Harry Potter stared out of his window at Number Four Privet Drive and
watched the sun sink down below the scattered trees, leaving a glowing red
tail streaming in its wake. Wish it would take me with it, the thought
glumly. I'd druther go over the horizon to the other side of the world than
stay here another minute.
It had been several days since his return to Privet Drive, and he had already thought seriously about leaving. The first time had been the night of his arrival at Number Four, when the Dursleys had all sat down for dinner. Harry had taken his place at the table and sat there for several minutes before he noticed anything was wrong. Then he realized that Uncle Vernon wasn't shooting him nasty looks, Aunt Petunia wasn't criticizing him or even speaking to him, and his cousin Dudley wasn't throwing anything at him or even whispering vicious insults under his breath. In fact, all three of them looked straight through him, ignored his questions or comments, and pretended like he didn't exist.
Harry had been content for awhile, seeing as no one was complaining about him or making nasty remarks about himself or his dead parents, but eventually it began to get a tad obnoxious, especially since Dudley kept clearing his throat loudly (which reminded Harry unpleasantly of last year's temporary Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts) and saying in a thick, obviously feigned tone of surprise, "Mum, why did you put a plate in front of that place? There's no one sitting there. No one else lives here except us." For a brief second Harry entertained thoughts of taking his trunk, grabbing Hedwig, his owl, and walking straight out of Number Four forever and always. The very idea made him feel hopeful. Then he remembered that he had to stay, and scowled.
The Durselys had continued to pretend like Harry didn't exist the entire summer, and so now, several weeks into vacation, Harry felt very lonely indeed. The Dursleys may have been horrible last year, he thought despairingly, but at least they had spoken to him. Life without any human contact at all tended to make one feel a bit put out, to say the least. There were regular owls from everyone in the Order, of course, and from Ron and Hermione, but it just wasn't the same as a good, satisfying conversation.
Harry got up from the window and began to pace the length of his bedroom. He could hear the Dursleys downstairs; Aunt Petunia was gossiping in a horrible, fake voice with someone on the telephone, Uncle Vernon was shouting pointlessly at the evening news ("Why does that idiot of a Prime Minister keep listening to these people? They're hooligans! Lunatics! Scum!) and from the street came the pitiful cries of the next-door neighbor boy, Kevin, as Dudley and his gang beat the living daylights out of him.
Suddenly, there came a distant sound of a dog barking. Harry froze, then rushed to the window again, pulling it wide open and staring out into the failing dusk. For several minutes he stood there, holding his breath, wishing Dudley would beat Kevin a little more quietly. Then, hearing nothing more, he sighed and slid down to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
Why couldn't he stop doing this to himself? he thought weakly. He had spent the past few days trying to fend off the memories of Sirius, his godfather, who had died that spring while battling Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic. Harry had tried ignoring the aching, horrible pain in the bottom of his chest, but every time he heard a dog bark, he froze, thinking it might just be Sirius in his transformed dog form. To Harry, every black dog, every dark-haired man, every escaped convict on the news could and might be his godfather.
To take his mind off of Sirius, Harry decided to work on some of the assignments he'd been given over the holiday. Perhaps, he thought grimly, he might get to work on that Transfiguration essay about animal transformations; Professor McGonagall had given the rest of the class two rolls of parchment to write, but had insisted that Harry alone write three. She had taken her promise last year that she would make Harry an Auror or die trying very seriously, because she continued to insist that he do more work at a higher level than anyone else in the class. Reluctantly, Harry rummaged in his trunk, produced a roll of parchment, a quill, a small ink bottle, and a rather large book called From Wizard to Buzzard: When Good Animagi Go Bad.
The doorbell rang downstairs. Harry heard his aunt's voice pause: she must have gone to get the door. Harry settled back onto his bed, dipped the quill into the ink, and began to write. Whoever was at the door was none of his concern; it would never in a million years be someone who would want to talk to him. For a few seconds his quill scratched back and forth on the paper, an oddly soothing sound that made him forget Sirius, or at least think about him less than before.
Then all of a sudden he heard Aunt Petunia scream, "Vernon! Come here! Now!" She sounded frantic. Uncle Vernon could be heard swearing, rising from the couch, turning off the television, and ambling towards the front door. Then he, too, shouted: "Damn it, why won't you lot leave us alone?" A faint voice answered him, and Harry felt a flutter of recognition at the sound until Uncle Vernon interrupted the new speaker by screaming, "No, you ruddy well can NOT speak with him! Don't you dare come in my house! Get out of it!" Harry heard the voice he was sure he knew speak again; then, grudgingly Uncle Vernon said, "Well.I guess.if you..well.I suppose in that case it can be, um.arranged." Seconds later, he was shouting up the stairway for Harry to come downstairs right away.
Harry sighed and capped his inkbottle. At least life was unpredictable, he thought ruefully.
It had been several days since his return to Privet Drive, and he had already thought seriously about leaving. The first time had been the night of his arrival at Number Four, when the Dursleys had all sat down for dinner. Harry had taken his place at the table and sat there for several minutes before he noticed anything was wrong. Then he realized that Uncle Vernon wasn't shooting him nasty looks, Aunt Petunia wasn't criticizing him or even speaking to him, and his cousin Dudley wasn't throwing anything at him or even whispering vicious insults under his breath. In fact, all three of them looked straight through him, ignored his questions or comments, and pretended like he didn't exist.
Harry had been content for awhile, seeing as no one was complaining about him or making nasty remarks about himself or his dead parents, but eventually it began to get a tad obnoxious, especially since Dudley kept clearing his throat loudly (which reminded Harry unpleasantly of last year's temporary Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts) and saying in a thick, obviously feigned tone of surprise, "Mum, why did you put a plate in front of that place? There's no one sitting there. No one else lives here except us." For a brief second Harry entertained thoughts of taking his trunk, grabbing Hedwig, his owl, and walking straight out of Number Four forever and always. The very idea made him feel hopeful. Then he remembered that he had to stay, and scowled.
The Durselys had continued to pretend like Harry didn't exist the entire summer, and so now, several weeks into vacation, Harry felt very lonely indeed. The Dursleys may have been horrible last year, he thought despairingly, but at least they had spoken to him. Life without any human contact at all tended to make one feel a bit put out, to say the least. There were regular owls from everyone in the Order, of course, and from Ron and Hermione, but it just wasn't the same as a good, satisfying conversation.
Harry got up from the window and began to pace the length of his bedroom. He could hear the Dursleys downstairs; Aunt Petunia was gossiping in a horrible, fake voice with someone on the telephone, Uncle Vernon was shouting pointlessly at the evening news ("Why does that idiot of a Prime Minister keep listening to these people? They're hooligans! Lunatics! Scum!) and from the street came the pitiful cries of the next-door neighbor boy, Kevin, as Dudley and his gang beat the living daylights out of him.
Suddenly, there came a distant sound of a dog barking. Harry froze, then rushed to the window again, pulling it wide open and staring out into the failing dusk. For several minutes he stood there, holding his breath, wishing Dudley would beat Kevin a little more quietly. Then, hearing nothing more, he sighed and slid down to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
Why couldn't he stop doing this to himself? he thought weakly. He had spent the past few days trying to fend off the memories of Sirius, his godfather, who had died that spring while battling Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic. Harry had tried ignoring the aching, horrible pain in the bottom of his chest, but every time he heard a dog bark, he froze, thinking it might just be Sirius in his transformed dog form. To Harry, every black dog, every dark-haired man, every escaped convict on the news could and might be his godfather.
To take his mind off of Sirius, Harry decided to work on some of the assignments he'd been given over the holiday. Perhaps, he thought grimly, he might get to work on that Transfiguration essay about animal transformations; Professor McGonagall had given the rest of the class two rolls of parchment to write, but had insisted that Harry alone write three. She had taken her promise last year that she would make Harry an Auror or die trying very seriously, because she continued to insist that he do more work at a higher level than anyone else in the class. Reluctantly, Harry rummaged in his trunk, produced a roll of parchment, a quill, a small ink bottle, and a rather large book called From Wizard to Buzzard: When Good Animagi Go Bad.
The doorbell rang downstairs. Harry heard his aunt's voice pause: she must have gone to get the door. Harry settled back onto his bed, dipped the quill into the ink, and began to write. Whoever was at the door was none of his concern; it would never in a million years be someone who would want to talk to him. For a few seconds his quill scratched back and forth on the paper, an oddly soothing sound that made him forget Sirius, or at least think about him less than before.
Then all of a sudden he heard Aunt Petunia scream, "Vernon! Come here! Now!" She sounded frantic. Uncle Vernon could be heard swearing, rising from the couch, turning off the television, and ambling towards the front door. Then he, too, shouted: "Damn it, why won't you lot leave us alone?" A faint voice answered him, and Harry felt a flutter of recognition at the sound until Uncle Vernon interrupted the new speaker by screaming, "No, you ruddy well can NOT speak with him! Don't you dare come in my house! Get out of it!" Harry heard the voice he was sure he knew speak again; then, grudgingly Uncle Vernon said, "Well.I guess.if you..well.I suppose in that case it can be, um.arranged." Seconds later, he was shouting up the stairway for Harry to come downstairs right away.
Harry sighed and capped his inkbottle. At least life was unpredictable, he thought ruefully.