Uncle Vernon had intended to lock their trunks in the cupboard under the stairs the moment they crossed the threshold. He had reached for Ana's trunk, his face a purple hue of indignation, only to find himself frozen.
Ana had simply looked at him. Her silver eyes hadn't flashed with anger; they had been as still as a frozen lake.
"Leave it, Uncle," she had whispered.
Vernon Dursley had spent the rest of the week refusing to make eye contact with her. He didn't lock the trunks. In fact, he found himself clearing the largest bedroom for them, mumbling about "needing space" while he moved his own exercise equipment into the hallway.
The Mirror of DevotionEvery morning, the ritual remained unchanged. Harry would wake up in the twin bed across from Ana's, watching as she sat at the vanity. She looked impossibly thin in her oversized hand-me-down nightgown, her skinny shoulders peeking through the fabric.
On the desk sat the mirror-compact Cassandra had given her. Even without magic allowed outside school, the "Influence" kept the glass warm.
"Are they talking again?" Harry asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
"Always, Harry," Ana murmured.
If he leaned close, he could hear the faint, melodic echoes of four voices coming from the compact.
"...did you eat your fruit today, Ana?" (Hermione's frantic whisper)
"...the sun is too bright in Surrey, make sure you stay in the shade..." (Cho's soft lilt)
"...I've sent a bird with more silk ribbons, the blue ones..." (Lavender's chirp)
They were miles away, yet they were hovering over her like ghosts. They sent owls daily—not with news, but with demands for her health, sketches of her face, and dried flowers they had pressed while thinking of her.
The Garden of SubmissionIn the afternoons, the Dursleys tried to ignore them, but it was impossible. Aunt Petunia would be gardening, her neck snapping toward the porch where Ana sat in a wicker chair.
Harry would be at her feet, weeding the flowerbeds or polishing his broom. He had become her primary guardian in the "outside world." He didn't let her carry the watering can; he didn't even let her reach for the lemonade.
"I can pour it myself, Harry," Ana said, her voice a soft ripple in the heat.
"No," Harry said firmly, his green eyes fixed on her skinny hands. "It's heavy. You look pale today, Ana. Just sit."
Even Dudley, the neighborhood bully, had changed. He had approached the porch once, intending to taunt them, but he had stopped three feet away. He had looked at Ana—so petite, so quiet—and his face had gone slack. He had ended up fetching her a cushion from the living room and then running away as if he'd seen a specter.
The Warning in the DarkOne evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Harry and Ana were sitting on the grass in the back garden. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of the neighborhood.
"I miss the tower," Harry admitted, looking at the stars. "I miss having people around who... well, who don't treat us like freaks."
"They don't treat us like freaks here anymore, Harry," Ana said, her silver moonstone pulsing a slow, rhythmic violet against her skin. "They treat us like shadows they are afraid to step on."
Suddenly, the hedge rustled. Two large, green eyes peered out from the leaves.
"Harry Potter! And the Sovereign!" a high, squeaky voice gasped.
A small creature with bat-like ears and bulging eyes tumbled out of the bushes, landing face-first in the dirt. He scrambled up, his hands trembling as he looked at Ana.
"Dobby has heard of the Great Potter," the house-elf squeaked, bowing so low his nose touched the grass. "But the Sovereign... the little Mistress... Dobby has felt the pulse across the ley lines! The Influence is strong! Too strong for a house of Muggles!"
Harry jumped up, wand (technically forbidden) in hand. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Dobby ignored Harry. He crawled toward Ana, his eyes wet with tears. "You must not go back to Hogwarts, Mistress! Danger is coming! The Chamber is waiting! They want to hurt the Queen!"
Ana leaned forward, her skinny fingers reaching out to touch Dobby's trembling shoulder. The elf let out a sob of pure, ecstatic relief at her touch.
"Tell me, Dobby," Ana whispered, her voice a melodic lure. "Who is coming for my throne?"