Summer and the Scent of Foreboding
Life on Privet Drive could not have been more ordinary, or stifling. Compared to the events that had taken place merely three months ago, present day seemed disgustingly boring to Harry Potter. Of course, he was thankful, too. Quiet meant peace, for now. Quiet meant no news, and no news was certainly good news. Quiet meant Voldemort had not decided to come knocking at his windowpane. Still, Harry could not help but listlessly pine for the days he spent at Hogwarts, however dangerous and adventurous they were. In fact, the danger made life worth living. Here on Privet Drive, life came to a standstill. Aunt Petunia's most recent goal seemed to be keeping Dudley from murdering her with a plastic spoon, while Uncle Vernon was always busy devising new reasons to keep Harry out of sight. The sun beat down on Harry's bare back. Uncle Vernon had-almost politely, in fact-asked him to pull the weeds in the small backyard shrubbery. Of course, Harry wasn't fooled. He'd noticed how Uncle Vernon had been avoiding his gaze, and how his face took on its blotchy quality (which occurred whenever Uncle Vernon was frightened/angry). "Harry," Uncle Vernon had said, taking deep breaths between words, "Would you mind rooting the garden? It's overgrowing again." And who could blame him for wanting Harry away from them? For the first time in his life, Harry had confided to Uncle Vernon about how a murderous tyrant wished for his head on a pike. It had seemed to be the decent thing to do; after all, the Dursleys were distant relatives. They had a right to know that their hated nephew was in mortal peril day and night. Uncle Vernon immediately translated Harry's confession to meaning that his family was also in danger.which was probably true. And Uncle Vernon's logic reached a new height: he could protect his family while at the same time making Harry's life miserable, by isolating him with all the most difficult chores around the house. Harry felt like a mistreated house-elf, but he didn't complain. The jobs gave him something else to think about besides Cedric Diggory, murdered by his own enemy, Voldemort. Instead, Harry now contemplated the futile resistance the stubborn weeds put up against him. After learning how to transfer Mandrakes (Hermione's voice popped into his head here: Mandrakes, or Mandragora.) from one pot to another in his second year, dandelions posed no problems for him. He thought idly about the sweat dripping from his brow and glistening on his skin, wondering vaguely if he'd develop a tan. Perhaps he'd just get sunburned. "Ouch!" Harry reflexively pulled his hand back and stuck them in his mouth when something sharp pricked his thumb. A rather distasteful maneuver, as his hands were covered in dirt. After muttering an oath (which he learned from Ron) and spitting out wet soil, he realized he was bleeding. Stuck by a rose thorn. The sight of blood called back unwelcome memories.Wormtail, screeching the words "Avada kedavra!" into the night, Cedric lying motionless on the ground, the expression of puzzled surprise mingled with fear forever frozen upon his face. Harry's vision blurred. Before he knew it, he was inside, wiping his eyes against the back of his arm, his shirt forgotten outdoors. "I finished the gardens," he muttered to Uncle Vernon's back. Uncle Vernon's back jumped, spinning around to reveal Uncle Vernon's front. "Good.Good!" he gasped, clutching his heart. "Go.do something in-in your room." Harry left, climbing the stairs slowly. He did something in his room he never thought he'd do again. He wept.
Life on Privet Drive could not have been more ordinary, or stifling. Compared to the events that had taken place merely three months ago, present day seemed disgustingly boring to Harry Potter. Of course, he was thankful, too. Quiet meant peace, for now. Quiet meant no news, and no news was certainly good news. Quiet meant Voldemort had not decided to come knocking at his windowpane. Still, Harry could not help but listlessly pine for the days he spent at Hogwarts, however dangerous and adventurous they were. In fact, the danger made life worth living. Here on Privet Drive, life came to a standstill. Aunt Petunia's most recent goal seemed to be keeping Dudley from murdering her with a plastic spoon, while Uncle Vernon was always busy devising new reasons to keep Harry out of sight. The sun beat down on Harry's bare back. Uncle Vernon had-almost politely, in fact-asked him to pull the weeds in the small backyard shrubbery. Of course, Harry wasn't fooled. He'd noticed how Uncle Vernon had been avoiding his gaze, and how his face took on its blotchy quality (which occurred whenever Uncle Vernon was frightened/angry). "Harry," Uncle Vernon had said, taking deep breaths between words, "Would you mind rooting the garden? It's overgrowing again." And who could blame him for wanting Harry away from them? For the first time in his life, Harry had confided to Uncle Vernon about how a murderous tyrant wished for his head on a pike. It had seemed to be the decent thing to do; after all, the Dursleys were distant relatives. They had a right to know that their hated nephew was in mortal peril day and night. Uncle Vernon immediately translated Harry's confession to meaning that his family was also in danger.which was probably true. And Uncle Vernon's logic reached a new height: he could protect his family while at the same time making Harry's life miserable, by isolating him with all the most difficult chores around the house. Harry felt like a mistreated house-elf, but he didn't complain. The jobs gave him something else to think about besides Cedric Diggory, murdered by his own enemy, Voldemort. Instead, Harry now contemplated the futile resistance the stubborn weeds put up against him. After learning how to transfer Mandrakes (Hermione's voice popped into his head here: Mandrakes, or Mandragora.) from one pot to another in his second year, dandelions posed no problems for him. He thought idly about the sweat dripping from his brow and glistening on his skin, wondering vaguely if he'd develop a tan. Perhaps he'd just get sunburned. "Ouch!" Harry reflexively pulled his hand back and stuck them in his mouth when something sharp pricked his thumb. A rather distasteful maneuver, as his hands were covered in dirt. After muttering an oath (which he learned from Ron) and spitting out wet soil, he realized he was bleeding. Stuck by a rose thorn. The sight of blood called back unwelcome memories.Wormtail, screeching the words "Avada kedavra!" into the night, Cedric lying motionless on the ground, the expression of puzzled surprise mingled with fear forever frozen upon his face. Harry's vision blurred. Before he knew it, he was inside, wiping his eyes against the back of his arm, his shirt forgotten outdoors. "I finished the gardens," he muttered to Uncle Vernon's back. Uncle Vernon's back jumped, spinning around to reveal Uncle Vernon's front. "Good.Good!" he gasped, clutching his heart. "Go.do something in-in your room." Harry left, climbing the stairs slowly. He did something in his room he never thought he'd do again. He wept.