Author's Rant
The following has been written entirely due to my odd love of hearing keyboard keys clatter. Seeing how I am stealing a huge bundle of material from Mrs. JK Rowling, you are of course entitled to steal any or all of my work. It's only fair. It would be completely hypocritical for me to tell you that you can't steal ideas from my stolen ideas…
Besides, I'd feel honored that someone thought my work worthy enough to bother stealing.
Piaculum
Noon.
A light breeze filtered through the open window, bringing with it the rough warm, humid air. Private drive was stiflingly hot in the July sun as evidenced by the outbreak of air conditioners in the neighborhood. Mr. Ellis, of number twelve, was the first to put one in on the block, which had first been viewed with disgust from the neighbors, but then Mr. and Mrs. Johnson of number eight had one put in, and suddenly the din of the bulky machines could be heard all over Private drive as a buying frenzy struck.
Aunt Petunia had been quite adamant about getting central air, but Vernon had eventually talked her into simply buying a massive one that barely fit in the kitchen window. And perhaps the buying craze struck surrey at the right time, as the temperature reached record highs – and the Dursleys began to leave their doors open at night in hopes of attracting the cool air from the kitchen below. Only a single window was open on Privet Drive – if one discounted the basement window of number five, broken by Dudley's gang – and the window indeed belonged to the weirdest of residents on Privet Drive.
The Room.
The opened window of number four left a sight to be seen. A large cauldron was floating across the room, which, should I have seen myself, would have fainted. Yet floating cauldrons were only the beginning of weird that emanated from the open window. A neat row of books followed the cauldron through the air. They would almost appear normal, if not for the fact that, well they were floating. The fact that they purported to teach charms and how to turn newts into dumplings was invisible from outside the window, unless you happened to have a very good telescope. Yet the oddities did not end there. Piles of bark appeared to be crossing through the air as well, and a bystander would begin to think the resident a little mad… A bark collection? Yet the parchment which looked like bark disappeared, and more books shuffled by. Then a pile of inconspicuous clothing, part of which could have been a pointy hat, if it was not packed under a pile of black robes.
The robes neatly squished their way into the a battered trunk in the corner of the room. They looked oddly like a flapping bird as they squished their way between a package of Whizzing Worms and a pair of Omnioculars The room was almost normal looking now, and only the contents of the trunk appeared odd. Well, the contents and the boy laying splayed out over the twin bed, it's covers on the floor, pillows propping up the boy's shoulders.
The boy.
The boy lay on the bed with a smile on the face. He fidgeted as he followed the items across the room and watched them land in the trunk. He held a thin holly stick grasped in one hand, which randomly pointed from one object to the next, and with a swish and a twirl, sent them packing. Soon the last item, a model Hungarian Horntail entered the trunk (snarling all the while, although it had lost its fire breathing ability back in the boy's fifth year) and the boy gave the stick a few twitches. He clamored out of bed as the trunk closed itself and rose above the floor. The boy shook his head to get his hair to look vaguely normal, before twirling the stick. As if in response, the trunk clamored over to him, and like an overeager kitten, ran ahead of him as he crossed out of the room and into the cool hallway.
The Talk.
Some people look forward to discussions. Harry had looked forward to this one for as long as he could remember. He moved slowly and steadily down the stars, not overly anxious to get the conversation off to a bad start. He was careful to keep the overeager trunk from busting into the walls, or thumping the steps playfully. Yet the exodus was short, and a moment later, Harry entered the living room where his aunt was reading a fashion magazine – or looking at the pictures, who could tell? His uncle was reclined back, halfway between sleep and reading the newspaper.
Harry gave a slight cough. Four eyes glared at him, dislike turned slightly into curiosity. Harry spoke his piece. "I'm leaving."
His Aunt simply looked back at her magazine, while his uncle spoke with the air of exasperation "And how are the freaks picking you up this time?"
"They're not." Harry said, and with all the determination in the world, disappeared with his bumbling trunk. No shade, image or likeness of him would ever be seen here again.
"Well!" The boy's uncle said to the empty space, "That was a heck of a lot easier than the last time!"
And with that proclamation, Vernon Dursley went back to his newspaper. By the end of the day, the odd window slid shut. As the sun rose over Privet Drive the next day, the window looked in on a neatly made bed in an unused room. And everything in Privet Drive was normal, harmonious and calm.