Harry Potter and the Silver Serpent
The residents of Privet Drive had – over the years – become accustomed to the odd goings on of number four. In fact it wasn't unusual for explosions to be heard from behind its drawn curtains, or even for strangely clothed men to appear with a flash in the middle of the night.
"If those walls could talk." One neighbour would exclaim to the next.
"Aye, the things to be told!" the other would reply, before their lawn mowers whirred into action across the manufactured grass.
It was generally assumed (as the result of a rumour started by number six), that all was consequently the fault of the criminally insane boy who lodged with the Dursleys, and though Vernon was not a well-liked man, the road disliked this 'piece of scruff' more.
Over the near seventeen years he had lived there, this dishevelled teenager had been blamed for everything, from the break-in at number ten to last year's drought. And it wasn't that he had ever been caught, simply that he was an unknown in a sea of well-preened hedges and polished Mercedes. It was this boy who was frequently sighted crouching outside his living room amongst the begonias, or else he was going for long walks, not returning until late into the night. Mr Bungo of number seven could have sworn he once saw the boy talking to a hedge, which appeared to be responding with nods and shakes of the head. But of course he had never shared this experience with anyone for fear of being taken mad himself.
In the darkness of a July night, this boy could be seen by one creature alone, and that was an owl by the name of Hedwig. The bird crooked her neck and hooted gently in a bid for owl-nip, but found nothing in return. For this young man was concentrating on one thing, and that was getting out of the house, and number four Privet Drive, for good. He paced his room checking for any remaining items he may wish to take with him, and when he was satisfied nothing left would be of any use he sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose, and the edge of a famous scar could be seen peeping from behind the matted curtain that was his hair. His faded jeans were torn at the knee from years of over-wear and his navy t-shirt hung limply around his excessively skinny frame. Even his trainers were worn. In fact the only thing that didn't make his appearance more like that of an old beggar than a wealthy teenager, was the glint of gold that hung around his neck. This locket seemed out of place in its surroundings and any stranger would have presumed it stolen even. But this boy was no thief. His appearance simply reflected his mood, and as a street lamp buzzed into action anyone would have struggled not to gasp out loud as his face came fully into view. Dark circles encased his eyes, and his cheeks were gaunt. His face was long and unnaturally thin for his age while his brow creased out of both worry and grief. This boy had lost someone close to him and that much was obvious. His hollow expression said it all. He had not seen laughter or joy for a long time, and he clearly did not expect to any time soon. This was Harry Potter at his lowest and even he wasn't afraid to admit it, although he liked to think he was coping perhaps better than he really was. The only energy that could be seen anywhere near his slouching figure, was a glint in his eyes. Harry was on a mission, and no matter how tired or guilty he felt, he could not let his emotions get in the way of the task ahead.
Grabbing his stuffed trunk and Hedwig's cage Harry made for the closed door of his room. Opening it with a nod of the head and almost falling down the stairs with the burden of his ill-health he poked his head into the living room where a tiny upright woman sat sewing – her nose in the air, next to a plump middle-aged man and an even rounder boy, not much older than Harry (although it was obvious to anyone that Dudley Dursley was no stranger to a healthy appetite). They all sat transfixed to the television which was currently emitting the credits of 'Changing Rooms' and not one looked up as Harry entered the room.
"I'll be off then," sounded Harry " and don't worry because I won't be back this time." He rolled his eyes wearily and when the only acknowledgment he received was a nod from Aunt Petunia, an overly satisfied grin from Dudley and a sarcastic laugh from Uncle Vernon, he shut the door to the living room of number four for the last time, breathing a sigh if relief as he did so. He had hated his life here, so why did his heart pang with sorrow at leaving the family who had treated him so badly for sixteen years? Perhaps Dumbledore was right. Perhaps love really did conquer all, even hatred. As a tear rolled down Harry Potter's cheek he was not sure whether it was one of joy, relief or pity for the over bearing relatives.
"Seventeen" he thought to himself. "It's 12.10. I'm seventeen."