Harry lie on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had only been at the Dursleys’ house for four days, but as far as he was concerned, it had been long enough. His Uncle Vernon ignored him, Aunt Petunia eyed him warily and shied away from him, and Dudley glared menacingly at him.
If he had to admit one good thing about spending four days alone in his room, it was that it gave him plenty of time to think “ from the mundane to the monumental. From Dumbledore and Horcruxes to Quidditch and school work. To his dismay, however, his thoughts always seemed to find their way to a certain fiery-haired witch.
Ginny Weasley, his best friend Ron’s little sister. For the past few years, he had spent so much time at the Burrow that they had become good friends. Last year, he had realized his feelings for her had grown from just friendship into something more. The two of them had spent a blissful month together, only to cool things down after the funeral. She had so gracefully accepted his reasons for them to not be together, but that didn’t stop him from missing her anyway.
He knew in his heart that it was the right thing to do, however. Everyone he was close to had died because of him “ his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore “ he couldn’t risk her too. She had chided him for being noble, but he had seen the hurt in her eyes. He wondered if she was thinking of him too.
Sighing, Harry shoved thoughts of Ginny from his mind, and swung himself up over the side of the bed. He turned his attention to the other issue that had been plaguing him the past few days “ just how long exactly did he have to wait to leave this house? He finally had decided that he would confront his aunt. He had learned the summer before his fifth year that she knew much more about the magical world than she cared to admit. Even though he knew it would be easier to extract his tooth than retrieve information from his aunt, he knew he had to try.
He made his way down the staircase into the spotless, shockingly bright white kitchen. Aunt Petunia was just finishing her morning cleaning routine and was half bent over, scrubbing furiously at an invisible spot on the stove.
“Aunt Petunia?”
The tall, thin woman jerked herself to her full height, startled. Upon seeing the interrupter of her chore, she glared fiercely. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” she snapped.
“Clearly,” Harry replied. “But with Uncle Vernon at work, I think we should talk.”
“Oh, do you?” his aunt said sarcastically, placing a yellow-rubber-gloved hand on her hip.
“Yes, I do,” Harry answered firmly. “Like it or not, you are my mother’s sister. You did take me in all those years ago to provide a home. In a few days, I will walk out that door and probably not return. I’m not leaving without you telling me what you know.”
Aunt Petunia gave a resigned sigh. She snapped off her rubber gloves and pulled a chair from the table. “Fine. Sit.”
Harry tried not to let his jaw drop in amazement. This had been far too easy. He settled himself at the kitchen table and studied the sharp-featured woman across from him.
“Before you begin your pesky questions, let me say that there is not a lot I can tell you. Your mother and I had very limited contact the last ten years of her life. I didn’t approve of her…lifestyle…and I wanted no part of it.”
Harry had somewhat expected this. “But you know things you haven’t told me. I told you two years ago that Voldemort had returned. I remember how you acted. You know what that means, not only for the Wizarding world, but for your world as well.”
Aunt Petunia nodded slightly. “There were many terrible accidents that happened between the time Lily graduated from Hogwarts and her death. I tried to convince her they had nothing to do with her world, but she was insistent. I didn’t really believe her until she died. Then, the tragedies stopped. I’ve always hoped it was a coincidence, but with that bridge collapsing last year, and the freak hurricane up north, well, I’m not entirely sure.”
He frowned. “You’re right. Both those instances were caused by Voldemort’s ever-growing army.” He lowered his eyes thoughtfully, then raised them to meet his aunt’s again. “It’s me he’s after. You must have guessed. He wants me dead, and if he kills me, there will be more of these occurrences.”
His aunt’s face paled, but she tried to maintain her composure. “And if he doesn’t?” she asked, her voice betraying her nervousness slightly.
“If I kill him, yes kill him,” he said at his aunt’s sharp gasp, “if I kill him, our world will be at peace. The non-magic world will be like it was before his return. No more outrageous accidents or unusual ‘natural’ disasters.”
Aunt Petunia studied him sharply, her small eyes narrowing even more. “What exactly do you think I can tell you, boy? Nothing I know can help you.”
“What was in the letter from Dumbledore the day you found me?”
Aunt Petunia strained her face, as though trying to remember. Her voice took on a faraway tone as she spoke, “I haven’t thought of that letter in years. A few days after you arrived, it became quite apparent that it would be an incredible struggle raising two toddlers. Vernon was at work, and I was so angry I threw the letter into the fire.”
Harry’s heart dropped. He had hoped his aunt would produce the letter, so that he might see Dumbledore’s instructions for himself. Aunt Petunia continued, “The letter had been written by Dumbledore. He informed me of the death of my sister and her husband, but told me that you had survived. The reason you survived was because your mother sacrificed her life for you. This deed invoked an ancient magic that protected you from your would-be murderer. Now, only having a home with someone who shared her blood would keep the protection alive. I had no choice but to take you in.”
“Of course you had a choice,” Harry interrupted.
“Perhaps,” his aunt answered frostily. “However, what would the neighbors have thought if we turned away the orphan on our doorstep?”
Harry sighed. In as much as he had grown, deepened, and matured over the past six years, this woman never would. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I told you there was very little. I do remember the last time I saw your mother. Lily was always the brave, adventurous sister. But on our last meeting, she looked terrified. It was shortly after you were born. She kept telling me that this Vold-a-mold, or whatever his name was, would kill you. She pleaded for refuge in our home, but I turned her away. I couldn’t have your kind running around in our neighborhood. I suspect that’s the other reason I took you in. Having realized Lily was right, I felt a bit of guilt over the whole thing.”
Finally, Harry asked the question that had been in his mind all along. “How long am I to stay here?”
Aunt Petunia eyed him warily. “The protection on our home lasts until you come of age. To renew the protection, you must spend at least three days here every year.”
“Three days?” Harry cried, leaping from his chair. “That means I’ve been here long enough! I’m going to go pack and to leave, unless there’s anything else you can tell me.”
“I don’t know anything else,” Aunt Petunia sighed.
With a determined look on his face, Harry left the kitchen. He returned to his room, and almost gleefully took out his quill and parchment. He hastily scrawled a letter to Hermione, telling her he would be leaving for the Burrow that night, and for her to join them whenever she liked. After rolling up the parchment, Harry opened the door of the cage of his snowy white owl, Hedwig. “Feeling up for a trip, girl?” he asked her, as she hopped onto his forearm.
Her soft hoots seem to imply that she was ready, and so Harry tied the parchment to her leg. “I’ll be at the Burrow when you get back,” he told her, stroking her soft feathers affectionately. She gave a gentle nip at his fingers and flew out the window, spreading her fabulous wings.
After she had disappeared from his sight, Harry threw open his trunk and began to toss his few worldly belongings inside. Shortly, he was interrupted by a knock at his bedroom door. “Come in,” he called, a bit surprised. His relatives never set foot in his room.
The door opened and Aunt Petunia stepped inside, clutching an old shoebox. As Harry eyed it curiously, she said, “After you left, I remembered this.” She held the box toward him, and he took it from her. Opening the lid, he was astonished to find the box jammed full of envelopes. He lifted his eyes back to his aunt. “Letters from your mother,” she continued. “I told you your mother and I didn’t have contact. That wasn’t entirely true. She kept writing to me, even though I never wrote back. I didn’t even open half of them.”
Harry’s eyes filled with involuntary tears. Letters from his mother. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe this box had been in the house his entire life, and he was only now seeing it for the first time.
“I’ll read them when I get where I’m going,” Harry told her, his voice cracking slightly.
Aunt Petunia nodded, and if he didn’t know any better, Harry could have sworn he saw a hint of sadness in her own blue eyes. She started to take a step toward him, but then restrained herself. “Take care of yourself, Harry,” she whispered instead. “I may not love you, but you still are the son of my sister. We’re connected by blood, and I really don’t want anything horrible to happen to you.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” was all he was finally able to muster.
Aunt Petunia nodded again, and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Harry gazed at the treasure he held in his hands. He laid the box gently in his trunk and finished packing. He gazed around the room one last time. Surprisingly, he actually felt a tinge of sadness. No, it hadn’t been a warm, loving household, but it had been his home for the past sixteen years. Now that he was never to return, he felt a bit nervous. He was an adult.
Shoving the thoughts from his mind, he grabbed hold of his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. He thought of the Burrow and a warm feeling spread throughout him. The house was full of love, and the Weasleys were the closest thing he had ever had to a family. Smiling, he took a step forward and vanished from the bedroom with a faint pop.