Privet Drive was a lovely place to be today in England, contrary to many tourists' view of the usually dreary and rainy area. In fact, the sun was shining brightly on the immaculately trimmed impatiens, the dewy green grass was perfect for sitting upon, and children ran up and down the streets with various sorts of toys clutched in their hands. Their shouts of laughter and anger could be heard throughout the neighborhood, brightening dreary spirits that despised the rain and drear.

However, the Dursleys of #4 Privet Drive were never brightened. Harry Potter, their "insufferable" nephew, could certainly tell you all about them. Especially today, when the Dursleys were enormously stressed and bustling about their normal English household, yelling at each other and adding un-needed snipes to Harry, who wasn't doing anything to spite them. Today was definitely not a day to be around the Dursleys, who were packing for their holidays in Majorca.

The family had always talked of buying a vacation house in Majorca, dreaming of the day they could lounge about in white whicker chairs and hammocks lining a porch. Their only son, Dudley, was only dreaming of how many tv channels they had there. And food, especially. Petunia Dursley, who was a thin-lipped, naturally curious and angry woman, had been rushing around shops in London for days trying to find summer outfits that Dudley could possibly fit in. Dudley was an unaturally large boy of 15, with many chins that quivered when he yelled or talked, which was quite a lot. Petunia had brought home some very ugly outfits, which she swore "are so fashionable for boys in France." Dudley had yelled back that maybe it was fashionable for "wankers with lipstick," but not for himself.

Harry Potter had to stifle his laughter when he saw the outfits splayed out on Dudley's large bed. And he had to restrain himself even more when he saw the bags of ruffled pink capris in bags on the kitchen table. Those were for Aunt Petunia, although at first he thought they were Ron Weasley's dress robes. Regardless of the outfits, Vernon Dursley had boomed out proudly two weeks before to the family as they ate their meager dinner of weakened soup and low-fat bread that he had "gotten a *very* nice raise" and they were going to buy a "ritzy" vacation home in Majorca. Instantly after announcing this, he had growled to Harry that "he was not to come with their family" and he was to stay at Mrs. Figg's next door until that deplorable "Wheezy" family could take him in.

Nevertheless, Harry wasn't heartbroken at all at this, and even though he had to stay at Mrs. Figg's (whose house smelled like cabbages, wool, and cats), he knew the Weasleys wouldn't mind at all that he was coming to stay at their lopsided but exciting house. So Dudley had gone around for two weeks, telling everybody who would listen that he was going to stay in a mansion in Majorca in the Mediterranean that his family owned and his skinny little cousin was going to stay at the smelly old neighbors'.

So now, Harry was at his last day at the Dursley's for the year, having to spend it with the irratable people that inhabited their bodies. He was chewing on a Sugar Quill that he had bought in Hogsmeade in February, trying to think of how he could make his History of Magic essay sound as boring as possible. Professor Binns loved all things boring. That, or it was just the way he taught, like Professor Trelawney, who was always swooning over Harry's upcoming deaths. His room had not changed from when he got it when he was 11, but all the broken toys that Dudley had sat on were stashed in the large walk-in closet, along with lots of his old clothes, which Aunt Petunia refused to throw away. She said they brought back memories of her "lovely little boy."

Harry had to chuckle when she had said that. Dudley had never been little, and his tantrums had not faded away over the years. Now that Harry was back from Hogwarts, the wizarding school he went to, the Dursleys were as eager as ever to get away from him. Wizards and witches were just "not normal" in their eyes, and Harry was even more despised than strangers. Taking his pen off the paper for a moment to glance up at Hedwig, who was hooting softly in her wire cage, he saw that there was a postcard laying on the open windowsill.

"And you didn't even tell me an owl came?" he asked Hedwig, who twisted her head to face him. Hedwig looked slightly jealous, looking at him as though he should have known. She gave a loud "hoot" and fell promptly asleep against the bars of the cage. Harry got off his bed where stashes of paper and random assortments of wizarding material was laying on his itchy wool blanket, and inspected the postcard, which had a picture of clear blue water and palm trees on it. It was from Hermione! And it wasn't even his birthday yet. Usually she didn't send mail until it was his birthday, and then she would send it regularly. Harry sat upon his heavy black trunk to read his letter, which had perfectly neat handwriting. "Definitely Hermione's," he thought happily, eager to read his friend's words.

"Dear Harry," the postcard read.

"I hope your summer is going well, and that the Dursleys aren't giving you too much trouble. If they are, I'll be happy to send you food. My parents and I are on holidays in Sicily this summer, and I look like a crab. I'm not joking. Ron would be laughing at me quite hard right about now. I've sent a postcard to Ron, too, but I haven't told him that I look like a crab because I know you wouldn't laugh as hard. The food here is wonderful, but unfortunately, I've left my schoolwork at home so I can't do any of it. I'm still sending you a birthday present and card, I'd just thought I'd say hello and all.

Love,

Hermione."

Harry shook his head at Hermione's letter. That was his friend, always thinking about homework when she wasn't thinking about house elves and whatever else that girl thought about. Then, his own thoughts were interrupted as somebody banged his fist on the doorway. "Open up!" grouched the voice behind the flimsy door that had already been broken once by his uncle Vernon.

"Come in," said Harry nonchalantly, clearing up the clutter on his cot, hiding Hermione's postcard from view. It was Uncle Vernon, dressed in a orange Hawaiian shirt, and dressy chinos. He looked horribly out-of-place in this outfit, and his blue buggy eyes were popping out at Harry, who was dressed in a gray shirt and loose jeans, looking quite innocent.

"We'll be leaving in about two hours, if you can get your sorry, good-for-nothing ass up off that bed and pack up all your things in that blasted trunk of yours. Have this room ready and cleaned before I come back up here in two hours," grunted Mr. Dursley, scowling at him. Mr. Dursley had never liked him, and he knew he wasn't going to get any special treatment today just because they were going on holidays. Today was almost a free-for-all in the blighting of Harry. He gave one last glare to his nephew, and stormed out the room, and stomped down the creaky stairsteps.

"Yes, darling uncle," muttered Harry under his breath. With all his luck, his room would be looking like a tornado blew through it when he came back. And with all his luck, Voldemort would have hunted him down and killed him. Harry was pretty surprised he wasn't dead already. After all that happened 4th year, with the Triwizard Cup. He hated shifting through the memories in his mind. He hated having to go through the binding fear racing through his body, his heart pounding, his skin clammy and the awful feeling of loss when that damned green flash of light burst through the cemetary. Harry shook his head, trying to rid himselves of the memories. As always, it didn't work.

His head came colored back to clear as everything was focused in his room. The disgusting blue and red blanket still covered the grungy peeling cot in the corner of his room. His large painting-style window lit up his bedroom with sunshine, showing what the room really was. A dump, but nevertheless Harry's dump. The walls were painted a light blue color, and the trim job looked like a two year old had done it. Hedwig's cage hung from a large hook across from his bed, also in the corner. Hedwig was still asleep, her talons gripping the wooden dowel Harry had placed in there. The Dursleys allowed Hedwig out of her cage as long as she stayed in Harry's room and did not go anywhere else in the house. However, Hedwig found it comforting to have the latch open, so that she could go out whenever she wanted. Harry's trunk was at the foot of his x-legged cot, its black leather outing on the corners slightly frayed, showing how much damage a trip to Hogwarts on the Express could to do a carrier.

Harry sighed ruefully, tossing his raven hair about. He rose up off the trunk, and stepped over to the closet, deciding it would be best to start packing. He wouldn't want to leave for Mrs. Figg's and then have remembered that he had forgotten something back at the Dursley's. They definitely weren't going to give him a key to the house while he was staying with the elderly looking neighbor. Opening the closet, he found that he had very little muggle clothing to wear under his school robes when he went back. Now, usually he would have thought it was much too early to be packing (It was only June 28th!), but in this case, remembering that the Dursleys wouldn't be back until he was in school, he had to do it now. Not like Uncle Vernon would actually do anything to him, because of his fear for Sirius Black and his "scary wrath," as he put it one night to Mrs. Dursley. Sirius was probably not thinking about what to pack for Hogwarts at this moment, thought Harry, of Sirius's, Snape's and Dumbledore's conversation over the year.

So, Harry looked at his meager wardrobe. Four plain shirts, 5 pairs of jeans and khakis. To imagine that Ron though he was rich. Of all things! Sure, maybe in the wizarding world, but definitely not in the Muggle world. He fingered a threadbare red and white polo shirt, hangly forlornly upon an old white hanger. The closet had a small dingy light- but it only aided in seeing the miles of Dudley's crap laying around. He grudgingly pulled all of his clothes off the hanger, folding them over his bare arm, and dumping them in his trunky sloppily. Usually he was tidy when it came to packing, but the fact that he wasn't going to Ron's or Hogwarts right away certainly made a difference. He flicked the light switch of the closet, and started opening drawers in his dresser, which was next to Hedwig's cage.

In his wooden dresser, he found a magical photo of Ron, Hermione, and himself, arms slung over their shoulders facing the lake at Hogwarts. Ron would scrunch up his freckled nose, Hermione's dimples would deepen slightly, and Harry was tickling Hermione in the side. All of them looked extremely happy, the lake shining behind them and the dark fir trees rustling slightly. If Harry inhaled a little, he could practically smell the grass and the flowers and just the scent of magic whenever he looked at that photograph, which was framed in a simple silver frame. He looked at it wistfully, wishing they could all go back to the days of the 3rd year, maybe back to second year. Maybe even back to when he didn't even know he was a wizard. Where he didn't know Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Hagrid and Dumbledore and maybe back to where his parents didn't get married and Tom Riddle didn't have a child named after himself. Maybe then....

Harry took his quills and stashed them angrily into his 1/4 full trunk. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he had to be the one.

That he had to be the target.