Everybody's favorite character starts getting depressed, and then is seen by a Muggle psychiatrist.
Harry Potter Gets Therapy
Harry was lying in his bed and it was late at night. It was hot in the dormitory, the June heat had already begun.
Harry sighed, and rolled over, his head on the soft pillow.
Summer was soon approaching. Another whole three months of living in a closet, being screamed at by angry red fat Brits. He hated the Dursleys.
Harry shrieked of anger in his head. He punched his pillow several times until it looked like a deformed chocolate donut hole. Harry thought the pillow reminded him of Dudley's head, and at this he jabbed more and more into the poor innocent pillow.
Harry was exhausted from his fistfight with the pillow and had no more energy or anger. He flattened the pillow and pulled out the wrinkles. Harry collapsed on the pillow. A chilly breeze blew in through the cracked window. Harry sat up and pulled up the thin cover close to him.
While Harry was doing this, the pillow thought to itself, 'So now he wants to sleep on me after basically killing me? I don't think so, buddy!' The pillow rolled off the bed and hid under it.
Harry fell back down onto the bed, only for his head to be hit against the hard springy old mattress. He rolled part of his bed sheet into a ball and rested his head against it.
Never had Harry been so miserable. 'The Dursleys, the Dursleys,' was all he could think off. It echoed in his head so many times it seemed like "Dursley" wasn't a word anymore.
Harry was tired, but he just couldn't fall to sleep knowing in only a matter of days he'd be back in the old closet, with no one to talk to except Hedwig and the termites that were eating the wooden planks of the closet floor.
Harry buried his face into his hands and sobbed until his sheets were wet with tears. Slowly, he cried himself to sleep.