They did talk more. While Harry's peculiar ancestry wasn't known to most people in Little Whinging, the rest of the gang knew about it, so Harry also talked to the gang, because kids like to talk about wondrous things. He talked to Piers and Gordon- well, talked at Gordon- and Dennis and Malcolm when they came back from grandmum's and got "sprung," as Piers insisted on calling it, respectively. He and Dudley talked about it, quietly, whenever they had the chance.
So a week after receiving the letter, when the family talked about it until they were all blue in the face and cross eyed. More letters arrived by then, several between the initial delivery and Harry's birthday, until the boy knew he had to make a decision.
He plopped down into his chair at supper and ate in a hurry, to Vernon's bemused look and Petunia's raised eyebrow. When he drew the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it, the two looked at each other with knowing expressions.
"You've decided, then, Harry?" Dudley asked.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. I've decided." He looked around at them. "There are some things I've got to know," he said, words slow, "about my mum and dad, and other stuff, and I can't learn it in Little Whinging."
Vernon gave a slow nod and Petunia blinked back tears, but also nodded. Dudley clapped him on the shoulder, and Harry took out his ever-present brio and scrawled a note on the first page, slipped it into an envelope that he inscribed with McGonagall's name, as well as the school's, and sealed it. Then he paused.
"How… how do I get it there?" he asked, puzzled.
In the end, it turned out to be as simple-and silly- as climbing onto the roof of the house and holding the letter into the air with one hand. Harry felt self-conscious the whole time, even with Dudley there, and Vernon and Petunia below, Vernon still bracing the ladder after the boys climbed to the roof, and Petunia pacing back and forth in the back garden.
An owl swooped down out of the evening darkness and snatched the letter from Harry so fast he didn't yank his empty hand back for several seconds, shocked to find it suddenly letterless. "That thing could have taken my hand off," he griped to Dudley. "I'm lucky I still have fingers."
More time, and Harry stood in King's Cross Station, a trunk on a cart behind him, an owl in a cage atop it, and looked around at a loss. He turned back to his family. "Honestly," he said, "how on earth do you get to Platform 9 ¾? Do you just go most of the way to Platform 10?"
"Look for the oddest people," Vernon suggested, "they'll either be wizards or from Glastonbury."
Petunia sighed and shook her head at her husband. "You!" She considered. "Though you're not wrong," she admitted after a moment. She knelt to regard Harry. "Do you have everything you need, son?"
He nodded. "Yes, mum. That huge bloke with the West Country accent you barely understand helped me get everything." He looked around and lowered his voice. "And, uh, apparently, I'm loaded as far as wizards are concerned, and it seems the, um, goblins… that handle all their banking have very liberal ideas about what 'age of majority' means, and, well… well." He looked around again and reached into the front pocket of his jumper, then pulled out an envelope. "I wanted to give you all this," he said, "because you've…" He paused and swallowed hard. "Because you've taken such good care of me, and…" He broke off again and shoved the envelope into Vernon's hands.
Vernon raised an eyebrow, opened the thick envelope, and nearly choked to death. "Good Lord, boy, there must be close to…" He also lowered his voice. "Close to five thousand pounds in here," he whispered.
Petunia's mouth snapped shut. "What?" she gasped. "Harry, you don't need to give us money! We're your family!"
Vernon nodded and looked at Harry. "Lad…" he started.
"No, seriously, guys," Harry said, "there's this vault with my dad's name on it, 'Potter,' it says, and there's a huge pile of bloody gold in there." Petunia couldn't even speak to object to the profanity. "And I want to pay you back. I know we're family, but, you know, I want to help out." Harry looked at Vernon and gave him a weak grin. "You still owe me for all those chess games, though, dad."
While Vernon chuckled, Dudley said, "You better give me such a good gift on my next birthday, mate," and Petunia fluttered her hand at him as if she couldn't muster the strength to clip him one 'round the ears for cheek.
Harry returned a weak smile and said, "Deal, Duds." Then he ducked in and hugged the larger boy, who stood for a moment, then wrapped his arms around the closest thing he had to a brother.
"Make sure you call," Petunia said, "or write, or whatever…"
Harry patted a strap of the pack he wore over one shoulder. "I picked up a cell phone at the petrol station," he said, "prepaid. The clerk assured me it would work in the wilds of Scotland. Got brios and notepads and such, too, down the news agent's. I didn't want to put it all in the trunk, because who knows what that stuff would do to normal things?" He hugged Vernon, who also gave him a manly clap on the shoulder and said, "I don't know how I'll charge it, since they don't have electricity, apparently. I'll figure something out, though."
"Barbaric," Dudley said with a grin.
"At this point," Harry told him, "I'm just hoping for indoor plumbing." He took a deep breath. "Right: I'm off. If I stay here any longer, I'm going to change my mind." There was another round of hugs, and Harry got out, "I, I love you all!" and then the trio watched Harry walk away, the backpack over one shoulder looking like it would crush him, the massive trunk on a cart squeaking in his wake, the cage with an owl in it, an actual owl, perched atop the trunk and covered with a light cloth to prevent the ordinary passengers wondering why a small boy was carting about an owl.
Harry shook his head as he arrived at Platform 9, and looked around, as lost as he'd been since he entered King's Cross. "Why couldn't they just have everyone drive, or whatever," he muttered, "no, it's got to be a stupid bloody train at a stupid bloody partial platform…" He sighed. "Right, look for the oddest people; that will get me either to Hogwarts or Glastonbury Tor." He looked around, blinked at an approaching sight, and muttered to himself, "An armada of freckled redheads with trunks; if that doesn't qualify as 'odd,' then I'm Aunt Marge." He cleared his throat and as the older, plump woman approached, said, "Excuse me…"