Bab 390: 0389 Rising Storms
Harry lay flat on his back, panting heavily as if he had just finished a grueling 30-minute run in physical education class. He had awakened from an incredibly vivid dream, his hands pressed tightly against his face. Beneath his fingers, the lightning-shaped scar burned fiercely, as if someone had pressed a white-hot wire against his skin.
With a groan of discomfort, Harry forced himself into a sitting position. One hand remained glued to his throbbing scar, while the other fumbled clumsily in the darkness, searching for his glasses which had been knocked off by the bedding. Putting them on, his bedroom gradually came into focus.
Judging by the moonlight filtering through the curtains, it was well past midnight. Listening intently for a moment, Harry confirmed that the Dursleys had returned home; he could hear Dudley's thunderous snoring.
Harry stroked the scar with his fingers again which still throbbed painfully. He switched on the bedside lamp and noticed that Hedwig, who had gone out earlier in the evening to forage for food, had returned and was now sleeping soundly in her cage.
Harry noticed with a pang of disappointment that her claws were empty, and a quick glance at his desk confirmed that there were no new letters or packages waiting for him. The absence of any communication from Sirius, weighed heavily on Harry's heart, but he pushed the feeling aside, forcing himself to focus on the more pressing matter at hand – the disturbing dream that had woken him so violently.
Harry closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his eyelids as he struggled to recall the details of the nightmare. Everything had seemed so real, so vivid – it was as if he had been there in person.
In his mind's eye, a dim, shadowy room began to materialize, its edges blurred and indistinct like a half-remembered photograph.
The most striking aspect of the dream, the element that sent shivers down Harry's spine even now, was the voice – Voldemort's voice.
Despite not having heard it in over two years, Harry recognized it instantly. The high, cold tones were etched permanently into his memory. Even now, just the thought of his first-year confrontation with Quirrell and the parasitic, shapeless Voldemort in the dungeon classroom was enough to send a chill through Harry's stomach.
He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to remember Voldemort's appearance in the dream, but to no avail. Harry only knew that when Voldemort's chair turned around and his gaze fell upon it, he was gripped by an overwhelming fear that jolted him awake. Perhaps it was because his scar had suddenly flared with pain?
There was a young woman in the room. Harry couldn't confirm who she was, but her name and appearance were like fine sand in his hand. The more he wanted to hold it tightly, the faster it slipped through his fingers. In the end, Harry could only vaguely recall that the young woman was strikingly beautiful and had a comforting presence.
How strange!
If the dream truly reflected some truth, how could someone so seemingly benevolent be associated with a monster like Voldemort?
And then there was the old man.
His appearance in the dream had been brief; Harry only saw him fall in a flash of green light. If the old man had encountered the real Voldemort, Harry was almost certain of his fate.
There was a conversation in the dream, but Harry couldn't remember it clearly either.
He only recalled that his name seemed to have been mentioned, and that Voldemort appeared to be planning something involving him. This didn't require much guesswork - what else could Voldemort be plotting other than to kill him?
So, was what he had seen real or not?
Harry stood up from the bed. He pulled back the curtains and gazed down at the clean, quiet street bathed in the warm glow of streetlights, gently rubbing his scar.
The last time his scar had hurt was when Voldemort was nearby, and this realization unsettled Harry. His vigilant gaze swept the street. Could Voldemort be lurking on Privet Drive? The idea seemed too absurd to be possible.
Well, now was the time to seriously consider what to do.
Even though Harry didn't want to appear particularly weak or liked to make a fuss, he clearly understood that anything related to Voldemort couldn't be taken lightly.
Turning away from the window, Harry began to pace around his small room, his eyes half-closed in concentration as he weighed his options.
The calendar on his wall served as a stark reminder that it was still late July, with just over a month left before the new school year began at Hogwarts. If he waited until then to report this incident, it might be far too late to prevent whatever Voldemort was planning. But if not then, when? And more importantly, who should he tell?
Harry's gaze fell upon his desk, where two birthday cards lay propped up against a stack of textbooks. They had been sent early by Hermione and Ron, even though his birthday was still a few days away. The sight of the cards sparked a thought in Harry's mind – 'what advice would Hermione give if she were here?'
"Your scar hurts? Harry, that's no ordinary matter! You should write to Dumbledore or Professor Watson immediately; they will definitely give you some advice! I'll go check 'Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions' right away... perhaps it mentions something about curse scars..."
'Yes, that's exactly what Hermione would suggest'. Harry could almost hear her flustered voice.
But honestly, Harry didn't believe any book could provide a clear explanation for the connection between him and Voldemort. Even those directly involved – Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Watson, perhaps even Voldemort himself like him– couldn't fully understand the connection between them.
The thought of contacting Professor Dumbledore flitted through Harry's mind, lingering for several long seconds before he decisively discarded it. As much as he respected and trusted the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the idea of approaching him solely because of a painful scar and a bad dream seemed... well, childish. Dumbledore had far more important matters to attend to than the nightmares of a fourteen-year-old boy, no matter how famous that boy might be.
'What about Professor Watson, then?'
Harry was certain that he would take his letter seriously, treating it with the seriousness it deserved rather than dismissing it as the overreaction of an attention-seeking teenager.
And yet, Harry found himself reluctant to write to him. The memory of last summer, when one of his letters had prompted Professor Watson to visit Privet Drive, was still fresh in his mind. During that visit, they had even witnessed the passing of Professor Watson's father together.
The thought of disturbing Professor Watson's peace every summer with his problems filled Harry with a sense of guilt and unease.
That left only one option: Sirius.
The thought of his godfather brought a mixture of emotions – hope, affection, and a twinge of worry. Sirius was not only an experienced adult wizard but also someone who genuinely cared about Harry's wellbeing. He wouldn't brush off Harry's concerns or treat them as trivial.
With a heavy sigh, Harry sank into the chair at his desk, his expression clouded with hesitancy. Consulting Sirius did seem like the best course of action as he was also with Professor Watson, and If Sirius couldn't provide an explanation, he could always ask the knowledgeable Professor Watson for advice.
There was, however, one significant problem: both Sirius and Professor Watson had vanished without a trace. Hedwig, despite her best efforts, had been unable to locate Sirius on her previous attempts to deliver messages.
For what felt like hours, Harry sat at his desk, his face alternating between various expressions. Finally, he picked up his quill and scribbled a few lines on a piece of parchment he had pulled from his trunk.
As he finished writing, Harry turned his attention to Hedwig. The snowy owl was still fast asleep, her head tucked beneath her wing. Harry felt a pang of guilt as he approached her cage.
Gently, Harry reached out to stroke Hedwig's soft feathers. "Hedwig," he whispered, "I need you to wake up. It's important."
Hedwig's amber eyes snapped open, fixing Harry with a reproachful glare. Before he could react, she had lunged forward, her sharp beak catching his finger in a painful nip. She hooted indignantly, her eyes full of blame and irritation at being woken up from her sleep.
"I'm sorry, Hedwig--" Harry said apologetically, "I'm really sorry to disturb your rest, but this is a special situation. I need some guidance. It's a letter for Sirius--"
At the mention of Sirius's name, Hedwig's demeanor changed slightly. She tilted her head, looking at Harry with a mixture of curiosity and concern. She hooted softly, as if asking and telling something.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair. "Please try again, Hedwig?" he pleaded. "Just one more time. It would be best if you could find him, but if not, come back as soon as possible. There's another letter for Ron, too. If Sirius can't be found for now, I hope to move to the Burrow as soon as possible."
Hedwig considered him for a moment longer before extending her leg, allowing Harry to carefully attach the letters. With a soft, reassuring hoot, she nipped his finger gently – this time in affection rather than reprimand – and spread her magnificent wings.
In a flutter of snowy feathers, Hedwig took flight, soaring out of the open window and into the night sky. Harry watched her go, her white form growing smaller and smaller until it was swallowed up by the darkness.
"You must find him," Harry muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared out into the night.
Miles away, on a vast expanse of rolling waves, another scene was unfolding.
The deep sea, true to its nature, continued its relentless motion even in the absence of wind. Three-foot waves rose and fell in an endless rhythm, a testament to the raw power of the ocean.
On the deck of a small fishing boat, two figures stood silhouetted against the night sky. Free from the light pollution that plagued Muggle cities, the sky above them was a breathtaking canvas of otherworldly wonders.
Billions of stars twinkled brightly, their light scattering across the surging surface of the water, transforming the sea into a mirror of the cosmos above.
This was the final night of their third week at sea. And as expected, the journey to find Azkaban had been extremely difficult. They had no exact coordinates for the small island, and their direction was based entirely on Sirius's vague memories of the positions of stars.
The initial excitement that had fueled them at the beginning of their quest had long since faded, worn away by the constant, monotonous sound of waves lapping against the hull. Each starry night found Sirius sleepless and anxious, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned the sky, desperately seeking some familiar starry landmark that might guide them to their destination.
Bryan, on the other hand, seemed to have settled into the journey with remarkable ease. He treated their time at sea as if it were an extended vacation, spending his days engrossed in thick tomes in the cabin or quietly thinking about some problems in a state of pseudo-sleep. In the evenings, he would come out from the cabin to enjoy the cool sea breeze and fish leisurely.
Their journey, while largely uneventful, had not been without its moments of excitement and danger.
On one particularly memorable occasion, they had found themselves the target of a group of deep-sea sirens. These creatures, enraged that their enchanting songs had failed to lure the human fishing boat that had strayed into their territory, summoned their kin in a furious frenzy.
The sirens had surrounded the small boat, their oddly-shaped bone spears ready to pierce the hull and send the two humans to a watery grave. The ensuing battle had been brief but intense, with Bryan and Sirius working in perfect sync to repel the attack. In the end, it was not the two wizards who found themselves destined to become fish food, but rather the sirens who retreated, nursing their wounds and their wounded pride.
Now, as they stood on the deck under the vast expanse of the night sky, Sirius broke the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.
"How long have we been out here?"
The sea stretched out before them, fully visible in the bright moonlight and starlight. Sirius squinted, his eyes straining against the darkness as he searched desperately for any reference point that might indicate they were on the right track. After a long moment of fruitless scanning, he licked his salt-crusted lips, tasting the bitter tang of the sea and his own growing frustration.
Sirius hadn't expected this journey to be smooth sailing. He had anticipated long days of drifting, of searching, of second-guessing their course. But the reality of their lost wanderings had far exceeded even his most pessimistic expectations.
Before the summer holidays had begun, Sirius had promised Harry that he would quickly get him away from his Muggle aunt and uncle. But now, as the days stretched into weeks with no sign of Azkaban in sight, that promise seemed to mock him.
"Twenty-one days--" Bryan, lying on a deck chair and admiring the boundless night sky, pondered for a moment before answering.
And this answer made Sirius's heart sink. Harry's birthday was approaching in just a few days. This would be Harry's first birthday since Sirius had escaped from Azkaban, and he had originally planned to help Harry celebrate it properly. Now it seemed that plan would have to be scrapped.
The night remained bright and cloudless. However, the humidity in the air gradually increased. Sirius, now practically a semi-professional sailor, immediately sensed that a storm was approaching.
It was a common occurrence at sea, he had learned. Often, everything would seem normal one moment, and then a downpour would begin the next. *Grandline*
"Let's head back to the cabin, Bryan--" Sirius shook his head, somewhat dejectedly. "I haven't found any new leads, and it's about to rain. Let's hope old John's boat can keep holding up--"
With that, Sirius jumped down from the bow railing and turned towards the cabin. As he passed by Bryan, who had stood up, he noticed that Bryan was scanning the sea surface with a puzzled look, showing no intention of seeking shelter from the impending rain.
"What's wrong, Bryan?"
Over the course of their three-week journey, the two men had discussed a wide range of topics. But as the days had worn on and their search had continued to yield no results, their conversations had become more infrequent, more direct and concise when they did occur. Now, faced with Bryan's apparent distraction, Sirius found himself genuinely curious - and slightly concerned.
Gazing at the increasingly high waves, Bryan's expression seemed somewhat confused.
"Hmm... it's hard to say, but... something feels off."
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