It was the first day of September. The day was hot. That's an understatement. The day was scorching. The line of lawns that was normally emerald green was now yellowish. The trees began to shift into autumn prematurely, as they looked dehydrated and in need of a plant hospital. Even the cats owned by the batty old neighbor were inside, as opposed to prowling around looking for edible treats.
Some of the inhabitants of the street known as Privet Drive found creative ways to beat the summer heat. Mr. Hong and his wife (both engineers in different fields) created a rather loud but electricity-effective device to cool themselves down with. Like all of the residents, they had no problem showing it off. They pitched up a clear tent and put the nozzle of the device in through the door flaps. The Hongs were obviously very chilly as they wore coats to show how cold they were.
Mr. Pedbit and his wife sat under the great oak in the middle of their yard and meditated. They gave off shivers from time to time. The Crednolia kids had each other. They threw water balloons and shot water guns. Their mother seemed to encourage this. One neighbor swore that he heard her say something about it making the lawn greener.
The only thing that was hotter than the day was the jet-black spiky hair that was on the head of a sixteen-year-old bespectacled boy named Harry Potter. He bit his tongue between his teeth as he styled it in a way that it went every-which way. He admired his reflection. He then tisked. The glasses.
He decided that his old glasses were a bit too… juvenile. He gave in to the pressure put on him by his uncle Vernon. ("If I brought them, I'd be damned if you didn't wear them!" he yelled earlier on.) He decided not to test his uncle, so he put on the new golden wire-framed things. They were thin and not very useful—he could still see around the outer edges of them. He shrugged and walked downstairs. Wearing a white T-shirt and matching, nearly sheer pants, he presented himself to his Aunt Petunia.
Her attitude may not have been the most… desirable of them, but she did dish out the constructive criticism that Harry needed. She also had a keen eye for modern fashion. She finished putting all of the dishes into the dishwasher and stood at her full height to look at him. Her eyes traveled up and down him before she stroked her chin.
"Well done," was her response. Harry was taken aback. He was used to her criticizing him in each and every way possible. He was used to being told that his pants were too loose or tight, or that the shirt didn't go with the shoes, or something that he could never figure out. But not this. "I finally taught you something about high-fashion. And none too soon. You'll be going to high school and all and… it's just so…" She wiped a tear from her eye. Harry would have told her that it was his sophomore year, but it would have ruined the mood. He smiled and walked out of the kitchen, hoping that she hadn't caught her error in time.
"So, the ickle Potter is going to Hogwarts Academy again this year," jeered Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin and son of Petunia and Vernon. "What did you do? Cheat on standardized tests to stay? You ought to have gone to Smeltings. At least there you'd get the discipline you deserve."
"Well I hear there is a school for pigs to learn to walk on their hind legs somewhere in Wales," Harry retorted. "I'd recommend you for it, but you'd be passing the course with flying colors before it begins—considering that you can walk, talk and use your hooves like human hands."
The overweight boy looked most disgusted. "You're just sad because I'm going to a boarding school and you wont have anyone here to teach you to become a man."
Harry stopped himself from flinching. It wasn't intended, but Dudley had made a reference to his deceased parents. When he was but a year old, a corporate giant dubbed Voldemort (who was known for illegal, underground businesses) had his parents killed. His aunt and uncle had always told him that it was a car crash that killed Lily and James Potter. Ironically, it was. Although, it was staged, there was no evidence proving it, it only killed James.
In the summer before Harry went to sixth grade, he was approached by a giant of a man who told him all about it. This man was Rubeus Hagrid. He explained it all. His rough version of the rumours anyway. Especially the mystery of the lightning bolt scar on his head. Apparently, after one of Voldemort's Death Eaters (what the police dubbed his minions) committed a kamikaze driving, Voldemort himself went for the daycare in which Harry Potter was being held. Little did he know that Lily had gotten into an argument with James earlier that evening so she left to pick up Harry on her own.
By the time she arrived, his trusty mechanically enhanced pistol took the life of every living being. Somehow, Harry survived. Hagrid believed that he was in the loo at the time. Lily rushed to protect him. Voldemort gave Lily the chance to join him. After hearing her refusal, he killed her. He turned his gun to Harry. Somehow, just before he pulled the trigger, Voldemort slipped up and the shot barely grazed Harry's forehead. The ricocheting of the bullet killed Voldemort. That was all Hagrid told him.
Harry once again remembered where he was. He abandoned his thoughts and came up with the first remark his mind could create. "At least my version of a man does not involve horseshoes and a tusk-protector."
Dudley scowled as did Harry. They were cousins at ends. Of course, they had happy times… Just not often. A school bus honked out front and Harry left through the front door, choosing to ignore the rest of his cousin's jeers.