Chapter Two – A Knock at the Door

Uncle Vernon, always one to deny that wizards – including his nephew – even existed, seemed to decide that watching the television was distinctly preferable to listening to Harry talk about a world that he neither understood nor wanted to, while Harry proceeded with eating his severely mutilated and now cold toast.

I'm seventeen now, Harry began to think. I am no longer protected in this house. I'll leave tomorrow. Early… He took a good, long look at the back of Uncle Vernon's large head. Would he miss the Dursley's? More likely than not, no, he wouldn't, and he greatly doubted that they would ever miss him – in fact, he would not be surprised if they threw a party when he left. They did not love him, nor had they ever loved him. They had only given him a proper bedroom when he was eleven because they feared the powers he might exert on them, not because he had "outgrown the cupboard under the stairs", as Uncle Vernon had said.

No, they won't care that I'm gone. I'll go to Godric's Hollow after Bill and Fleur's wedding, and then on to find the Horcruxes…

As he stood musing, slipping ever deeper into his thoughts, a most normal thing happened at the most abnormal of times: the doorbell rang.

'Who the bloody Hell is that?' snapped Uncle Vernon after recovering from the initial shock of hearing the bell ringing at two in the morning. He was in the process of getting up, but Harry was already passing him to get to the door, his wand in hand, every muscle tense. Dumbledore's spell had worn off now – there was no telling who could be at the door…

'I'll get it,' Harry informed his uncle. 'Stay here.' Uncle Vernon turned an interesting shade of purple at being told by a young man in his house to stay put, but, after the warning look from Harry and the distinct waggling of his wand at him, Harry's uncle grudgingly sat back down, glaring daggers at Harry's retreating back.

Harry advanced through the pitch black of the hallway, leaving the lights off and his wand held at the ready. His mind sifted frantically for a suitable jinx, before settling on his old favourite, Expelliarmus, should the knocker be dangerous… But, as he approached silently, Harry distinctly heard two voices bickering on the other side of the door…

'Normal people just aren't up at this time in the morning!'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous! I can hear the television, and the lights are on in the front room-'

'-Lights or no lights, I still think he'll be asleep.'

'Just because you-'

'-D'you know,' began Harry, as he opened the door to see the two people standing on the doorstep, 'that if I hadn't heard you two arguing, I would have jinxed you?'

Hermione's face split into a wide smile as she saw him, and she flung her arms around his neck, giving him a warm hug. 'Happy birthday, Harry!' Harry hugged her back, glad to see his two best friends at long last.

'Yeah, happy birthday, mate!' said Ron grinning fondly at Harry. 'We both got you presents, but they're back at The Burrow… what?'

Harry was standing staring at both of them, as though at a complete loss. 'You're both here…'

'Yeah, we know,' responded Ron, an eyebrow raised. 'We are us, and we do have some idea about what we're doing.'

'But it's two in the morning!'

'Hermione's idea,' Ron informed him. 'I told her it would be better to wait until the morning, but she insisted that you'd be up and about anyway, and we should come and get you.'

Harry grinned to himself … they knew him so well…

'You'll remember, Harry,' Hermione began quietly, 'what we said to you at – at Dumbledore's funeral-' her voice wavered momentarily, but then continued in its usual strength '-that we'd be here for you, at your aunt and uncle's house when you turned seventeen? We're keeping our promise.'

Harry had never felt a stronger adoration for the two people in front of him than he did at that point. Warmth flooded through his chest, and he felt as though his heart had swelled with the love he felt for his friends. Something of what he felt must have shown on his face, for Hermione's smile began to tremble slightly as it broadened even further, her eyes taking on a glassy appearance. 'We will always be here for you, Harry,' she declared. 'Always.'

'But not on this doorstep, hey mate?'

Harry, at Ron's words, realised that he'd kept his friends on the doorstep and completely forgotten his manners. 'Sorry – come in. My Uncle Vernon's in the living room, so be warned.'

Ron and Hermione nodded as they followed him into the hallway, quietly taking in the darkened house as they passed through the doorway to the living room.

'So,' began Hermione, with vigour in her voice that Harry only heard from her when she was thinking about something academic. 'Which spell did you use first? Something elaborate, I expect, wasn't it? Like a Patronus, or-'

'-Why would Harry be producing a Patronus with no Dementors?'

Hermione shot Ron a withering look.

'Actually,' said Harry, 'I Summoned a knife and plate.'

'Oh,' said Hermione, looking a bit crestfallen.

Uncle Vernon, after hearing the voices at the door and having ascertained that they were actually now in his house, was standing beside the sofa, eyes narrowed again. There was a mingled look of suspicion, fury, and fear on his face, making him look even more like a prune than normal. 'Who in Hell's name are you?' he spat at Ron and Hermione, seemingly gathering some resolve to himself when he realised that the two strangers were not much older than Harry. He could bully people of such blatant youth…

Hermione, whose tongue did not seem to be completely forgotten – unlike Ron, who was watching Uncle Vernon with a kind of befuddled fascination – smiled politely, and said: 'I beg your pardon for our intrusion at such an early hour, Mr Dursley. My name is Hermione Granger, and this is Ronald Weasley-' There was a sharp gasp from Ron, as Hermione had stamped on his foot to make him stop gawping. Ron uttered a hasty 'How do you do', but proceeded with examining his feet at the nasty look Uncle Vernon was giving him.

'We are friends of Harry's,' Hermione continued, though her voice began to falter as Mr Dursley turned his glare on her. 'We've come to … collect … him…'

'What the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, letting your lot into our house?' Mr Dursley was not looking at Hermione; in fact, he was doing a very good impression of a deaf man so far as Hermione was concerned. His eyes were bulging at Harry, who was again in the kitchen, fixing two glasses of water for his friends.

'If you were not so rude and ignorant,' said Harry as he filled the glasses at the sink, completely blanking the mounting rage in his uncle's face, 'you would have heard Hermione say that they are collecting me.' He turned off the tap and passed the water to his two best friends. 'Last year, when Dumbledore came to get me, he said that after my seventeenth birthday, the Charm protecting this house would stop. With that Charm gone, there is nothing to keep me here: I'm leaving tonight with these two.'

Uncle Vernon looked as though he could not believe his ears. 'Leaving? For how long?' He looked painfully hopeful.

'Forever.'

A look of mingled shock and glee graced Uncle Vernon's face – the thought of Harry gone forever from his house was one he clearly found to be a fantastic prospect. Harry could practically see the visions his uncle was having of a Harry-free home, and possibly what he was planning to do with the soon-to-be spare bedroom. 'You are taking that bloody pigeon of yours as well, aren't you?'

'Of course I am – I wouldn't leave her with you – you'd probably have her stuffed or something…'

'The thought had occurred to me,' Uncle Vernon confessed, though with little remorse, it seemed.

'You're leaving?'

Everyone in the room turned in surprise to look into the doorway of the living room, to see stood there a tall thin woman with a distinctly horse-ish face. However, the cold glare and harsh tones that Harry was accustomed to getting from his Aunt Petunia were not there; instead, she looked – if Harry dared think it – a little startled at the news.

'Yes,' he eventually replied. 'I'm going tonight.'

Mrs Dursley sucked on her teeth and leaned against the doorframe, studying Harry through narrow eyes. Harry waited for some cutting remark, or a few scathing words about how good it would be to have him gone, but instead she said: 'You are so very much like Lily.'

Harry was taken aback; her tone was not harsh or critical, and she had even used his mother's name, which was a true rarity in itself.

'She was head-strong, just like you are; if she decided to do something, there was nothing on earth that could stop her…' a funny expression donned Aunt Petunia's face, and she seemed unable to even look at Harry, her eyes glancing everywhere but at him... But then Harry saw. He realised, with a sudden dawning of understanding, exactly why his Aunt despised his mother so much. He knew why she loathed him so intensely, and even why she had married Vernon Dursley.

'You were jealous,' he muttered quietly. Uncle Vernon shot him a nasty glare, and his two friends lifted their eyes to him with curiosity, but Aunt Petunia never met his gaze. 'That's it, isn't it? That's the reason for all of this: you were jealous because my mother got the letter when she was eleven, and not you. You wanted to be what she was, but because you couldn't possibly, you resorted to hating her.' He took a few steps towards the doorway, and still she refused to meet his eyes. 'And that's the exact reason you hate me too, isn't it?'

Mrs Dursley sniffed, her eyes of a distinct red. 'I did not want you,' she replied eventually.

'I know that,' Harry responded icily. 'I've known that since I was a baby.'

'I did not want you,' she continued, as if he had never spoken, 'because of who you were, what you had done.'

Harry frowned incredulously at this, his mouth open a little. 'I was a baby, Aunt Petunia, what could I have possibly done to make you hate me?'

'My sister died defending you!' she snapped, fixing her teary eyes on his with a fierce glare. 'I never got to speak to her, ever, to resolve our differences – do you know how that feels?'

'Actually,' Harry replied coldly, 'I have a very good idea: I've grown up without parents. I spent eleven whole years living in a house in which no-one had any love or time for me. "Shut up, Harry". "Don't ask questions, Harry." "Do everything we command of you, Harry." "Go to your cupboard, Harry!"'

'I could not turn you away,' she continued, as though there had not been another interruption. It was as though the completion of this story was of vital importance to her; in an odd sort of way, to Harry, this was important: this was the reasoning behind his first poor childhood, the one spent in this house…

'You were – are – everything we stand against; you're the product of my sister's … relations with people like – well, like you! Abnormal rubbish, all this wizarding malarkey! But I knew when my sister was killed just how dangerous your world is – it's not all hocus pocus and silly wand-waving … and I knew when I took you in that I was placing my own family at risk from this … Lord – oh, whatever!'

Harry surveyed his aunt for a time in silence. This explained it all, really; all those years in the cupboard under the stairs with the spiders, the chores a slave would not be expected to do, the meagre meals. All of it made sense now. His aunt possessed an understanding of Harry's world that was deeper than she had ever shown before…

But then a thought struck him. It seemed bizarre to think it, but it was possible - after all, his mother had had true ability, and so did Harry…

'Aunt Petunia,' he began hesitantly – what he was about to ask surely could not be true, but it would explain so, so many things, 'are you – are you a – a squib?'

'Pe – Petunia,' stammered Uncle Vernon, 'what does-'

'Quiet, Vernon!' There was such venom in her voice, such rage, that Vernon Dursley silenced himself without argument, and instead settled to looking very discomfited with the entire situation, while remaining thoroughly purple.

Her eyes shot to Harry's, blazing with a fire of anger. Their intensity made Harry back away a few steps. She stared for only a few more seconds, then turned away furiously, saying nothing. Harry heard Hermione give a small gasp.

'You are,' Harry uttered, barely believing it.

'And I am ashamed!' Aunt Petunia hissed venomously. 'That there could even be a trace in my blood of her sickens me to the core!'

'Only because you wanted to go to Hogwarts with her and couldn't,' Harry responded quietly. 'That's the reasoning behind it all, and it's all the reasoning I'll ever need.

'Well, tonight I'm leaving, so you won't be reminded any further of what I am, and of what you really are – though I would have loved to hear you tell Dudley…'

A silence ensued that was so heavy it felt as though it was dragging the very air down. Ron and Hermione were glancing from aunt, to uncle, to Harry. Ron took a slow sip of his water, making a rather loud slurping noise. It was Hermione, however, who made the first move…

'Have you got all your things packed, Harry?' She was not just prompting him; she was giving him the opportunity to get out of the room.

'No. No, I haven't,' he replied, eventually peeling his eyes from his aunt. He cast a grateful glance at Hermione, who caught it and gave a small smile in response.

Harry excused himself and ran upstairs, not really caring about whether he woke Dudley or not. He closed the door and pressed his back against its cool surface. His head was reeling from the events of the last ten minutes. So many revelations … Aunt Petunia a squib of all things – she was the very last person on earth that he expected to have even a drop of magical blood…

But he turned his thoughts from his aunt for the time being, and looked around at the organised mess on the floor of his small bedroom, with its old furniture and floorboards in disrepair. It was stiflingly hot, even with the window wide open … but it was his, with the numerous books on the Dark Arts strewn across the floor, coupled with empty crisp packets and screwed up parchment on which he had been brainstorming. Never again would he sleep in that bed. Never again would he clear owl droppings from the top of the wardrobe.

This was it.

This was the very end of life at Number Four, Privet Drive. He had longed for this day for so long. So many years. He had always wished to be elsewhere, anywhere, just so long as he could call it home and not have to return to this place – he was sure that if he tried to count the amount of times on all his digits combined that he had wished for a Dursley-free existence, then he would be out of fingers and toes…

But he was not leaving to go to a new home with people who loved him. Such dreams were wisps of smoke that were now lost to him. Yes, he was leaving this house, but to what? Not a certain home, as he had dreamed, but a world of danger and risk – he could face Voldemort in a day, a week, a month, a year … ten years could pass, and he would never have the certainty of a home as he had had here. This house was many things to him, and few of them were good, but at least it had been consistent and solid…

Harry gathered himself, and then proceeded with preparing to leave for the very last time.