Harry Potter sat in the shade of the large willow tree that stood near the hedge in the back garden of number four, Privet Drive. He had his back to its scratchy silvery trunk, and his bare, knobbly knees drawn up under his chin. His hands were clutching his sore shins that still bore the throbbing, angry red marks that Aunt Marge’s walking stick had left.

His eyes were still stinging with tears of pain and humiliation as he sat despondently, watching the group of laughing boys who were dancing around wildly on the lawn to the music. He longed to rejoin them, but was afraid to do so. They were watched by his Aunt Petunia, who was in charge of the tape player that blared cheery, overly happy music into the warm summer air. His Uncle Vernon stood next to her, alongside his sister, Marge, who was reclining in a deck chair, the material bulging ominously, struggling to bear her immense weight. Her favourite bulldog, Ripper, was snoozing in her shadow, one small beady eye half open as if he was scanning for trouble makers.

It was Dudley Dursley’s fifth birthday party, and Aunt Marge had just whacked Harry round the legs so he would stop beating Dudley at musical statues. Dudley and his friends had merely laughed themselves silly as Harry had fallen onto the floor, shocked and hurt. Aunt Petunia had simply relegated him to the sidelines with a point of the finger and a glare she reserved especially for him. She gave him no look of concern as he hobbled over to the willow tree where he was now resting.

He had been living with the Dursleys ever since he could remember. He could not remember the car crash that killed his parents. He traced the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, which he supposed was a relic of this, and wished miserably that the crash had never happened, and that he was at home with them now. Yet the big part of him that had been forced to grow up prematurely, knew that this was not possible.

Harry looked on, switching his longing from his parents to a hope that a long-lost relative would arrive at any moment and take him away to a life of happiness and love, instead of this nightmare of neglect and indifference that he was living now. Harry allowed his mind to wander, the small child that was still inside him taking over his thoughts. It would be his birthday soon, and this relative would dote on him as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were doing today with Dudley. It would be his friends gathered here to celebrate, and him opening his presents and stuffing himself silly with all the delicious party food Dudley would not let him touch.

He was brought back to reality sharply when one of Dudley’s friends yelled at him, spitefully daring him to join them while Dudley and the rest of his friends fell about laughing. This time, Harry would not rise to the bait and he ignored them, along with glares from Aunt Petunia and Aunt Marge. He waited where he was, under the cool willow, miserably picking the simple white and yellow daisies that grew in the shade of the tree, holding them out in his palm. He watched as the thin petals opened and closed like the wings of a butterfly, unaware that many years ago, his own mother had sat like this, charming the flowers in the exact same way. Harry was not surprised that the flowers did this; he had made them do it before. He did not know how he made them do it, but it was fun to watch them move their petals in a special dance that he alone could control.

He became so absorbed in the flowers, that he was not aware that the party games had ended, and Dudley’s friends were leaving, with small, brightly coloured bags clutched in their hands. Aunt Petunia made her way over to wake him out of his daydream, and to tell him to get himself inside, but stopped dead as she saw what Harry was doing.
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Petunia Dursley felt the colour drain from her face as her mind swam back to a time, all those years ago, when she had been a child, only slightly older that Harry was now. She remembered the day she and her sister, Lily, had been at the playground. Lily had shown her that very same trick. A knot clenched in her stomach as she thought about the letter that Lily had received some time after that.

She remembered, as if someone had plunged her heart into a bucket of ice, her own bitter disappointment at the absence of her own letter, and the response that she had gotten from the headmaster of that school. Nobody else knew of her former pain, not even Vernon, and she would never tell anyone. For a moment, she was lost in her own memories and feelings. She gazed back at the scrawny four year old, who so closely resembled his father, that wastrel whom had charmed Lily so and had gotten her killed. Suddenly, she returned to her senses.

‘Stop it!’ she shrieked.

‘What?’ Harry jumped, looking up at his aunt’s disapproving face. Realising it must be the flower, he held it out to her. It was still opening and closing its petals. It seemed to be mocking her in its unnatural dance, as if it could tell what she was thinking.

‘Stop that! Now!’ she cried, her eyes wide, nostrils flaring like a wild beast.

‘It’s not hurting you,’ Harry said simply.

Petunia’s breath caught in her chest and her heart skipped several beats at his words, and she stared at him, almost a little afraid. There was something almost too innocent about his gaze. Did he know? For a moment, Lily’s eyes peered reproachfully at her from under the shock of messy black hair and glasses.

She blinked and recovered herself, although still shaking slightly in shock. It was absurd that he would know. How could he? He was only a child, a child who did not know of his parents’ unnatural-ness. Petunia was now certain that he had inherited their abnormality. She looked back at the boy to see her sister's green, almond shaped eyes still gazing up at her. She shook herself. Lily was dead, she reminded herself furiously. She would think of her sister no more.

‘Get up!’ she yelled, trying to regain her usual, finicky calm. ‘You have to clear up! Now!’

She seized him by his over sized jumper and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. The flower in Harry’s palm fell to the floor, and was trampled by Aunt Petunia’s feet, lying forgotten in the dust.

As he was dragged out into the evening sun, Harry cast a sad gaze past his furious aunt and to the broken and wilting flower where it lay in sad ruin. For the briefest of moments, Harry’s eyes were tied to the flower, but at the shrill voice of Aunt Petunia, he sighed, and reluctantly made his way into the kitchen.