Chapter 164: Crowley Manor

"Harry, I regret to inform you that I may also be absent from your birthday party this year. A truck driver in Manchester has received an unjust verdict, and I must take my team to defend him in the appeal. Arguing before the local court is no easy task—I may not return from June to September. During this time, you will have full authority over all matters at Downton. I've already informed Carson."

"I hope you'll take good care of Ivy, and understand: our cause is just."

—George Crowley

When Harry and Ivy stepped out of the car, the butler handed him a note on a tray, leaving him slightly disappointed. Though the current Earl of Grantham rarely took part in his upbringing, he had left Harry with a favorable impression; thus, returning home without seeing the old man brought Harry a quiet sense of nostalgia and loss.

"But there's a saying worth remembering," Harry murmured. "Our cause is just."

Ivy shook her head. "Next time McGonagall wants to lock you up, you can tell her that—maybe you'll get off scot-free. Who knows?"

"Too small. Narrow-minded," Harry shook his head. "I'm talking about Torchwood."

"So what?" Ivy skipped toward the manor, laughing. After all, she was naive, unlike Harry, who bore so many heavy responsibilities.

"I think I should tell you," Harry said after some hesitation, "as far as I know, Hogwarts may not be safe next year. The Death Eaters might attack it."

"Really?" Ivy's face wore an unconvinced, flippant expression.

"This summer, I'll try to teach you some defensive spells. After term starts, I hope Malfoy can organize—" Harry paused, unsure if Malfoy could be trusted, "—some basic spell instruction, so everyone can protect themselves, or at least share them among friends."

Under Harry's complex and anxious expression, Ivy's figure bounced away. To a girl her age, summer meant carefree play, and school meant glamorous, magical adventures. She never gave a thought to dark wizards, and thus rarely showed any trace of worry.

On the first day of summer, Harry had a strange dream: he saw a grand, candlelit table, with shadowy figures seated on either side, and a massive white serpent gliding among the dishes.

Then he woke, gasping for breath, his scar burning fiercely, like a branding iron.

Harry checked the time—it was just past noon. He had barely fallen into his afternoon nap when the dream jolted him awake.

"The scar…" He walked slowly to the full-length mirror, staring at the thin, glasses-wearing boy within. "When was the last time it burned?"

The scar came from that night over a decade ago. Harry was certain he knew everything that had happened then—Voldemort, driven by a prophecy, had sought to kill him as an infant. Originally, the cruel Dark Lord intended to murder his entire family. But Snape, his loyal lieutenant, begged him to spare his mother. Thus, Harry's mother had protected him with a spell of love and sacrifice, causing Voldemort's Killing Curse to rebound upon himself. The Boy Who Lived became the savior who ended his dark reign.

As for the scar, Harry had always assumed it was merely the mark left when the Killing Curse rebounded. As an unblockable, fatal curse, its failure to be fully deflected seemed reasonable. Besides, the lightning-shaped scar was not ugly—it was rather cool.

Yet Harry clearly remembered: on the first-year train, when Zhang Qiu tried to summon his dead parents using mysterious Eastern magic and accidentally called forth Voldemort, his scar had burned then. Harry suspected the scar was somehow linked to Voldemort—perhaps it was "the weapon to kill Voldemort." His childhood tutor had once told him a legend: a magical sword named Frostmourne trapped the souls of the dead.

"Could a sliver of Voldemort's soul be inside my scar?" Harry speculated recklessly.

In fact, during the summer of his second year, his scar had burned once—though he saw no vision, and the pain was brief. He had once thought it was just a headache from catching cold. Now, he wondered if it might have been a reaction when Voldemort returned to life.

"This dream… could be Voldemort's memory," Harry thought. "Or perhaps I've used this sliver of soul to glimpse through his eyes."

"If it's the latter, that's not bad at all." Harry nodded inwardly. "I could spy on Voldemort while he remains completely unaware."

But regardless of the cause, this matter demanded serious attention.

Harry's first thought was to write to Dumbledore. But clearly, Dumbledore had too much on his plate. Harry could picture the entire Department of Mysteries, the doctors, and the last remaining Auror Wangpai —all working urgently with Dumbledore to plan everything: reopening the Triwizard Tournament in France, crafting a convincing script to lure Voldemort into attacking Harry, then using the Time-Space Array as the decisive weapon.

The more intricate the plan, the more effort it required to refine, prepare contingencies, and reserve options. Harry felt writing to disturb them over a mere scar pain might seem foolish—or even melodramatic.

If he wrote to Ron, Ron might ask his father. Harry could sense the Weasleys cared deeply for him—but his father might panic, grow overly anxious, and overreact. He didn't want this fleeting pain to cause them prolonged alarm.

His other friends—he knew exactly what would happen. Zhang Qiu would flip to a page in her notebook and say, "Fate shows Harry will feel scar pain on such-and-such a date and time." Not feeling it would be abnormal. Neville would solemnly ask, "Can't a real man endure a little pain?" Hagrid would simply suggest he see Dumbledore. Hermione, knowing she couldn't help, would probably send him some aspirin.

Harry rubbed his temples. He needed an adult wizard who cared for him, who had the means to handle dark magic. One name immediately came to mind: Sirius Black.

This godfather, nicknamed Sirius, was precisely the person Harry could trust at this moment. Though his name had not yet been officially cleared, he had successfully washed away his wrongful conviction. He was likely now cleaning his old home at Grimmauld Place. He had told Harry he could write anytime, and promised to invite him over once the house was tidy.

Harry sat at his bedroom desk, slowly unfolding a sheet of parchment. As he carefully wrote "Sirius," he remembered how, last year at this time, he had been a fugitive featured on the front pages—and couldn't help smiling.

"Dear Sirius," he wrote without hesitation, unconsciously filling an entire page—clearly, he had much to say to this godfather. He did not forget to mention the scar.

After finishing the letter, Harry sealed it in an envelope, wrote "12 Grimmauld Place" on the front, and handed it to his personal valet, Bates.

Grimmauld Place appeared on Muggle maps, so Harry decided to give Hedwig a vacation.

The scar's pain had long faded. Harry checked the time and arrived early at the tea room, intending to discuss with Carson the possibility of installing a game console at Downton.

In truth, Downton still maintained a decidedly archaic lifestyle. Harry remembered the television set he'd seen as a child at the Dursleys', but Lord Crowley disliked the device—he considered TV programs nutritionless and a waste of time. The manor's single television now gathered dust in the storage room.

To Carson, young Harry was clearly someone eager to embrace new things. He ventured to suggest other ideas—like installing an Apple II computer in the library. Such a micro-home computer was already slightly ahead of Downton's time, let alone for Harry, who had just returned from the medieval world of magic. He immediately waved it off: "Let me think about it."

As Harry and the butler discussed furnishing the manor, Ivy approached. She wore a vintage-style ruffled dress, adorned with lace and fabric pleats, making her look adorable and distinctly ladylike.

"Why did you choose to wear this?" Harry asked naturally.

"Have you ever considered throwing a ball?" Ivy smiled.

"What?" Harry blinked. "A ball?"

"Yes. Don't you think the manor's too quiet?" Ivy said. "Grandfather isn't coming back this year. Let's do something big."

"If you just think the ballroom's been unused too long, that's fine—but you're really thinking of inviting those," Harry glanced at the butler and avoided saying "magic," "—your school friends, aren't you?"

"Of course," Ivy proudly arched her eyebrows.

"Allow me to interject," Carson said. "Thirteen is an appropriate age to attend a ball. We would be delighted to host your school friends, Young Master and Young Lady."

"But—but," Harry fidgeted, "you might think they're not normal… and they might think you're not normal, either."