novelraw Chapter 64: The Messenger Who Travels Around
Chapter 64: The Messenger Who Travels Around
Chapter Sixty-Four: The Messenger Who Travels Around
On the second floor of Privet Drive, in the smallest bedroom of the Dursleys' house, a few letters lay scattered across a simple desk.
The longest letter was from Hermione Granger. The summer breeze, bored and listless, blew in through the window, causing the parchment to tremble slightly as it seemed to read the letter from beginning to end.
Harry,
You'll never guess who I met in Bath—Draco! He was visiting his grandfather there while I was visiting mine. I had no idea Bath had traces of wizarding communities. Perhaps I should buy a book on magical historical sites; it's a fascinating topic.
Also, I finally saw Draco wearing something other than his school robes or dress shirts, which answered a long-standing question—he wears T-shirts too! And can you imagine, Draco learned to skateboard like a Muggle much faster than I did? It's infuriating! Is there nothing he can't learn?
My summer holiday plans were completely upended because of Draco. He introduced me to a very talented Potions Master who knew countless tricks not found in textbooks. Who could possibly miss such a rare opportunity? I immediately abandoned my planned trip to the South of France to learn about potions from him with Draco. Thanks to Draco, this summer has been filled with academics.
Sorry, I get rather long-winded when it comes to studying. How have you been? Are those Muggles still angry about the telephone incident? By the way, Draco can actually use a Muggle telephone. Did you like the sugar-free pastries I sent last time? I've enclosed two kinds of famous Bath buns for you to try. Draco and I already taste-tested them for you, and they're delicious.
Right, enough chatting—I'm putting down my quill now. Draco and I came to a tearoom in Bath for some spring water coffee; the atmosphere is quite lovely. After the live performance, I'll buy you some freshly baked Bath buns and Sally Lunn buns…
Hermione
The recipient of this letter was locking his bedroom door tightly, pulling the last Sally Lunn bun from under the floorboards, and happily biting into it. Thanks to Hermione's preservation charm, he could fully savor its fresh-from-the-oven flavor.
As he chewed, Harry Potter sighed.
He desperately wished that one day he could leisurely holiday in some small town like that, instead of enduring a month of sarcasm from Uncle Vernon.
Still, it wouldn't be much longer—his godfather would soon come to take him away. He would soon be completely free.
At that moment, he couldn't help but fantasize: perhaps Sirius would take him somewhere exciting. Or anywhere, really. As long as he wasn't staying with the Dursleys, anywhere would be perfect.
Harry's first birthday wish was for Sirius to get him out of this dreadful place.
On that same day, shortly after Draco rushed back to Malfoy Manor with his grandfather, Harry—lost in thought—met the first messenger of his birthday.
It was Dobby the house-elf. Although Harry had seen him several times in the middle of the night, this was the first time he'd appeared so suddenly in broad daylight.
There he stood, a tattered leather pouch hanging from his waist, his large, round eyes staring intently at Harry. He proudly puffed out his chest, which was dressed in a brightly colored outfit, and said eagerly, "Great Harry Potter, sir! Master sent Dobby to deliver this message because Master knows Dobby is reliable!"
He skipped over to Harry with surprisingly light, silent footsteps. From the small pouch, he pulled out a large birthday cake as if by magic. Harry knew there must be an Undetectable Extension Charm at work—probably some impressive magical modification—and couldn't help but marvel.
"Master sent Dobby to deliver a birthday cake and lots of treacle tarts to the great Harry Potter, sir! And a gift too, which Master says Harry Potter will love!" He happily extracted a dark green box tied with a silver bow and placed it in Harry's hands, then shook his large ears. Suddenly, as if remembering something crucial, he handed Harry a letter.
"Dear Harry Potter must read it immediately, sir!" he said anxiously, as if he'd made an unreasonable request. "Master was very serious and demands a reply straightaway."
Harry was surprised. Everything seemed rather unusual today.
"Is something wrong?" His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the envelope. A letter and a newspaper clipping fell out. He glanced at the photograph of Peter Pettigrew in the clipping, then quickly scanned the article beside it. Harry's expression changed abruptly, and he snatched up the letter:
Harry,
Seeing this clipping, you can probably guess this holiday is anything but peaceful. I suggest you leave for your godfather's house as soon as possible—a residence with magical protections is far safer than a Muggle home.
I received intelligence from a certain source that Peter Pettigrew has been talking in his sleep in Azkaban, repeating the same phrase over and over: "He's at Hogwarts... he's at Hogwarts."
I haven't determined who he's targeting yet. It could be me. But it could also be you—after all, you're his master's greatest enemy.
Even if he appears incompetent and cowardly, anyone who can escape Azkaban is not to be underestimated. I expect the Ministry will send someone to protect you soon, so don't be frightened. Do not leave your residence without permission under any circumstances.
P.S. I obtained this photograph from your mother's former teacher, Professor Slughorn. I think you'll treasure it.
P.P.S. Professor Slughorn asked me to give you his warmest regards.
Draco
The signature was hasty, indicating the letter had been written in a rush.
Harry quickly examined the dark green box, which bore a beautiful greeting card—the first birthday card Harry had ever received.
His hands trembled as he opened it and finally saw the photograph in its golden frame. In the moving picture, a red-haired woman in a white wedding dress was joyfully tossing her bouquet into the air, while a man who looked remarkably like Harry stood beside her, hands in his pockets, striking a pose and pulling faces at the camera.
Harry couldn't help but smile at the figures in the photograph, greedily studying his parents' vibrant, youthful faces. If only they were still alive.
After a long moment, Dobby coughed and tentatively asked, "Is dear Harry Potter still going to write a reply to young Master?"
Harry snapped out of his reverie. He glared at the clipping lying to one side, then quickly seized a blank piece of parchment and scribbled:
Draco,
I absolutely love your birthday gift—the photograph is incredible! Please thank Professor Slughorn for preserving my parents' picture all these years. It means the world to me.
I saw the clipping. If Peter Pettigrew is after me, then so be it. I'm willing to avenge my parents.
P.S. Sirius is expected to collect me tonight.
Harry
Harry folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, then handed it to Dobby. Dobby bowed low, gave him a reluctant smile, and vanished with a crack.
At almost the same moment, another messenger from the Malfoys—the magnificent eagle owl—was on a long flight.
Joan was to deliver a letter to a hotel near one of the Egyptian pyramids. The Weasleys had recently won the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw and were currently touring Egypt.
The reply from the Weasleys took several days to reach Draco—Joan was thoroughly exhausted from the journey.
Judging from the response, the Weasley twins weren't remotely worried about the fugitive Peter Pettigrew.
"We all reckon he's after Harry. Nevertheless, Ron was absolutely terrified when he learned Peter Pettigrew had escaped Azkaban. He probably thinks his former pet rat is about to storm Hogwarts and abscond with him or something...
There's nowhere safer than being abroad. The Burrow is completely empty now, and Pettigrew doesn't even know where we're staying. Of course, Dad says Ministry officials have started casting protective enchantments around the Burrow, so they seem to be taking this quite seriously.
P.S. We've seen loads of brilliant new spells in Egypt—absolutely fascinating! We can try them on you when we get back, if you'd like.
Draco agreed with one assertion in the letter—Peter Pettigrew probably wasn't coming to see the Weasley twins, those "pet tormentors."
Otherwise, Pettigrew would have said "they" instead of "he."
Although it appeared that Draco and the Weasley twins had captured him together, the rat undoubtedly knew exactly who was truly responsible for his imprisonment.
After all, Peter Pettigrew and the Weasley twins had lived under the same roof for years without incident. The only variable in this situation was Draco.
Ron's reaction was rather amusing, though.
It was entirely possible Peter Pettigrew might seek out Ron, but for what purpose?
When Ron had kept Pettigrew—then called Scabbers—as a pet, he'd treated him with the utmost care. It was highly unlikely Pettigrew would seek revenge for being "mistreated." In both his previous and current circumstances, Ron possessed nothing that would interest Death Eaters. They were far more interested in Harry.
After considerable thought, it seemed the most likely scenario involved either targeting Harry, the Dark Lord's nemesis, or seeking revenge for his capture. Abraxas shared this assessment.
"He won't be able to find Malfoy Manor regardless," Lucius said arrogantly. In early July, he and Narcissa had returned from Peru, weary from their travels.
They now sat at the long dining table, enjoying after-dinner tea.
Lucius had been quietly observing his son for several days. After their time apart, Draco looked healthy and had even grown a few centimeters taller. Bath was clearly a salubrious place—no wonder the old man always loved spending his summers there.
His son was safe and sound. Far from showing panic, Draco remained remarkably composed. Even now, when Peter Pettigrew was mentioned, he stayed calm, displaying the bearing befitting a true Malfoy.
Satisfied, Lucius collected his snake-headed cane and took the two Scottish Deerhounds for a walk around the grounds, checking whether the hedges enchanted with reinforcement and protection charms remained secure.
"Draco, tell me—who does he hate most? You or Harry Potter?" Narcissa looked at her son, concern evident in her eyes.
"I don't know," Draco said. "He spent two years in Harry Potter's dormitory and never harmed him. I don't sense any hatred from him."
Draco understood his mother's implication. Without deep-seated hatred, what could have driven Peter Pettigrew to escape Azkaban and make his way toward Hogwarts—the very place where he'd been captured?
The trouble was, Draco didn't know what Pettigrew resented. Usually, the rat's emotions centered more on profound fear than hatred. The Peter Pettigrew he remembered seemed to live in constant terror rather than harboring resentment toward anyone.
Even if, as Narcissa suggested, Pettigrew harbored deep hatred for someone, another question remained: how had he escaped from Azkaban?
Countless powerful Dark wizards were imprisoned in Azkaban, and not one had ever escaped.
Did they remain in Azkaban willingly? No—they simply had no means of escape. It was a terrible, bitterly cold fortress, a desolate island in the North Sea far from any human habitation, utterly isolated from the world.
Yet Peter Pettigrew, a wizard of mediocre ability, had somehow managed it.
It was absurd. Draco couldn't imagine who else could possibly escape Azkaban as quietly as Peter Pettigrew had.
Suddenly, a brilliant thought struck him.
There was one man—Sirius Black—who had successfully escaped in another timeline! Perhaps Sirius knew the method. This was a potential breakthrough.
His gaze shifted to his mother. Narcissa no longer seemed concerned with Peter Pettigrew's predicament and was calmly, elegantly arranging flowers. She was attempting to make the vase perfectly neat and orderly, transforming it into a flawless composition.
Arranging flowers manually was how she alleviated her anxiety, just as Draco enjoyed brewing tea by hand.
Narcissa keenly sensed her son's gaze, looked up, and asked, "What is it, Draco?"
"Mother, I want to visit the old Black townhouse."
Narcissa's expression froze momentarily.
The request was unexpected. She studied her son, her tone unusually stern. "These are dangerous times. This isn't somewhere you can simply visit on a whim. Give me a reason."
"I'd like to speak with Sirius Black. He might have information about Azkaban that could help us apprehend Peter Pettigrew," Draco said without hesitation.
Narcissa's lips curved in disapproval. Draco understood the unspoken message perfectly: Peter Pettigrew was still at large, and leaving Malfoy Manor during such a sensitive period would be unwise.
"Harry Potter is there too. He's invited me several times already. Besides, the Ministry has numerous people stationed around the house—how could Peter Pettigrew possibly dare go there and try his luck?" Draco attempted to persuade her.
Narcissa didn't look at him. She selected a sprig of chamomile and placed it in the vase, affecting a nonchalant expression. "A wizard whom even Dementors couldn't contain—what makes you think those incompetent Ministry officials could stop him? If they were truly capable, how did Peter Pettigrew escape in the first place?"
"That's precisely what I'm trying to determine—how he escaped. I believe Sirius Black, having spent so long in Azkaban, must know some secrets," Draco reminded her carefully.
"There's some logic to that. I heard he was still reasonably lucid when he was released from prison." Narcissa's expression softened slightly.
"Not everyone who enters Azkaban returns, and those who do aren't necessarily insane," Draco continued, fanning the flames.
"That's true." Narcissa seemed intrigued. Even the Dementors' relentless assault over more than a decade in a place like Azkaban hadn't destroyed Sirius—he must possess some unique secret.
"Haven't you wanted to return to the Black family residence for some time?" Draco added, employing his most innocent smile and guileless expression to sway his mother. "The last time you visited was seven or eight years ago, wasn't it?"
"Indeed—before your great-aunt Walburga passed away." Narcissa chuckled softly, selecting a thornless yellow rose with her well-maintained fingers and inhaling its scent. "She wasn't an easy woman to live with. If she knew her most despised son had inherited the Black family seat, she'd probably leap from her portrait and start hexing everything in sight."
Draco shrugged.
"It seems burning him off the tapestry didn't work."
"Being disowned is merely ceremonial—it doesn't actually strip him of his inheritance rights," Narcissa said, frowning.
Draco understood his mother's complicated feelings.
The Black family's inheritance customs didn't treat daughters equally. They invariably passed property to male heirs before female ones, unless all male heirs had perished—only then could inheritance pass to the eldest daughter.
After the death of Arcturus Black, her grandfather, Regulus Black had briefly served as heir to the Black family fortune (including the vault and estate).
However, Regulus died barely a year later. Narcissa inherited only a portion of her father Cygnus's private wealth and had absolutely no claim to the vast Black family holdings.
Though it was still a substantial sum of Galleons, it paled in comparison to the Black family's total wealth.
In short, the Black family fortune ended up in the hands of the only surviving male Black—Sirius.
Her mother occasionally grumbled about it. If the wealth could pass to daughters, it would have gone to Bellatrix—but given her imprisonment in Azkaban, actual control would likely have fallen to Narcissa, just as she'd been safeguarding the keys to the Lestrange vault for Bellatrix.
"I wonder if he's settling in well at the old Black townhouse... Does Great-Aunt Walburga's portrait curse him daily..." Draco wisely changed the subject, determined not to let Narcissa dwell on wealth that would never fall into her hands.
A slight crease appeared between Narcissa's brows.
"Very well. I'll take you there." She finally reached her decision.
After her son departed, Narcissa took up her floral shears and ruthlessly pruned the wildly growing stems and leaves, no matter how lush they appeared.
She focused intently on her arrangement, scrutinizing it with a critical eye, refusing to allow anything that might detract from the overall aesthetic to protrude even slightly.
Her work must be perfect and orderly, just like her life.
As for those elements that grew imperfectly, those rebels that broke from order—they were destined to be abandoned by their families.
Like the blood traitor Sirius. She hadn't witnessed him receive a thorough tongue-lashing from his mother in years.
She wouldn't mind observing that again.
"Oh, I am rather curious about dear Sirius's current situation." Narcissa departed contentedly, carrying the exquisite vase of flowers. Without the slightest remorse, she stepped over the discarded blooms and supplies scattered across the floor, a mysterious and dignified smile gracing her lips.