As the sun began its descent on a balmy summer evening, its final golden rays stretched lazily across the rolling hills and shimmering seas, casting a warm, glow upon the white walls of Number Four, Privet Drive. Through a partially drawn curtain on the second floor, the fading light filtered into a dimly lit room, bathing it in a soft, rosy hue.
Outside, the residents of Privet Drive were taking full advantage of the pleasant weather before dinner. Neatly pressed trousers and floral sundresses swished as neighbors busied themselves in their tidily manicured yards. The rhythmic hum of electric lawnmowers mingled with the snip of trimming shears as homeowners trimmed their lawns to perfection and lovingly tended to their vibrant flower beds.
Children's laughter rang out like silver bells in the tranquil air as they chased each other along the spacious, tree-lined street. A group of youngsters had spotted a stray tabby cat and were in hot pursuit. Watchful parents kept a protective eye on their children from nearby porches, sipping iced tea and exchanging pleasantries with passing neighbors.
In stark contrast to the lively scene outside, Harry stood motionless at his bedroom window, peering expressionlessly through a small gap in the heavy curtains. His emerald eyes, usually so full of life, seemed dull and distant as he observed the carefree children playing under their parents' loving gazes.
After what felt like an eternity, he let out a deep, weary sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. With the weight of the something unknown on his young shoulders, he turned away from the window and fell back onto his unmade bed, pulling the slightly musty covers over his head to shut out the world.
The room, bathed in that soft pink glow of twilight, was in a state of disarray that would have horrified Harry's fussy Aunt Petunia. It was filled with an varied collection of items that would seem wildly out of place in any ordinary Muggle child's bedroom. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, leather-bound books, and a hint of something distinctly magical – a combination of herbs, potions, and the lingering aroma of owl treats.
At the foot of Harry's bed sat an enormous, battered wooden trunk. Its lid gaped open like the maw of some fantastic beast, revealing a chaotic jumble of objects that would bewilder any non-magical person who happened to peek inside. Gleaming brass cauldrons of various sizes nestled alongside sleek, polished broomsticks that seemed to hum with barely contained energy. Neatly folded black robes, adorned with the proud Gryffindor crest, lay atop a pile of leather-bound spell books with titles like "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3" and "The Monster Book of Monsters" (which was mercifully belted shut).
On the rickety desk by the window stood an empty birdcage, its door swinging slightly in the breeze from the partially open window. This was where Harry's beloved snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched when she wasn't out hunting or delivering messages. The remaining desk space was cluttered with several rolls of yellowed parchment, quills with nibs stained with ink, and half-finished letters to friends. Crumpled balls of discarded parchment littered the floor around the desk, evidence of Harry's frustrated attempts at communication.
An open book lay face-down on the worn carpet beside the bed – the one Harry had been engrossed in before finally succumbing to sleep the previous night. Its enchanted pages were alive with constantly moving illustrations: tiny figures clad in vibrant orange robes zoomed back and forth on miniature broomsticks, passing a small red ball between them with incredible speed and precision.
Indeed, Number Four, Privet Drive housed a young wizard – a fact that would undoubtedly shock the well-to-do residents of this perfectly ordinary suburban street if they ever discovered it. The Dursleys, owners of the house and Harry's reluctant guardians, would surely be mortified beyond belief if their neighbors ever learned they were harboring such a 'freak' under their roof. One could easily imagine them packing up their belongings in the dead of night and fleeing in shame.
But Harry, lying motionless under his covers, couldn't have cared less about such trivial matters. It wasn't as if he had wanted to return to this place that had never truly been a home to him.
Nearly a month had passed since Harry had been forced to return to the Dursleys for the summer holidays once again. Truthfully, these were usually his most miserable days of the year. This time, however, he wasn't entirely sure if things had improved or worsened.
In previous years, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would never have allowed him to keep his "magical nonsense" in his room during the summer. The very sight of anything related to the wizarding world would send them into a frenzy of fear and disgust.
As soon as he crossed the threshold of Number Four, Privet Drive, they would confiscate everything connected to Hogwarts and lock it away in the cupboard under the stairs – his former bedroom. They would only grudgingly return his belongings when it was time for him to go back to school, as if allowing him to touch them for even a moment longer than necessary might somehow contaminate their perfectly normal household.
His current treatment was the result of intervention from Professor Watson and, more significantly, his godfather, Sirius Black. Sirius, in particular, had managed to effect a considerable change in the Dursleys' attitude after having what Harry imagined must have been a rather intense conversation with them before the summer began. The memory of that encounter still brought a small smile to Harry's face, despite his current melancholy.
They certainly didn't mistreat him anymore, at least not in any tangible, material way.
Aunt Petunia no longer rapped sharply on his door at the crack of dawn, shrilly demanding that he get up and cook breakfast for everyone. After lunch, when the Dursleys sprawled on their overcrowded sofa, eyes glued to the television, Harry wasn't left alone in the kitchen to wash a mountain of greasy dishes while the sound of canned laughter drifted in from the living room. Uncle Vernon had ceased his daily morning ritual of shouting at Harry to tidy his eternally messy hair. Even Dudley, Harry's baby whale of a cousin, no longer lay in wait around corners, ready to trip him on the stairs for his own twisted amusement.
This summer holiday was, on the surface, unprecedentedly leisurely for Harry.
He didn't have to perform any of the endless list of chores that had once filled his days, yet he still got to eat food that was not only edible but actually quite delicious – even better than what the forever dieting Dudley was allowed to consume. Gone were the days of surviving on stale bread and cold soup pushed through the cat flap in his bedroom door.
However, this newfound freedom came at a price that Harry hadn't anticipated. The only real issue – and it was a significant one – was that the Dursleys now treated him as if he didn't exist at all. In the past, they had only pretended he wasn't there when other people were around.
Throughout the entire summer, they had barely spoken a word to him.
Aunt Petunia would silently collect his dirty laundry when he was out for a walk, leaving clean, folded clothes outside his door without so much as a knock. If he didn't come down at mealtimes, Uncle Vernon would leave a plate of food outside his door, knock once, and leave. As for Dudley, he would immediately fall silent and pretend nothing was happening whenever Harry entered his line of sight, regardless of what he had been doing before.
The abrupt end of whatever thing Dudley had been doing– be it loudly complaining about his diet or playing video games at full volume – only served to highlight Harry's unwelcome presence even more.
In the past, Harry would have been thrilled if the Dursleys had treated him this way. He had spent countless nights in his cupboard, wishing eagerly that they would just leave him alone. But now that his wish had come true, he had to admit he somewhat missed how things used to be. At least then, even in their cruelty and neglect, the Dursleys had acknowledged his existence.
Their current behavior left him feeling like a ghost haunting the halls of Number Four, Privet Drive – present, but unseen and unheard.
He had written to Ron and Hermione about all this, pouring out his conflicted feelings onto parchment in the hope that his friends might offer some comfort or advice. Unsurprisingly, they were both outraged on his behalf. In his reply, scrawled in his characteristic messy handwriting, Ron said that he would tell his father about the situation so that Mr. Weasley could come and immediately rescue Harry from the cold indifference of the Dursleys.
Harry's heart had leapt at the idea, a surge of hope flooding through him at the thought of escaping to the warm, chaotic embrace of the Weasley family. But after careful consideration, weighing the pros and cons as Hermione would have urged him to do, he still refused Ron's well-intentioned offer.
It wasn't because the Weasleys weren't kind enough to him – far from it. If he could have parents like Ron's, Harry would have given everything he possessed in exchange without a second thought. The Weasleys had shown him more love and acceptance in the short time he had known them than the Dursleys had in over a decade of raising him. The problem was... he wasn't without family now, at least not in the way he had been before.
Sirius was his godfather, a living link to the parents he had lost and the life he might have had.
Before the summer holidays, Sirius had promised to come and pick him from the Dursleys as soon as he finished handling some urgent business. Harry thought it would be best not to leave on his own, not wanting to complicate matters or potentially put Sirius in a difficult position. He also didn't like the thought of Mrs. Weasley standing in her kitchen, hands on hips, loudly complaining about Sirius neglecting his responsibilities if she found out about Harry's current situation.
Thinking of Sirius, Harry let out another heavy sigh under the covers, the sound muffled by the thick fabric. He emerged from his cocoon, hair even messier than usual, and sat up in bed, his mind racing with worried thoughts.
In the first few days of the summer holidays, Sirius had sent him two letters in reply to Harry's eager letters. He had explained that he was dealing with certain sensitive matters along with Professor Watson and, if all went according to plan, he would be back to pick Harry up in two weeks at the latest. But after that, Harry heard nothing more from Sirius.
All the letters Harry had sent with Hedwig in the next weeks were returned unopened, a clear indication that she couldn't find Sirius.
This was highly unusual and deeply concerning. Hedwig was an exceptionally intelligent owl who had always managed to complete her tasks for Harry with absolute accuracy. She had never failed repeatedly like this before, which made Harry increasingly anxious about the safety of both Sirius and Professor Watson.
Hermione, had suggested writing to Dumbledore about the situation. Her neat, precise handwriting had outlined a logical argument for involving the Headmaster, mentioning his vast magical knowledge and extensive network of contacts. But Harry hadn't followed her advice, and his reasons were two.
On one hand, he thought Sirius and Professor Watson might simply be too far away for Hedwig to reach. Perhaps they were on some secret mission that required them to be undetectable, even to magical means of communication. Contacting Dumbledore over this seemed like an overreaction, and Harry was reluctant to bother him with what might turn out to be a trivial concern.
On the other hand, Ron had raised a valid point in one of his letters: if there was a problem so severe that both Professor Watson and Sirius couldn't handle together, then even Dumbledore might not be able to help much.
Bang!
The sudden, jarring sound of a door slamming shut downstairs made Harry, who had been listening intently to every little sound in the house, jump out of bed.
He rushed out of his room like a whirlwind, taking the stairs three at a time in his haste to reach the ground floor. His bare feet barely touched the steps as he descended, one hand trailing along the banister to keep his balance. In moments, he found himself standing alone in the dim living room, surrounded by the oppressive silence that had become all too familiar.
Ignoring the enticing aroma of the steaming dinner laid out on the dining table, Harry's eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of the Dursleys. The house felt emptier than usual, the silence deeper. It didn't take long for him to reach the obvious conclusion: the Dursleys had gone out.
In the past, they would often leave him at home when they went out, treating him more like an unwanted pet than a family member. But at least then they'd give him some brief warnings first – not to turn on the TV lest he enjoy himself too much, not to steal food from the fridge even if he was hungry, not to enter their rooms under any circumstances. They'd also briefly, grudgingly tell him where they were going. But now, true to their new policy of pretending he didn't exist, they had left without a word, though they had at least been thoughtful enough to prepare his dinner before departing.
Just as Harry was about to go back to his room, resigned to another lonely evening, he noticed a small piece of paper on the coffee table. With a quick leap that would have made his Quidditch captain proud, he jumped over the sofa and snatched up the note.
It was a hastily scribbled message from Aunt Petunia:
"Marge has come to see us and Dudley. We're taking her out for dinner. Knowing you don't like her; we didn't invite you. Your dinner is on the table. Leave the dirty dishes; we'll deal with them when we return."
"To hell with you!" Harry snarled; his face ashen. His hands trembled as he gripped the note, knuckles white with barely suppressed rage. For a moment, he fought the overwhelming urge to draw his wand and set the entire house ablaze, consequences be damned. It was only the memory of his previous close call with expulsion from Hogwarts that stayed his hand.
Instead, he crumpled the note into a tight ball, pouring all his frustration and resentment into the action. With a cry of anguish that seemed to echo through the empty house, he hurled the paper to the floor as hard as he could. It bounced once before rolling under the sofa, out of sight but not out of mind.
Harry stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, as he tried to regain control of his emotions.
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