Chapter One

If you were just driving through Little Whining, through Privet Drive, you wouldn't be able to find anything out of the ordinary- the only slightly worrying thing that you might realise about that neighbourhood would be how strangely pristine it all was. Not a car unwashed, not a single weed in the borders: every lawn cut and shining in the sunlight as the light hit the morning dew beads. In fact, you would be very hard pressed to find anything that wasn't exact, or dutifully organised; indeed, anything that wasn't perfect.

However, if you were to inspect every single house on the inside, especially a certain number Four Privet Drive- you might be shocked to find that not everything was going to plan…

"Potter! Come down here now boy…. I mean: please?"

Old mattress springs complained and squeaked as the weight it supported shifted from one area to the other, then sighed as it was removed completely. Shuffling footsteps made their way to the door as the occupant of the room crossed the room, then left. The boy made his way along the landing with slow, paced steps- creating as large a time space as he could between where he was, and where he had to be. A sigh escaped his maturing lips as he realised that he couldn't delay it any longer- grudgingly, he slumped down the overtly vacuumed stairs and made his way into the family kitchen. The sight that met the boy's vivid emerald eyes was a familiar one- but with a slight difference.

The Dursley's were sat around thesquare table, polished so well that it could be used as a mirror; in the centre sat the son of the family. Dudley Dursley had always been a rotund boy: from birth the doctors had recognised the signs of a baby that was going to become obese as he grew older- how right they were. The chair on which the boy was sagged around could barely stand his weight, and the boy noted with an inward smile, that the legs were beginning to buckle underneath the ever-growing weight. To his right, at the head of the table, sat his father: but while Vernon was large, he was not obese, merely big and stocky. His piggy little eyes swivelled in their sockets towards the door, straining to see if the boy he had called earlier had arrived, without turning his head. Noting that there was somebody in the door-frame, the eyes flicked back to the morning paper that had arrived minutes before. Finally, there was the mistress of the house, Petunia, who, with all the best will in the world- was horrible. Tall, bony and thin- Petunia had a very long neck, which supported a head that boasted thin pinched features, giving her remarkable similarities to a horse. She had a tendency to snap at people and simper to those who were her superiors, and Lord protect those who had anything to say against her flower border arrangements.

Normally, they would all have started yelling orders at the boy who was still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, to cook the breakfast, make the coffee and then get out of their sight. Today however was different: instead of following a regular routine that had lasted for a good fifteen years, no-one spoke, only stared. Petunia was the first to react and, with a slight stutter, spoke.

"Good…good morning Harry. How was your rest? Slept well I hope!" this rather delirious greeting was finished with an attempted smile, but it turned out more like a twitch or a spasm. The other two members of the kitchen grunted their greetings then fell silent again. For the first time in years, the boy opposite from her smiled- well, smirked really.

Harry Potter was a fairly normal looking teenager: messy, raven-black hair that refused to be tamed; vivid emerald eyes that had the power to stop a person in their tracks and could so easily act as a window to his emotions. He was a fairly thin young man for a teenager of his age, but five years of Quidditch practice were visibly beginning to show and his fingers were long and slender, ideal for manipulating a broom's direction or for holding his wand. But, Harry's most distinguishing feature was a thin, lightening bolt scar that he had possessed since he was a year old; and it was this scar above all else that marked him out for who he was. Harry Potter was a wizard, and it was this that separated him from the three people staring at him with a mixture of fear and mistrust.

Less than a week had passed since Harry had got off the Hogwarts Express, signalling the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts; and also less than a week since his "good-bye" party had seen both him and his family off the platform with a few friendly words of advice. This is what Harry was smirking at; never before had he seen both his Uncle and his Aunt so terrified by anyone- including the night when they had, albeit through a shock drop in, met Hagrid, the half-giant, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts and also one of Harry's most admired and favoured people. As Harry had ran through the barrier on Platform 9 and ¾ to reach the Muggle side of the train station, he had been met by a group that he hadn't expected to see, and certainly hadn't expected to challenge his relatives….

He fought to contain himself and sat down at the table, but not before bidding them all a good morning. This was the fourth morning of his stay at the Dursley's home, and already he was beginning to feel the strain of being separated from the magical world; he missed receiving his mail when it arrived, and only being able to collect it a night: he missed being able to practice his magic when he wanted to, instead of practicing it as he pleased. All of these things were everyday activities in the wizarding world. He didn't want to spend much more time here- it was dreadfully slow and dull in this house, and his memories of that day at the Ministry were beginning to commandeer his dreams…

From that small moment of triumph at breakfast, the day passed, well, normally. The hours trudged by, every minute seeming like a millennia. However, his time at Privet Drive was rapidly drawing to a close- only Harry didn't know it yet.