CHAPTER 1
Home Sweet (?) Home
On a hot Saturday afternoon in late July a teenage boy drowsed on the grass in the unaccustomed peace of the back garden of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. A passing bit of breeze teased at the untidy black hair, in need of a trim as usual, that flopped over his eyes, causing him to stir and sigh but not wake completely.
The owl landing on his chest was enough to do the trick, however. Jolted abruptly out of his nap, Harry Potter sat bolt upright, unceremoniously dumping the disgruntled barn owl off his chest. It fluttered its wings as it attempted to remain upright, and hooted at him reproachfully. The owl extended one gnarled foot to delicately touch the large parchment envelope it had carried in its beak and which had subsequently fallen to the ground.
"Sorry," Harry said, stroking its feathers in apology. The owl tilted its head in a friendly manner, then took off into the hot, hazy sky and was soon lost to sight beyond the trees and rooftops.
Harry turned the envelope over. As he expected, his name was written there in the trademark green ink of Professor Minerva McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Harry had been a student for the past five years. With a feeling of joyful anticipation, he began to open the envelope.
Suddenly he became aware of voices approaching and the sound of the front door slamming. The Dursleys had returned from spending the afternoon at a welcome party for new members of the country club they had recently joined. Harry quickly folded the envelope in half and stuffed it into his pocket, just as his Uncle Vernon Dursley appeared at the garden door.
"What the blazes are you doing lazing about there?" Uncle Vernon demanded. "You won't earn your keep sleeping in the garden."
Uncle Vernon had recently realized that Harry was finally beginning to fill out, as most sixteen-year-olds do, and that here was a serendipitous source of free labor. Harry was, Uncle Vernon felt sure, eating him out of house and home, and owed some sort of recompense for what Uncle Vernon saw as squandering of his own hard-earned resources. Thus, ever since Harry's return from Hogwarts at the beginning of summer he had been kept busy performing every kind of odd job Uncle Vernon could possibly think of—some, it must be admitted, that were not really necessary but gave Uncle Vernon a great sense of satisfaction as he watched Harry laboring—usually whilst ostentatiously enjoying himself nearby, just to rub it in.
Now, sneering unpleasantly, Uncle Vernon began a circuit of the back garden, examining the lawn closely to see if he couldn't find some fault with the trimming job Harry had been ordered to complete.
"Anything wrong?" asked Harry, arms folded across his chest defiantly. Uncle Vernon, alert as always for any sign of impertinence, shot him a squint-eyed look of warning.
"Could have trimmed this more closely, couldn't you? Rather sloppy job," he commented. Harry burned with indignation but held his tongue.
Uncle Vernon peered at the nearest fencepost. "How many coats of paint did you put on?" he barked.
Harry rolled his eyes behind his uncle's back but said in a flat, expressionless voice, "Two." As an afterthought, spurred by Uncle Vernon's gimlet eye that suddenly fixed on him, he added grudgingly, "Sir."
Uncle Vernon harrumphed and stomped back toward the house. "Too hot to stand about in the sun," he muttered as he pushed grumpily past Harry and walked inside. He appeared too wilted to really put much effort into his criticism today.
Harry followed slowly. His cousin Dudley and his Aunt Petunia sat on the living room sofa in front of a rotating floor fan set on the highest speed. Dudley was, strangely, somewhat less obnoxious now than he had been in past years, at least concerning his direct involvement with Harry. Harry had decided that rather than Dudley's temperament having actually improved, he just didn't care enough about torturing Harry to bother most of the time.
Dudley, too, had continued to grow—alarmingly. In his case an increase in circumference was rather more noticeable than any added height. He swaggered about with his friends, his build able to back up any threats he made. Harry felt he was lucky to have been able to fly under Dudley's radar since his return from Hogwarts in early summer.
Aunt Petunia was as proud of her son as ever, bragging about him to anyone who would listen and even those who preferred not to, if they weren't quick enough to avoid her.
"Ah, yes, that's the ticket," Uncle Vernon boomed enthusiastically as he wedged himself onto the sofa between Dudley and Aunt Petunia. Harry hovered in the background, wondering if he could safely escape up to his room to read his letter. But he lingered a moment too long.
"I say! D'you know what we need?" Uncle Vernon clapped a meaty hand on Aunt Petunia's shoulder. She winced as the heat from his sweaty palm penetrated her thin blouse and lessened the pleasant effect of the fan.
"What?" she asked testily.
"Lemonade! Some nice cold lemonade would just hit the spot. Come now—the very thing for a hot afternoon!" He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. Petunia nodded her agreement and edged away from him, turning her face back toward the fan.
Uncle Vernon jerked his head at Harry. "Well? What are you waiting for? The lemonade's not going to make itself," he said. He waited until Harry moved toward the kitchen to turn back to the fan, an expression of smug satisfaction on his fat red face.
Harry walked to the refrigerator and pulled the freezer door open, enjoying the rush of cold air on his face. Uncle Vernon glanced over in time to see this and snapped, "Don't hold the door open. You're letting all the cold out. Get on with it."
Harry sent Uncle Vernon a black look—once his back was turned—and closed the freezer.
"There isn't any lemonade," he reported.
Uncle Vernon threw up his hands in a must-I-do-everything fashion.
"Ever heard of the market?" he retorted. His face was red and sweaty and the vein on his forehead looked as though it could pop at any moment. He shook his head in disgust and reached for his wallet, pulling out a couple of pound notes. He waved them impatiently at Harry, who came over to take the money. Just as his fingertips brushed the bills, Uncle Vernon snatched them away and gave Harry a Look.
"Mind you bring back every penny of my change, do you hear?" he said belligerently, as if Harry were in the habit of cheating him out of his pocket change.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied. Uncle Vernon let go of the bills, and Harry only just managed to catch them before they hit the floor. He caught his uncle's eye for a moment and held it steadily, not saying anything. Uncle Vernon cleared his throat and hemmed uncomfortably, possibly recalling that Harry, although dependent upon him for room and board, was nonetheless a fairly strong teenage boy who—perhaps—one might be better off not pushing too far.
Harry walked to the front door. Uncle Vernon nudged Dudley, nodded at Harry, and said under his breath, "Butterfingers." Dudley gave a nasty snigger but was too hot to devote much attention to Harry just then. Uncle Vernon, angry at the setdown he felt Harry had given him, called out as the door was closing.
"Don't forget my change!"
Harry shut the door with more vigor than was strictly necessary. Feeling marginally better, he started down the walk in the direction of the market a mile away. It would have been faster to drive, but he knew Uncle Vernon wouldn't offer to take him, nor was he about to let Harry take driving lessons so he could drive himself.
As he ambled past the small park a couple of blocks from the Dursleys' home, he absently dug his fists into his pockets. Encountering the letter in his right pocket, his steps slowed further and he pulled the letter out. He looked longingly over at the shade beneath the park trees. After a brief moment of indecision he thought, Uncle Vernon be buggered. So what if he was gone a little longer than they expected? He just had to see the letter.
The thought of hearing anything at all from Hogwarts, even the standard start-of-term notification, sent a wave of longing over Harry. He stepped onto the grass and headed for the nearest tree, dropping to the ground beneath it. He sighed heavily with relief at being out of the direct sun. He flipped the envelope over and perused Professor McGonagall's formal, flowing script: Mr Harry Potter, Rear Garden, Number Four, Little Whinging, Surrey. He smiled at this proof that although he might be out of touch with the magical world over the summer, his whereabouts were always known by someone there.
A screech from high above in the tree made him look up. Something white fluttered in the leaves for a moment, then Hedwig, his snowy owl, descended to light on his shoulder. Happy to be out of her cage and away from Harry's bedroom for a change, she pecked affectionately at his ear and eyed the letter.
"Suppose it's the usual, eh, Hedwig?" Harry murmured. He drew out the folded piece of parchment. It read:
Dear Mr Potter—
I hope you have had an enjoyable summer so far. As this will be your sixth year at Hogwarts, your studies will concentrate on the subjects in which you must obtain sufficient NEWTs by your seventh and final year to enable you to pursue the career upon which you have decided. If, as you stated last term, you still intend to pursue a career as an Auror, this year you will study Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration.
Further, I believe I speak for all of Gryffindor House when I say that I hope you will consider rejoining your house Quidditch team as Seeker. I do assure you that there will be no obstacles whatsoever to your doing so.
The obstacle to which Professor McGonagall alluded was an over-zealous and overly ambitious witch by the name of Dolores Umbridge who had temporarily supplanted Professor Dumbledore as Head of the school the previous year and taken malicious pleasure in foiling any attempt by Harry and his friends to enjoy life. Early in the year she had confiscated his broom and forbidden him to play Quidditch ever again, a restriction which he and his teammates had hoped would someday be lifted. It looked as if Professor McGonagall was telling him this had happened, which was certainly cause for celebration.
Even taking into account his less-than-pleasant life with the Dursleys, Harry reflected, the months of being under the sadistic thumb of Professor Umbridge had without a doubt been the darkest of his life. Her malignant influence had so depressed him that he had given serious consideration to leaving Hogwarts altogether, regardless of his affection for the people who inhabited the magical part of his life. Fortunately, before the end of the year Dumbledore had been restored to his rightful place as headmaster and Professor Umbridge departed the school under mysterious circumstances. Life had returned to normal—as normal as it ever was, at any rate.
Harry read on:
Do enjoy the rest of the summer, Mr Potter. I recommend you get a good rest now, because you will need to put in some very hard work this year if you hope to progress toward your NEWTs. Term begins on the first of September. I look forward to seeing you then.
Cordially,
Minerva McGonagall
A second sheet followed containing the list of books and supplies Harry needed for the coming year.
"Ah, Hedwig—you know what this means, don't you?" Harry said, gazing dreamily into the distance. "A trip to Diagon Alley!" He looked forward to it with pleasurable anticipation.
Harry planned to spend the month of August at the Burrow, home of his best friend Ron Weasley, a fellow Hogwarts classmate and member of Gryffindor House. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had grudgingly agreed to allow this, although Uncle Vernon was reluctant to give up his boy-of-all-work a whole month before Harry returned to school. Desperate, and afraid his uncle was about to veto the idea, Harry had appealed to Uncle Vernon's mercenary nature.
"It'd be a whole month you wouldn't be paying for my food," he pointed out casually, trying to sound like it made little difference to him one way or the other. "You wouldn't have to even look at me...for a whole month." Uncle Vernon was clearly torn, but in the end his greed won. He even managed to convince himself that it was his own idea to get rid of his troublesome nephew earlier than planned.
"Though why on earth you'd want to hang about with people like that…" Uncle Vernon said, trailing off in an insinuating fashion. He snorted. "But then, look who I'm talking to. You're a freak just like them, aren't you?" He surveyed Harry through squinty eyes, clearly of the opinion that the situation was so bad, there was simply nothing to be done about it. "Well—good riddance to bad rubbish, I say."
Harry didn't particularly care what his uncle said, as long as he agreed to the visit. He glanced at Aunt Petunia, who was listening to the conversation with her lips pursed and an expression of extreme distaste on her horsey face. Her sister Lily, Harry's mother, had been the only witch in Petunia's family. Petunia and her parents were Muggles, or non-magic folk. Her parents were very proud, when Lily got her letter of invitation to Hogwarts at age eleven, to find they had a witch in the family. Petunia had never developed any magical tendencies whatsoever and had eventually convinced herself that this was a fortunate thing, expressing scorn for the entire magical world and refusing to discuss it or her sister.
Harry said no more for fear Uncle Vernon would think better of it and take back his grudgingly given permission for the visit. The knowledge that his indenture with the Dursleys would be of relatively short duration, added to the prospect of an entire delightful month spent with the Weasleys—who felt far more like family to him than his own—had got him through the worst of the summer. The letter from Hogwarts was a welcome reminder that it was nearly time to re-enter the magical world, which Harry thought of as his real home.
Now, sitting in the park and reading his letter to an attentive Hedwig, Harry sighed.
"Only one more week, girl," he said. "Then we are so out of here." He refolded the letter and got to his feet, immensely cheered by the thought. Harry continued on his way to the market, already mentally packing his trunk.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A week later, on August first, Harry suddenly realized he had no idea how he was to get to the Burrow. At King's Cross station, upon returning from Hogwarts in June, Mrs Weasley had firmly assured him that they would see him on August first. But he had not heard from Ron—or Hermione, for that matter—all summer. He wondered anxiously if they had forgotten him.
Upstairs his trunk was packed, Hedwig's cage had been cleaned, and Harry's broomstick was propped next to his bedroom door. But he was starting to have serious doubts about whether he was, in fact, going anywhere at all.
Uncle Vernon looked up from the dining room table, where he sat reading the morning paper, as Harry paced up and down the short hallway.
"Forgotten you, have they?" he said with a nasty smirk. "Not surprising, is it? It's amazing those freaks you call friends can function in the real world at all. Probably been shot out of the sky on those broomsticks of theirs, eh? Ha! Now that would be funny." He chuckled to himself as he flipped the page over.
The thought gave Harry pause. It was unlikely that any witch or wizard worth their salt would be flying in plain sight of thousands of Muggles, in broad daylight. But then...he had uncomfortable memories of a certain enchanted car that he and Ron had, three years previously, flown to school from King's Cross station after being unable to enter Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to board the Hogwarts Express. Mr Weasley's fascination with all things Muggle was well known, and Harry wondered uneasily just what he might be planning as a mode of transport for today.
If, indeed, he was thinking of Harry at all. Harry began to pace again.
Suddenly there was a loud crack! and a flash of green flame in the living room. Uncle Vernon gasped and jumped backward in his chair, nearly upsetting it. Harry raced to the living room. There stood Arthur Weasley himself, just stepping out of the Dursleys' living room fireplace.
"Harry! Good to see you, my boy!" he exclaimed as he stepped out of the hearth, brushing ineffectually at a streak of ash on his cloak. With a broad smile and outstretched hand, he advanced on Uncle Vernon, who stood agape in the doorway.
"My dear Uncle Vernon, how are you?" he boomed cheerfully. When Uncle Vernon merely continued to stare at him, Mr Weasley grasped his hand and pumped it firmly. "Good, good," he said, ignoring Uncle Vernon's lack of response. He looked around him eagerly, fascinated by the trappings of Muggle life and always on the lookout for something new to examine. Harry, recognizing that Uncle Vernon's shock was apt to turn to nastiness at any moment, stepped forward quickly.
"Hello, Mr Weasley," he said. "It's great to see you. I'm all packed—I'll just go and get my things, shall I? From my room?"
"What? Oh, yes, of course," Mr Weasley said absently. He wasn't really paying attention. His eye had been caught by a bright yellow racing car atop the television set which disguised a video cassette rewinder.
"Here, now," he said in delight. "How does this work?"
Uncle Vernon bustled up and snatched the car away from Mr Weasley, glaring at him as he replaced it firmly on the television. Mr Weasley beamed genially. Harry groaned to himself.
"Er, Mr Weasley, sir? Shouldn't we be going?" he asked, grasping Mr Weasley's arm and motioning toward the fireplace.
"Eh? Oh, certainly, certainly. Sorry, Harry. I tend to get carried away with Muggle things. Such a lot of very interesting things," he said wistfully as he continued to look around the living room.
"Yes, well, when we get to the Burrow you can ask me about any you like and I'll explain them to you," Harry promised hastily. "Hadn't we better get my trunk and be off now?"
Mr Weasley shook himself and nodded briskly. "Dear me, yes," he said. "Molly will have my head if I don't get you back straight away. Where did you say your trunk was?" Harry motioned toward the stairs.
"Ah! Of course. Let me see now—Accio trunk!" cried Mr Weasley. Harry's trunk appeared round the corner of the upstairs hallway and floated gently over the banister to land at their feet. Mr Weasley winked. "Maybe underage wizards can't do magic outside of school, Harry, but I can!" He fetched Hedwig's cage and Harry's broom downstairs in similar fashion, then held out a small box to Harry.
"Floo powder," he said. "You first, Harry. I'll follow with your things. Remember to speak clearly, now."
Harry gingerly stepped into the fireplace, a pinch of Floo powder in his fingers. He looked at Uncle Vernon, who was watching the proceedings and shaking his head slowly, fascinated in spite of himself.
"Goodbye, Uncle Vernon," Harry said quietly. Uncle Vernon merely grunted.
Harry took a deep breath, threw down the Floo powder, and cried, "The Burrow!" Heatless green flames rose around him, obscuring the Dursleys' living room and Mr Weasley. Harry felt a sharp jerk and began to spin. Before he had time to feel dizzy the flames had died down again and he was looking out of the fireplace at the Burrow into Ron's grinning face.
"About time you got here, mate," said Ron. "Buck up! Hermione's here and there's tons doing!" He grabbed Harry's arm and hurried him out into the bright sunlight of the Weasleys' garden.