably rude and lowly mean-spirited."

"Hagrid did it," Harry said defensively.

"Even ruder and lower. An adult wizard cursing a muggle child. For the only sake of mockery. I know Hagrid is your friend, Harry, but I will certainly not applaud him for that."

"You'd rather applaud Dudley for being a dimwit bully for years?"

"I'm not a dimwit!" Dudley argued right away, not arguing against the ‘bully’ part however.

"You're right," Harry nodded. "It's not 'dim' when there's nothing at all."

"My friends," Hannibal interrupted them, "let's be civil, I am begging you. You would prove the other wrong by taking the higher road."

"Yeah," Harry shrugged, "cause you're one for higher roads, right? Pushing people off the stairs is so below you."

          Hannibal chuckled lightly at the mention of that memory they shared.

"What?" Dudley reacted, unaware of what they were referencing to. "What you're on about?"

"Mr Higher Road has a bit of a temperament issue," Harry unapologetically informed his cousin. "Spent the last year getting into fights cause his ego was a bit bruised."

          Dudley smiled widely.

"Good! You shouldn't let anyone talk shit about you!"

"It is all a matter of the past," Hannibal stated. "I have mended my ways. I decided that it would serve me well to try to become a... better human being, so to say."

          There was a few seconds of silence before Dudley found his words.

"You're already a great guy."

"Thank you, Dudley. It warms my heart to hear it."

          Dudley mumbled and shrugged. He wasn't one to hear about heart without laughing it off, yet he didn't seem willing to laugh Hannibal off.

"It's serious, though?" Harry asked. "You're really gonna try to change?"

"I have begun to adopt a more traditional behaviour before the end of the last year. And I have been doing quite well, if I may say so myself. No more detention for me, I have a better life to build than one of school expellings."

"Great! Dumbledore's gonna be thrilled."

"I hope so. He inspired me a lot."

"You're really gonna help him with..."

          Harry stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked at Dudley. He would have largely preferred to be alone with Hannibal for this walk.

"... With Voldemort?" Hannibal however finished, unhesitatingly. "I promised as much."

"What's that?" Dudley asked at once.

"The dark wizard who killed Harry's parents and who is now actively after him."

          Dudley looked at Hannibal, dumbfounded, then at Harry as if to try to see the beginning of a lie. Or an explanation.

"That guy, he... he's trying to kill Harry?"

          Dudley, much like his parents, had never been curious about the wizarding world. He had been too afraid of it since the very first day, and only his recent friendship with Hannibal was giving him the bravery to ask questions about it.

"Actively," Hannibal simply repeated.

"And what are you gonna do?" Dudley asked Harry.

"Try not to get killed," Harry shrugged.

          Dudley nodded, as if it was the soundest plan he had ever heard.

"You're gonna go after that guy too?" he asked Hannibal.

"We will see. Probably, but not certainly."

"Why is he after you?" Dudley asked Harry.

"I don't know. It's not very clear. I hope I'll be told more about it this year."

"That would be fair," Hannibal acknowledged.

          For a while, they walked in silence. Nearly against his will, Harry found himself counting each step taking him away from home, deeper into danger. He had spent every summer in this neighbourhood, yet today, it felt foreign, as if clothed in new, darker and unsettling attires.

"Maybe we should get back home," he finally said in the silence. "We've been far enough."

"What?" Dudley laughed. "Afraid to get lost?"

"No. Just already sick of your company."

"No one asked you to come!"

"Actually..."

"Misters, please."

          Hannibal took his watch out of his pocket and looked at it.

"Let's take another ten minutes. Then, if you are still as worried, Harry, we can go home."

"We're waiting for something?" Harry asked.

"No, we are not."

          They resumed their walk in silence. Harry couldn't help his tensed eyes from traveling from right to left, lingering on every corner and every alley. He had taken his wand with him. More exactly, he had not taken it out of his pocket since the beginning of the summer. He knew he was not allowed to do magic outside of school, but there was a huge difference between what he could do, and what he had to do. A difference as heavy as the weight of reality.

"What bored young men to do, in this county?" Hannibal asked.

          His hands behind his back, and his eyes right into the sun, it wasn't certain to whom he had asked the question, and Dudley took it upon himself to give it an answer, not dissimilar to the one Harry would have gone for.

"Not much."

"Thankfully, this is not an end," Hannibal sighed.

"You have an idea?" Dudley asked.

"Not really. I am mostly talking about the general situation."

          Harry and Dudley, having nothing better to do than listen, as stated a second ago, turned to their friend, without stopping their walk.

"Adulthood is upon us," Hannibal simply said, "and with it, our life, and the direction we will be willing to give it. My life will certainly not be in Surrey."

"We have two years left at Hogwarts. Maybe for one last summer, you'll be here."

"I highly doubt that."

          Hannibal turned to Dudley, squinting under the summer light even though he hadn't when he had directly fixed the sun.

"What will you do once you turn eighteen and graduate from high school?"

"Dunno. Continue boxing. I'm Smeltings' champion. They say I could go pro..."

"Do they?" Hannibal showed polite enthusiasm. "I think it is a perspective that could fit you well."

          Dudley shrugged. He had never worried about the future. He knew all too well he didn't need to build anything for himself, as his parents would answer his every need until their death.

"What about you, Harry?"

"I want to go live with Sirius."

          His answer had spurted out of his mouth right away. He had thought about it for years now, but especially this summer, as his sixteenth, and with it his seventeenth birthday were coming closer and closer.

"We talked to each other during this month. We're already planning things."

          Sirius' letters were always strange. Harry knew he faked his enthusiasm so as to not worry his godson. Harry had no trouble picturing him, gloomy, miserable, walking the empty and dusty corridors of that house he hated so fiercely. His face carved and osseous, not without echoing Hannibal's current one. Though Hannibal's smiles were more convincing that Sirius' exclamation marks and cheeky remarks.

          The only time when his joy and enthusiasm seemed sincere was when they were talking about living together for a while, taking him to the word he had given Harry more than two years ago.

          And Harry was aching for it too, even more so since the Department of Mystery. He had fully realized how precious and fragile that dream was. And how easily it could be taken from him.

"To the Black Manor?" Hannibal asked.

"Here or elsewhere. It will depend on if he is cleared or not. It would be better if he could leave that cursed house."

"Certainly."

"You’re talking... about that man?" Dudley asked. "Your... uh..."

"My godfather, yes. Who also happens to be a very dangerous criminal."

          Dudley blanched at once.

"You're gonna live with him...?"

"He is innocent of the crime he is accused of," Hannibal stated.

          Dudley looked at him, then at Harry, biting his lip without understanding, before relying on Hannibal for the truth.

"He said he would come for us if we weren't nice to him."

          From this sentence full of vague pronouns, Hannibal understood at once the little tool Harry had made out of his godfather's name, in order to keep the Dursleys at arm’s length. It was that threat that had allowed him to go to the Quidditch World Cup and, no matter how it had ended, Harry regretted nothing.

          Hannibal detailed him, and Harry could feel the weight of his judgement, though he wasn't sure if it was disappointed or simply amused.

"We should go back," Hannibal finally stated. "We are nearly out of Little Whining, and though I am not worried, I could use less of Professor Dumbledore's disapproval."

          Without questioning Hannibal, they all turned around. However, and as they were walking down Magnolia Road, one of the inhabitants, who was currently working in her garden, and who knew Dudley and Hannibal well, offered them an ice cream to fight off the harsh warmth of the afternoon. Both boys took her up on her offer. Harry wasn't surprised when he didn't receive anything, he was known in the neighbourhood to be nothing more than a delinquent, the kind that was sent to correctional facilities all year long. However, when they walked to the closest park and sat on the swings to enjoy their ice cream, Hannibal handed his to Harry.

"You don't want it?" Harry frowned.

"There are few things in life I ever wanted less than that ice cream."

          Harry looked at the ice cream, which seemed to be the usual industrial type that was found in every supermarket. Clearly not the kind he could envision Hannibal enjoying.

          He took the ice cream and began to open it.

"You really should eat a bit more, Hannibal."

"Do not worry, Harry. The appetite will soon come back."

          Dudley and Harry enjoyed their ice cream under the heavy sun while Hannibal, sitting between them, slightly swung back and forth, his eyes lost on the cloudless sky.

          Once they were done, Dudley let the paper of his ice cream fall on the floor but a very long, awkward and insistent look from Hannibal convinced him to pick it up again and bring it to the nearest bin. They then all walked back to their house.

          Maybe Hannibal had been right. This walk had no magical properties, but at least, Harry felt a bit more in peace. For half an hour, his summer had looked and felt like a summer. But, like every season, it was doomed to end.

          Harry felt something was off the second he stepped into the garden.

          The house was strangely silent, filled with an eerie stillness. Uncle Vernon was gone for the day, and Aunt Petunia was not the loudest of them all, so it was technically nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, Harry could tell something was definitely wrong.

          He turned to the two boys. Hannibal didn't seem to have noticed anything and, humming to himself, he was already walking up the stairs to the room he was sharing with Harry.

          But Dudley had noticed something too. He was looking around with a frown, as if trying to spot something in the recesses of the corridors. Harry did the same but found nothing. Yet, when his eyes met Dudley's, they both knew there was something different about the house.

"It's you?" Dudley asked, suspiciously.

"It's me what?"

          That seemed to convince him, and he walked to the living room with a shrug.

"Mum?"

          Harry looked at the steps in front of him. Hannibal was already upstairs. Certainly, he hadn't known the house for long enough to notice if anything was different, but his friend had nonetheless a keen sense of observation, and Harry didn't think asking him for his opinion could be anything but useful. He began to climb up the stairs when Dudley's voice echoed once again.

"Mum?!"

          But this time, something in his tone had changed.

"MUM!!"

          Harry turned around at once and ran to the door behind which Dudley had disappeared. He heard footsteps above his head, telling him that Hannibal had reacted to the call as well.

          The living room was empty, and Harry continued his run to the kitchen, at the entrance of which he could spot Dudley.

          When he arrived by his cousin's side, he stopped right in his tracks.

          He first thought that something thick and sticky had been spilled on the floor. Sauce maybe, or syrup. When he tried to take a step, his shoe detached itself from the substance with a wet and disgusting sucking noise. But, more than the look and the sound of it, it was the smell that alerted Harry. For it was a smell he would breathe every night since the beginning of the summer. A smell haunting his nightmares like the stench of his faults.

          The smell of blood.

          In a puddle of it, recovering every inch of floor of the small kitchen, Harry and Dudley were standing.

          Only a few feet away from Aunt Petunia, lying at their feet.

          Hannibal Lecter arrived behind them before they could understand the scene.

          And if Harry had been able to read minds, he would have been able to guess Hannibal's silenced thoughts. About how much this blood that had stopped spilling from Petunia Dursley's veins and was now staining the world around her corpse looked like the spreading infection crowning a purulent wound.