Harry Potter was freakishly weird in several ways. Firstly, he actually
liked doing homework, something which, in today's society, would get him
carted off to the nearest mental asylum. He also hated the holidays. For
Harry Potter was a wizard, soon to start his sixth year at Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Harry jumped. Surely his Uncle Vernon wouldn't, not today, not when he would be going back to school tomorrow. Harry trudged down the stairs trying to settle his racing heart. But nothing could prepare him for what he saw upon entering the kitchen. Dudley was standing there, looking exceptionally pleased with himself, and next to him-Vernon, holding up Harry's large, leather-bound diary. Harry vaguely wondered if the Dursleys would go to the trouble of buying a coffin for him; since they'd obviously read the diary, or if they'd simply dump his body in a ravine somewhere.
"Is this yours?" Vernon asked, rather pointlessly Harry thought, as even from where he was standing he could see his name printed clearly across the cover. He nodded, thinking Vernon, however thick, would not believe a denial.
"Well," Vernon slowly deliberated, "when Dudley came running." Harry coughed. As if that fat lump could do anything other than roll, if that. Feeling his uncle's glare intensify, he turned his attention back to the lecture. "thought I'd just take a little looksie, didn't imagine how much more. disgusting. you could get. Who is this," he flipped through a few pages towards the end, "Draco Malfoy? Hmm? Another of your freaky little friends I presume? I thought all those beatings would put a stop to your abnormality, but it seems they have merely created another. Well I've had it, you're leaving and you're not coming back." He paused. "Ever." Throwing the offending item at Harry he pointed to the door. "Get your things and leave."
***
Meanwhile, across the other side of England one Draco Malfoy was contemplating his future status if word ever got out. Throwing himself onto his bed he sighed. It was impossible, how could he be thinking of him in that way, his worst enemy. Damn Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-to-get- me-disowned.
Draco thought back to the time when Harry had refused his friendship. He'd been hurt by the gesture, sure, and had been determined to hate the boy, but somewhere over the years that hate had transformed into something more beautiful. He could remember a quote he'd heard somewhere, something about love and hate being inextricably connected, and couldn't agree more. Draco had tried to keep up the façade of hatred. What would people say if his secret was revealed? He didn't care to find out. So he kept up his torment of Harry Potter, weeping inside at the anger in those bright green eyes.
If only Father were dead, Draco thought, I could be openly nice to Harry; not hurt him anymore. God knows I've only been pretending to hate him. All because of Father. I know I'm weak, can't stand what happens when I do something wrong. And poor Mother. What would happen to her if people found out I'm gay, and in love with the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World? I can only hope they don't.
***
Harry Potter was wondering how he could feel such a complex range of feelings and not spontaneously combust. He was horrified, of course, that Vernon had actually READ his DIARY; even more so knowing what Vernon had read had been going against everything he valued: normality. The-boy-who- lived was at that moment was also feeling overjoyed that he would never again return to Number four, Privet Drive; anxious about his impending return to Hogwarts and reunion with Draco: something very probably going to involve pain of some variety; and positively euphoric that he would never again have to return to Number four, Privet Drive. He was so happy, in fact, that he started to do a little jig and dance as he packed his trunk.
"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya Tomorrow! You're always a day away!"
And with that, Harry leapt onto his bed. He figured the Dursleys wouldn't actually come up to check he'd left, and besides, tomorrow he'd see Draco! "Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, promising, then promptly fell asleep to dream about things that wouldn't be appropriate to write about.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Harry jumped. Surely his Uncle Vernon wouldn't, not today, not when he would be going back to school tomorrow. Harry trudged down the stairs trying to settle his racing heart. But nothing could prepare him for what he saw upon entering the kitchen. Dudley was standing there, looking exceptionally pleased with himself, and next to him-Vernon, holding up Harry's large, leather-bound diary. Harry vaguely wondered if the Dursleys would go to the trouble of buying a coffin for him; since they'd obviously read the diary, or if they'd simply dump his body in a ravine somewhere.
"Is this yours?" Vernon asked, rather pointlessly Harry thought, as even from where he was standing he could see his name printed clearly across the cover. He nodded, thinking Vernon, however thick, would not believe a denial.
"Well," Vernon slowly deliberated, "when Dudley came running." Harry coughed. As if that fat lump could do anything other than roll, if that. Feeling his uncle's glare intensify, he turned his attention back to the lecture. "thought I'd just take a little looksie, didn't imagine how much more. disgusting. you could get. Who is this," he flipped through a few pages towards the end, "Draco Malfoy? Hmm? Another of your freaky little friends I presume? I thought all those beatings would put a stop to your abnormality, but it seems they have merely created another. Well I've had it, you're leaving and you're not coming back." He paused. "Ever." Throwing the offending item at Harry he pointed to the door. "Get your things and leave."
***
Meanwhile, across the other side of England one Draco Malfoy was contemplating his future status if word ever got out. Throwing himself onto his bed he sighed. It was impossible, how could he be thinking of him in that way, his worst enemy. Damn Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-to-get- me-disowned.
Draco thought back to the time when Harry had refused his friendship. He'd been hurt by the gesture, sure, and had been determined to hate the boy, but somewhere over the years that hate had transformed into something more beautiful. He could remember a quote he'd heard somewhere, something about love and hate being inextricably connected, and couldn't agree more. Draco had tried to keep up the façade of hatred. What would people say if his secret was revealed? He didn't care to find out. So he kept up his torment of Harry Potter, weeping inside at the anger in those bright green eyes.
If only Father were dead, Draco thought, I could be openly nice to Harry; not hurt him anymore. God knows I've only been pretending to hate him. All because of Father. I know I'm weak, can't stand what happens when I do something wrong. And poor Mother. What would happen to her if people found out I'm gay, and in love with the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World? I can only hope they don't.
***
Harry Potter was wondering how he could feel such a complex range of feelings and not spontaneously combust. He was horrified, of course, that Vernon had actually READ his DIARY; even more so knowing what Vernon had read had been going against everything he valued: normality. The-boy-who- lived was at that moment was also feeling overjoyed that he would never again return to Number four, Privet Drive; anxious about his impending return to Hogwarts and reunion with Draco: something very probably going to involve pain of some variety; and positively euphoric that he would never again have to return to Number four, Privet Drive. He was so happy, in fact, that he started to do a little jig and dance as he packed his trunk.
"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya Tomorrow! You're always a day away!"
And with that, Harry leapt onto his bed. He figured the Dursleys wouldn't actually come up to check he'd left, and besides, tomorrow he'd see Draco! "Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, promising, then promptly fell asleep to dream about things that wouldn't be appropriate to write about.
