The next morning, Aunt Petunia opened the locks on the bedroom door – without announcing herself – and ordered Harry to cook breakfast. Fortunately, Harry had stashed the stone and the letter under a loose floorboard under his bed.
Life seemed to go on normally outside his bedroom. He cooked breakfast for the Dursleys, nicking a burnt bacon for himself when nobody else was paying attention to him, and cleaned the cooking utensils afterwards. He was fortunate that this time Aunt Petunia gave him several burnt toasts for his meal. (An added bonus, after the stolen bacon.) But sadly, he did not get to finish them.
Mails in thick yellowish envelops rained down the chimney and poured into the kitchen – precisely, onto Uncle Vernon's head. His uncle roared like an injured bull and promptly thrust him and Dudley out of the kitchen. Harry managed to grab neither his remaining toasts nor a letter from the slew.
Not five minutes later, after a fierce but silent scuffle between the cousins vying for the keyhole to peep through, Uncle Vernon himself jerked open the kitchen door and ordered them to pack. They were leaving. Just… they were leaving.
Harry fitted all his belongings into a single rucksack. He did not know when they would come back home, and if he would be counted in their number then, so it was best to sprinkle some caution in his judgement. Uncle Vernon was temperamental at best and unpredictable at worst, and now it seemed that he was zoning in on Harry. (It was never a good sign.) And for that reason also, Harry took care that he appeared downstairs only when Aunt Petunia did. (Dudley was still thumping away in his bedroom beside Harry's, probably trying to pack his computer.)
Everything was indeed in his backpack, minus the pale-blue stone he had gotten yesterday. The stone was stowed away in his jeans' pocket, clutched in his fist whenever the Dursleys were not looking. (And there was plenty of chance for that during the preparation for their abrupt departure.) The stone had given him the only source of warmth – evident warmth – in all his childhood so far. He did not want to part with it.
Dudley already whinged and cried during the first leg of their aimless journey. That made Harry frustrated and long for the relative silence of his rickety bedroom. The mere presence of the stone in his pocket could no longer soothe him now, so he put the instruction from yesterday to use. He concentrated on the stone in his grasp, while pretending to sleep.
The same warmth and acceptance flooded his being, tangible yet invisible. Driven by impulse, Harry added his own longing to the pleasant mix.
He was answered. – Water, various bodies of water. He had to put the stone in water. – The message was vague, but understandable; tantelising.
He would act on the instruction as soon as possible. Perhaps the stone would bring him somewhere good – preferably far from the Dursleys?