A ray of early morning sunlight crept through the window of an upstairs bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive, illuminating the hunched form of a tall boy with black hair and rumpled, baggy clothes. The boy called Harry Potter was bent over a copy of the Daily Prophet, frowning at the photograph on the front page. A grey-haired man stared out at him, dry lips stretched in a grin, revealing unusually pointed yellow teeth. The caption proclaimed in bold lettering, FENRIR GREYBACK STRIKES AGAIN.
Harry's frown darkened as he read the story, which described the werewolf's attack on the two children, brothers, one aged ten, the other only three years old. The younger had later died in St. Mungo’s, the wizarding hospital. Feeling slightly sick, Harry laid down the paper on his desk, which was cluttered with bits of parchment and empty inkbottles. According to the Prophet, Greyback had a large record of attacks on infants, stretching back thirty years. The Prophet called him the ‘fleetest, most cunning beast of this era.” Too swift to outrun, too clever to catch, he had evaded capture for all these years. And he was still at it, thought Harry, grimacing as he gazed at a second, smaller photograph, from which the elder brother screamed and writhed silently from his hospital bed.
A sharp tap on the window distracted him from his grim thoughts. Looking up, he saw a snowy owl perched precariously on the windowsill, two scrolls of parchment tied to her leg and a large, dead mouse dangling from her beak.
“Hedwig!” Hastening from his chair, he opened the window and Hedwig fluttered in, settling on his shoulder. Stroking her head feathers fondly, he removed the letters, and carried her over to her cage. She blinked her beautiful amber eyes at him and hooted softly, before gulping the mouse down in one mouthful.
Harry threw himself onto his bed, and eagerly unfurled the first letter. The sight of Ron’s untidy scribble lifted his spirits even more.
Hi Harry,
Look, I’m really sorry Mum wouldn’t let me and Hermione stay at your aunt and uncle’s house with you this summer. If it helps, we’ve been nagging her until she agreed to get you out of there the day after come of age and that blood-protection thing wears off. I hope the Muggles aren’t treating you too badly.
Well, how’s your holiday been? It’s been great fun over here so far--Bill and Charlie managed to get home for the summer, and we’ve visited the place we stayed two summers ago a couple of times--
Here Harry’s insides gave a painful wrench. The ‘place’ was Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, who had been murdered a couple of years ago. But Harry pushed the thought of Sirius firmly out of his mind and forced himself to keep reading.
--so I’ve seen some of the people there. I think you’re going to be brought there after you come of age. Hermione’s here too, I swear she’s spending this summer trying to learn everything we’ll miss next year at Hogwarts. Iit’s driving me crazy. Anyway, we’ll see you next week, unless you blow up your aunt again, then you really will be expelled! No, seriously, don’t let them annoy you, because I don’t think I can stand a whole summer with just Hermione, at least until she finishes memorising all three thousand, five hundred and sixty-four pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7
Ron
Harry laughed as he folded up the parchment, though felt a slight twinge of guilt--it was, after all, his fault that he, Ron and Hermione weren’t going back to Hogwarts. Though, he thought with a knowing smile, he doubted if Ron really was as unhappy about being alone with Hermione as he said he was. The next letter was from her.
Harry,
Have you had a good summer so far? Don’t let your aunt and uncle get to you--this time next week you’ll never have to see them again! I can’t wait till you get here; Ron’s been badgering me constantly when I’m working. He doesn’t realise how important it is that we learn as much advanced magic as possible, we’re going to need it this year. Are you studying, too? I think we need to learn some more obscure spells, ones that perhaps the Death Eaters don’t know. I might go to Hogwarts and have a look in the Restricted Section, I’m sure Professor McGonagall would let me.
Anyway, I’ll see you next week, Happy Birthday in advance! Mr Weasley’s going to collect you; I think he wants another look at your uncle’s stereo system.
Don’t let what happened to Professor Dumbledore get you down. I don’t know if you wanted me to bring that up but I really don’t think you should dwell on it too much, you’ll only make yourself more miserable.
Hermione.
As he laid down the letter, Harry scowled. No, he hadn’t wanted her to bring that up. It had haunted his dreams at night, flashes of green light repeatedly forcing their way into his sleep, images of Dumbledore’s pallid face, drained and weak, staring at him, until he woke up drenched in sweat and panting. And cursing Snape under his breath. For it had been his old Potions Master who had killed Albus Dumbledore, murdered him in cold blood on the top of the Astronomy tower that fateful night. Most had doubted Snape's trustworthiness, since he was a known ex-Death Eater, but Snape had seemed loyal enough to Dumbledore and so the sudden traitorous switch had been a terrible shock to half of the wizarding world.
And now, mused Harry bitterly, the man was at large again, having escaped with Draco Malfoy after killing Dumbledore, despite Harry's best efforts to stop him. No doubt he was having fun with his old Death Eater pals and mocking that part of the community that had believed he could ever be on their side.
In his heart Harry swore to himself, that if he ever saw Snape again, he would kill him first and ask questions later. Snape was the man responsible not only for Dumbledore's death but for the deaths of Harry's own parents. It had been Snape's information that Voldemort had acted upon, the bringing of the news of a prophecy, a prophecy that told of a young boy who had the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. Voldemort had guessed that boy to be the year-old Harry, and had hunted him down. But the killing curse he had aimed at the baby boy had gone terribly wrong for its castor, rebounding upon Voldemort and reducing him to an almost lifeless wreck.
Yet Voldemort had risen again, thirteen years later, still bent upon finding and killing Harry, and so Harry knew that the prophecy was likely to come true in the end, that one of them would end up killing the other. And with his greatest protector murdered, Harry thought pessimistically, it was hardly likely that he, only a teenager, would ever be able to destroy the most evil wizard the world could remember.
The loud creaking of the Dursley’s bedsprings and the sound of his uncle muttering something brought him back to the present time and to his senses. Hermione was right--he mustn’t let Dumbledore’s death crack him up. And knuckling his eyes fiercely, he carefully tucked the letters under the loose floorboard in his room where he kept all his secret possessions, then went downstairs without bothering to comb his hair.
A week later, it was his birthday. Once this would have been nothing out of the ordinary, but today he eagerly scoured the skies for owls bringing him cards from his friends. He hoped this would be the last day he was stuck in Privet Drive; the thought of leaving to stay with Ron and Hermione had been what had allowed him to put up with Dudley’s jeers and punches, and the open hostility of his aunt and uncle over the summer.
With a leap of his heart he saw them coming, and wrenched open the window, jumping back as several owls swooped down at once, appearing suddenly and silently from the night. One, two, three owls glided smoothly through the open gap; the fourth, a bedraggled grey, slammed straight into the other window. Harry leant out hastily and grabbed it before it could drop to the ground. He checked the unconscious Errol anxiously to see if he was still alive, then, satisfied, relieved it of the large package tied to its leg.
With the parcel was a quickly scribbled note from Ron, wishing Harry a happy birthday and informing him that he was to be collected from Privet Drive at eleven o’ clock the following morning. Harry’s spirits rose even higher. At last, he would be free! Underneath the brown paper there were two parcels--one, obviously from Mrs Weasley, containing a large, sticky chocolate-and-strawberry birthday cake, and a second present from Ron, which was struggling slightly in its wrappings. Eagerly he ripped off the paper and out darted a real Golden Snitch, though he could tell it was a cheap one; after a few minutes of darting inquisitively around the room its little wings struggled to keep it in the air and it flopped onto Harry’s bed, quivering with exhaustion. Harry watched it, grinning, then turned to the rest of his presents.
Hermione had sent him a thick, leather-bound book entitled Unique Defensive Magic: Little known Counter-Jinxes and Blocking Spells, which he skimmed through enthusiastically. She was right; it was a good idea to learn unusual spells that the Death Eaters--and, if he were extremely lucky, Voldemort--would not know.
The third card was from Lupin, though there was no gift attached. This did not surprise or disappoint Harry, for he knew how poor his old teacher was, and wondered, with a surge of anger, if the laws Dolores Umbridge had passed against werewolves still prevented him from finding employment.
Not entirely to Harry surprise, the card Hagrid sent snarled and snapped at his fingers when he opened it--hastily he stuck it on the windowsill, where it growled ominously at him. With the card was a large parcel of lumpy biscuits, so hard he couldn’t break one even after repeatedly banging it on his table edge.
As he laid down his gifts, feeling happier than he had in a long time, he even managed not to think about Dumbledore at all.
None of the Dursleys acknowledged his presence at breakfast, though Harry was hardly expecting warm birthday greetings. Still, he had come of age. They could at least look at him. Come of age… the sudden inspiration hit Harry like a golden gleam of sunlight. Of course--now, he would never have to worry about Mafalda Hopkirk and his Decrees for the Improper Use of Underage Magic ever again! Smirking, he silently slid his wand out of his jeans pocket and pointed it under the table at his pathetically small grapefruit quarter, Transfiguring it into a thick slice of warm buttered toast. For good measure, he conjured up an ample amount of strawberry jam. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, who were still avoiding looking at him, noticed nothing, but Dudley, who could smell food a mile away, turned his head so fast he appeared to crick his neck.
“Mum!” Dudley said loudly, glaring at his cousin with his piggy eyes as Harry bit into the toast.
Aunt Petunia turned affectionate eyes on her porky son. “Yes, Popkins?”
“You gave Harry--I don’t have--I want that toast!” Dudley declared angrily, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon turned sharply to look at Harry, eyes widening in surprise as they saw his breakfast.
“Boy!” Harry, who had been licking his lips to incense Dudley further, whilst directing his wand under the table at his cousin’s grapefruit and shrinking it to the size of a thimble, looked up innocently. “Yes, Uncle Vernon?” he said politely, making his uncle’s grapefruit disappear entirely with a muttered Vanishing charm.
“Where did you get that toast?” his uncle demanded, attempting to grab it from Harry, who widened his eyes in feigned innocence.
“Why, it was on my plate--I thought it was my birthday breakfast,” he grinned, swallowing the rest of it to evade his uncle’s grasping fingertips.
Uncle Vernon's face was now dangerously red, but the upcoming outburst never came for at that moment Dudley noticed his tiny grapefruit and amidst his wails Harry, choking down his laughter, slipped upstairs to his room, charming wings onto his aunt’s grapefruit as he went so she screamed and ducked as it fluttered about the kitchen.
None of the Dursleys followed him. That day was one of the best in Harry’s life, as he got back at Dudley and his aunt and uncle for all the slights and punches he had endured at their hands. By that afternoon, all three of them immediately fled from any room he set foot in, and Harry, as well as having fun hexing small objects to fly and tap-dance and whistle whenever the Dursleys walked past, enjoyed for the first time in his life at Privet Drive unlimited use of Dudley’s PlayStation and all four televisions.
That evening, though, having had his fun, he put everything back to normal, and retreated to his room leaving them in peace. After all, they had sheltered him for sixteen years, and he wondered, feeling slightly guilty, if Dumbledore would have repaid them in such a way. But, he decided as he climbed into bed, Dumbledore might well have done. And he fell into a peaceful sleep, a remembrance of flying glasses of oak-matured mead, cowering Dursleys, and a serenely smiling Dumbledore before his eyes.
The next day he woke up early in anticipation. It was only dawn and he pulled on his clothes as quietly as possible, as experience had taught him that it was never an agreeable experience to rouse his aunt and uncle before they wanted to wake. Especially not after the events of yesterday. He had packed everything last night, as soon as he finished vanishing the legs on the remote control and silencing the growling doorknobs, and now, with nothing to do, he spent the early hours of the morning pacing the floor, impatiently checking his watch every few minutes. The Daily Prophet arrived as usual, borne by owl, and he read it cover to cover several times before eleven o’ clock. To his disgust he read that the bitten boy, the elder brother, had also died in St. Mungo’s last night. The hunt for Greyback was at its peak, with most of the wizarding community furious and howling for the beast’s blood.
The second the hand on Harry’s watch moved to eleven, he heard several loud pops downstairs. He leapt up immediately, grabbing his trunk, knowing the pops to be those of people Apparating. Wondering whether as many wizards would have come to collect him as last time, he hurried down the stairs three at a time, dragging his trunk behind him, and threw open the kitchen door.
The sight that greeted him was almost comical. Aunt Petunia and her huge son Dudley had both backed up against the wall, looking as though they were trying to push themselves right through it. Uncle Vernon was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by four familiar people, his face beet red and turning purple faster than Harry knew to be safe. Knowing the signs of an impending explosion, Harry hastily announced his presence with a cough.
“Er--hello,” he said, hastily pointing his wand at the clock and wordlessly shrinking the long, blue, twitching ears--he’d forgotten that one last night. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Lupin turned to him, with smiles, but Moody continued to glare at Uncle Vernon, who was looking anywhere than at his horribly spinning magical eyeball.
Lupin walked swiftly over to Harry, still smiling, but studying him intently. Harry also looked at him with some concern, though he tried not to let it show. Lupin looked thinner and more exhausted than he had ever seen him, and though he was still young, his hair was now iron grey. Harry guessed that he had probably been right in thinking that Lupin still had no job, for his robes were more worn and threadbare than ever.
However, he was distracted from Lupin as Mrs Weasley pulled Harry into a warm hug, and Uncle Vernon reached boiling point. Evidently the sight of someone hugging the nephew he hated was too much. Amidst his yells, Lupin said quietly, “Grip my arm tightly, Harry, I’ll Apparate you back.”
Amidst a surge of remembrances--the last time he had done time, it had been on the way to Dumbledore’s last adventure--Harry took hold of the proffered forearm, turned on the spot, and was pulled away from the pristine kitchen, at last, never to see the Dursleys again. And he wasn't sorry at all.
Though by now familiar, the sensation of Apparating was still so unpleasant that Harry wondered if he really wanted to take his Apparition test. The feeling of being squeezed through a very small tube was not one he was keen to repeat. Lupin smiled as though he knew what Harry was thinking, and led him down the street towards number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Harry heard several small pops behind and glancing round saw that the rest of the company had joined him. Mr Weasley’s ears were pink, Moody looked contemptuous and Mrs Weasley horrified. Such was the effect of the Dursleys, thought Harry with an inward grin, glad to see that he was not alone in his dislike. Moody rapped on the door of the old house three times, and it flew open almost immediately.
"Harry!" The wind was knocked out of him as Hermione pulled him into a fierce hug, exclaiming and calling Ron and Ginny. Harry grinned as he saw the familiar freckle-faced, red haired figure of Ron bound down the stairs, and felt his heart give a funny leap when his sister appeared at the top, beaming at him. Harry hugged Ginny tightly as she reached him, but then looked her in the eyes, with a small shake of his head. He’d already had this conversation with her, and wasn’t going to back down now. There was no way he could carry on having a relationship with Ginny until the war was ended and they could live a normal life. His heart ached as he let her go, her bright brown eyes pleading and her fiery red hair tumbling down her back.
But it was good to be with them again, so good he could almost ignore the inevitable twist in his stomach as he walked through his godfather’s old house, the gloomy, cold house where everything reminded him of Sirius.
“You’re sleeping in the same room as last time, dear,” said Mrs Weasley, who still looked slightly shocked from her encounter with the Dursleys. “Ginny, come and help me with dinner.” Harry looked at Ginny, sending her the unspoken message ‘talk later’ and she nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. He, Ron and Hermione clambered upstairs, hauling his truck behind them. Harry couldn’t stop grinning. Four weeks was, after all, a long time to have been away from his best friends, and as he collapsed onto his bed with Ron and Hermione, he felt that, for now, nothing could spoil his gladness.
“Good to see you, mate,” said Ron, also beaming. “It’s been hell here stuck with Hermione, she won’t stop working. You’d think, in the holidays, you’d want to forget books for a bit, but no…”
Harry laughed as Hermione buffeted Ron with her pillow. Then she turned to him, her face slightly tense.
“How are you, Harry?” She surveyed him anxiously, and Harry understood the meaning behind those simple words. She was asking how he was coping with Dumbledore’s death, and he turned away, the grin sliding off his face. “Fine. I’m fine. So, what’s been going on here then? You said you were having loads of fun?”
Ron settled back lazily on Harry’s bed. “Yeah, we have. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes is--well, it’s amazing, it took off so well. Fred and George bought branches in Birmingham and Bristol, and they’re looking to expand abroad--maybe get premises in Paris. I can’t believe they’ve been so successful--they’re richer than Percy is, with his salary as Junior Assistant to Scrimgeour…” and he trailed off, looking slightly moody. Hermione put her arm comfortingly round his shoulders, ignoring Harry’s knowing smirk. Ron looked slightly awkward, glancing at Hermione’s hand on his sleeve, but then relaxed and continued. “They’ve come here a couple of times for lunch, they’ve been playing tricks on everyone, it’s been great.”
Hermione frowned slightly disapprovingly, sliding her arm off Ron’s neck. “Well, it’s funny when they played tricks on Tonks, and you, but I think they should have more respect for Professor Moody and Professor Lupin, I mean, they were their teachers…” she tailed off as Ron rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Hermione, that was why it was funny! No-one would’ve believed even they’d dare to turn a teacher’s hair blue.”
“They turned Lupin’s hair blue?” said Harry, grinning.
“Nah, that was Moody. They put this Poppa-paintbomb in his bowler hat, the stuff wouldn’t come off for days,” said Ron with a snort of laughter. “What they did to Lupin was worse, they put crushed Canary Creams and Bunny Biscuits--they’re a new thing--in his sandwich. It doesn’t wear off when they’re combined… he was covered in feathers and rabbit fur for an hour before Mum worked out a counter-charm.” And Ron sighed reminiscently as Harry laughed.
Halfway through a disapproving shake of her head, Hermione seemed to abruptly turn to more important matters.
“Harry,” she said seriously, and he and Ron looked up at her from the bed, where they were messing about with the Golden Snitch that Ron had given Harry for his birthday. “We’ve been thinking about--about the Horcruxes.” She said the last word in a whisper as though if she said it any louder Voldemort would come bursting through the window. Harry looked into her face. “So’ve I,” he said heavily, feeling the lump of the fake locket he carried around everywhere in his jeans pocket and reluctantly pulling it out.
All three of them stared at the golden locket as it lay on the bedcovers, tarnished and dull. Then, as Hermione seemed about to launch into a heavy discussion about R.A.B., Horcruxes and Snape, Harry impulsively grabbed the locket, and stuffed it back into his pocket, standing up. Both Ron and Hermione glanced up at him enquiringly.
“Let not talk about it now,” he said, a hint of pleading under his firm tones. “I’ve just got away from the Dursleys for ever, I’m seeing you for the first time in weeks, I want to have fun--at least for today," and gratitude swelled in his chest as Ron and Hermione nodded in understanding.
They spent the time before dinner laughing and talking about pointless things that only best friends would find funny, and Harry savoured every moment of normal, silly messing around he could get, for he knew that soon there would be little time for such trivial pleasures.