There it was, hovering in plain sight, glinting and glittering against the backdrop of the clear, crisp October sky. He, as usual, was the first to spot it, and soon felt a quick flutter of excitement, that familiar, almost comforting sensation that could be likened to a hoard of Cornish pixies prancing about in his stomach as he watched so many others, totally unaware, pass beneath that miniscule glittering orb. In a flash, he was soaring, higher, higher, the cool breeze whipping about his face and tearing through his already tousled mop of jet-black hair. The earth seemed to slip away, becoming a distant blur beneath him, but he pushed on, faster now, his arm outstretched, straining to grab that little, winged golden ball. Still few of those he had left behind, totally absorbed in their own little tasks, had taken notice to this airborne drama, but those who did simply stared, agape, as he seemed to grow ever smaller, until he became a mere dark spot against the cloudless blue expanse above. Closer, closer, almost.... there.....yes! He had done it! He had captured the snitch! His fingers wrapped securely around it, and he could feel its light, feathery wings beating like mad in a vain attempt at escape. That very instant, it was as though the entire world, sprawled out below, had erupted, nay, exploded into a cacophonous, deafening roar. Thousands upon thousands of Hogwarts students were crowding onto the Quidditch field, cheering wildly, straining to catch a glimpse of the last-minute, game-winning catch. There, right up front, he could see his two best friends, Ron and Hermione, jumping up and down from sheer excitement and joy and screaming words of encouragement. As he landed with a gentle thud onto the grassy turf, he was nearly smothered by a sudden onslaught of teammates, classmates, and friends, who had come rushing over to congratulate him. Above the rather vocal adoration of those around him, he could hear Lee Jordan, the commentator of this Quidditch game, blaring out to the entire world the news of Gryffindor's miracle victory over its long-held rival, Slytherin, at the top of his lungs. "Yes folks, you just saw it with your own eyes! Harry Potter, possibly the best seeker Hogwarts has ever seen, has just caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins the game one-eighty to seventy! Once again, that astounding snitch snatch was made by none other than the Harry Potter! Yes, Harry Potter! Harry Potter...Harry Potter..."
"HARRY POTTER!!! Get up this instant boy!!! I will have none of your laziness! DID YOU HEAR ME?!? I said RIGHT NOW!!!"
"snzzzz.....mrgle.....gur aweyyy.....snitchy snitch......marumph..." Ripped away from a happy dreamland, Harry Potter ever-so-gradually awoke (in a manner of speaking) to a somewhat less-than idyllic actuality. He found himself curled up in a lumpy, tiny bed, his aunt, Petunia Dursley, towering over him, a look of deep disgust etched on her bony face. In her hands she clutched a damp mop and a bucket--never a good sign. Wordlessly, she thrust her odiferous load into Harry's arms, turned on her heel, and marched towards the door. Pausing there for a moment, she looked back at her nephew to bellow out some last instructions.
"All right, boy. My precious Dudley comes home today from his little friend's house, and I want this house SPARKLING! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? Everything must be PERFECTLY CLEAN! If I find so much as ONE SPOT, it's BACK TO THE CUPBOARD WITH YOU!!!" Petunia, now very red in the face, gave a curt nod and dashed out of Harry's room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen to fry up an extra package of bacon just so her enormous son, Dudley, wouldn't still be hungry after inhaling the first two.
Harry moaned, softly, dropped his newfound burden on his thin bed sheets, and fumbled around for his glasses. Finding them, he put them on and calmly surveyed his situation. For the past three days, he had been enjoying what could be almost likened to peace and quiet here at number four Privet Drive. His cousin, Dudley, had been visiting an old friend of his over in Bath, and for the first time in his life, he was being treated with relative civility in that house--he stayed away from his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and they, in turn, were more than happy to totally ignore him. This arrangement may have sounded quite lonely to anyone else, but to Harry, it was a much-needed break from the constant abuse that had become everyday life for him, living with the Dursleys. Of course, such a good thing couldn't last very long--Dudley was expected to arrive home this afternoon. With a sigh of surrender, he heaved himself out of bed and staggered over to the bathroom to fill the grimy bucket with soapy water. That task completed, he began mopping the hall floor, quietly, least Petunia find some way to punish him for being too loud.
Oh well, he mused, four weeks to go...
Indeed, Harry had to survive only four more weeks at the Dursley's. Summer was coming to an end, and he would be getting his letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry soon enough, asking him to return for his fifth year there. In fact, it was the very idea of being back at Hogwarts, seeing his friends again, playing quidditch for the Gryffindor house team, perhaps paying a visit or two to Hogsmeade, that kept him from the brink of insanity for the past two and a half months. Thinking about it, he'd actually rather have a double potions class with the Slytherins than stay on Privet drive a day longer than he had to.
At least Snape can't lock me up in some spider-ridden cupboard under a staircase whenever the mood hits him, thought Harry with a rueful half-smile, although he knew full well that the much-feared Potions professor would leap at the slightest chance to do so.
"VERNON!!! Get down here! Breakfast is done!" Petunia's piercing voice rang up from the kitchen, where she was still cooking, baking, and frying furiously, creating a "Welcome home Dudley diddleyums" meal that could, in Harry's opinion, be used to feed all of London for a week or so in case of an emergency. A moment later, there was a slight scuffling noise that seemed to emanate from the bedroom at the end of the hallway. The enormous wooden door sprang open, and out burst Uncle Vernon, his stocky, mustached face a tad redder than normal. He was still fiddling with his brand-new blue-and-orange tie, the one that Aunt Petunia had bought him especially for this occasion. She said that it made Vernon look especially distinguished, anyone else in their right mind would realize instantly that it gave him the appearance of some sort of purplish tropical bird, or perhaps a badly-dressed circus clown. Still hurrying towards the kitchen at breakneck speed, (before Petunia could catch her breath and screech at him some more), Vernon didn't realize his danger until it was too late. Totally unaware that his nephew had been swabbing the house, up and down, all morning long, he was about to swing around the corner and hurtle himself downstairs--and then the floor suddenly wasn't beneath him anymore. Harry, busy with his little mop and bucket, singing the Hogwarts' school song under his breath, and generally feeling very lonely and sorry for himself, glanced up just in time to see his day get worse.
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty--AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"
In an instant, it was all over. Harry lay spread-eagle, pinned down underneath his sprawling, not-so-dainty uncle, gasping for air. They, the walls, the floorboards, and even the ceiling were thoroughly drenched with sticky, frigid water--the now-empty bucket had rolled to a stop somewhere behind Vernon's left foot, and the mop was nowhere to be seen.
"BOY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?! I WANT AN EXPLANATION! NOW!!!!"
As if the catastrophic events of that morning, plus the prospect of having to face his bullyish, porcine cousin for the remainder of the summer hadn't done enough to dampen Harry's mood (which wasn't all that cheery to begin with), he now found himself staring up into the bony, bitter features of Mrs. Petunia Dursley herself. That overused, familiar phrase popped into his head, If looks could kill... Well, if they could, Voldemort himself wouldn't stand a chance against that murderous glint in his aunt's icy gray eyes. Vernon, gathering himself together, leapt off of Harry and attempted to wring out his sopping, rumpled clothes, all the while shooting apologetic glances at his fuming wife. She, however, paid him no heed, as the whole of her rage was focused squarely on her nephew, who was now skittering about the slick hall floor in a hopeless search for a steadying handhold.
"NOT AGAIN! Boy, you've screwed up for the last time..."
Harry, at last, found his voice...sort of, "Mer...urgle, I mean, I-" he stuttered, his throbbing brain racing for a plausible explanation that wouldn't land him in the cupboard. Petunia, of course, couldn't care less about what he had to say, and didn't wait to hear it, either. Her thin hand snatched a clump of ruffled dark hair, and she marched, Harry squirming in tow, down the steps.
"Alright, you'll stay here and you'll stay out of trouble, do I make myself clear?" snarled his aunt, an ominous leer playing across her pale lips. "IN!" With a frightening burst of strength , she tossed her struggling nephew, hair first, into his darkened makeshift prison, and slammed the flimsy door behind him.
"OW! What the...?"
Harry had made his unexpected landing, not on the floor (which would have made the second time today) but on...a something. A big something. He tentatively placed a hand on the smooth surface of this mystery object for a moment, wondering, but no sooner had he done this than a relieved sigh escaped him as he recognized the boxy shape, the wood paneling, and the brass buckles of his Hogwarts trunk. Inside that chest lay souvenirs of another world, a world far from the Dursleys, from Privet Drive, and from this blasted cupboard, a world where he was wanted, where he belonged, where he talked and laughed with his friends and scored points on the Quidditch team and feasted in the great hall and practiced making potions or performing spells and traveled by Floo powder and...
"DUDDERS!!! There's my darling boy! Oh, Dudleypoo, we missed you ever so very much!!"
Zippedy-do-dah. The telltale sounds of a car door slamming, a doorbell ring, and Petunia's ecstatic screeching drew Harry from his homesick (or rather, schoolsick) reverie, leaving him no choice but to face the disheartening facts: Dudley was back. Welcome to Hell, kid. Obviously far happier than he was about this turn of events, his aunt and uncle could be heard from the kitchen loudly celebrating the return of their spoiled son.
"Welcome back, Dudley my boy," Bellowed Vernon, apparently recovered from the little floor-slippery-when-wet incident of that morning, "good to have you home!"
"Oh my ickle Dudleykins, you look so pale! Was you trip home all right I hope? Here, put your bags down--now go upstairs and get some rest! You poor precious darling, you must be starved--I'm just fixing you a little snacky, I'll call you when I'm done...I'm so happy that you're home safe!" Harry managed to crack a weak smile. From the gloom of his childhood "bedroom", he could easily imagine his aunt fussing and twittering about, making sure the every whim and fancy of her "Ickle Dudleykins" was fulfilled. What was not so simple to picture in his mind was the idea that three days away from home on a simple visit could leave Dudley sick and pale for lack of nourishment. Not even three days of total starvation could render such an effect on someone who, at the age of fifteen, managed to not only outgrow his old clothes, but the bathtub as well.
Wait a minute...the festive voices had suddenly stopped. Out of curiosity, Harry pressed his ear to the wall, listening carefully, but could hear only silence. No, hold on...that sound...was it...footsteps? The brusque clinck of his aunt's stiletto-like high heels soon became discernable. Oh no, she was coming his way...not good. A few seconds later, the cupboard door was nearly wrenched off its hinges and a scowling Petunia Dursley materialized into view.
"Boy...you will take my Dudley's things to his room for him...don't you dare drop a thing." Came the deadly whisper. Harry could do nothing but obey this new command, not wanting to discover what consequences would await him if he refused.
So it came to be that Harry Potter, a young wizard currently enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whose name was renowned throughout the magical world as the hero who defeated the terrible Lord Voldemort and ended his eleven-year-long reign of horror all before the age of one, was now currently playing the role of bellhop for his despicable muggle cousin. Of course, It wouldn't have made a bit of difference to the Dursleys whether Harry was the Minister of Magic or so no-name squib who couldn't stand a cauldron upright--in their opinion, is fantastic abilities were nothing more than an abnormality, a nasty habit that must be broken, and, above all, a reason to hate him. Harry was, to them, a member of "that crowd", those individuals whom the Dursleys absolutely loathed for being so "unorthodox" and "out of the ordinary" (well, the number four Privet Drive type of ordinary, that is). Needless to say, he wasn't exactly a favorite around the household, and not a day went by when he was with Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley that they failed to remind him of that fact.
Egad! What could Dudley possibly need to pack for a three day trip that could be so heavy?!? Harry wondered. His brick collection? Hauling the bulging suitcase up another step, he paused to catch his breath, and then, quite unexpectedly, his question was answered for him. The unmistakable smell of chocolate wafted up from the luggage below, filling Harry's nose with one of the reasons why Dudley could no longer get into the family car without at least twenty minutes time and considerable assistance. Arrg...Harry tried to dry his sweating hands on his ridiculously oversized hand-me-down jeans. His back ached, his muscles burned, his rib cage was still attempting to heal from the and a wave of nausea swept over him at the mere thought of lugging for another inch something that seemed to easily outweigh him. Perhaps he would rest here for just a minute more or so. He glanced upwards do see how much further he had left to climb, but his view was completely blocked by Dudley, or, more specifically, his elephantine backside, waddling up the stairs just a few feet ahead. Grumbling under his breath, Harry bent down--ignoring the spasm of pain that shot through his sore body at the slightest hint of movement--and wrapped his throbbing fingers tightly around the suitcase handle. Before he could straighten up and continue shakily upstairs, though, a strange noise from ahead of him caught his attention, a sharp smack followed by a great deal of thumpthumpthump-ing, and then what sounded like some sort of strangled whimper. He automatically looked back up, just in time for a single thought to race across his brain--deja-vu.
In her manic frenzy of cleaning and dusting and polishing every square inch of the house, Petunia managed to overlook one little tiny detail. A damp, blue and white checkered washcloth, the very same that she had used to dry the newly-washed fine china earlier, lay rumpled on the topmost step. Presumably it had fallen out of Petunia's apron pocket when she was hauling Harry down to the cupboard and it simply evaded her ever-watchful mess radar. It didn't, however, evade Dudley. He stepped right on it. Resembling a cartoon character that had stepped on a banana peel, he flailed his arms wildly for a moment to regain his balance, but to no avail. His foot slipped right out from underneath him, sending all 425 pounds of Vernon and Petunia Dursley's pride and joy tumbling backwards, heels-over-head, down the stairway--and straight at Harry. He, on the other hand, could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot, absolutely petrified, watching his cousin the human avalanche thunder ever closer like some cheesy adventure movie filmed in slow motion. Like it often does during a such a catastrophe, the very passage of time itself seemed to slow to a mere crawl--giving Harry ample time to savor every moment of his imminent doom.
The force of the collision hit him like a hundred well-placed stunning charms, and had about the same effect. The floor and ceiling were spinning wildly--the whole world had become one giant "Tilt-a-whorl". Had he hit the ground yet? What was going on? Was this really happening? Where did--Harry never did get to finish that last question.