Disclaimer: Not owning anything here…well, except my brain, which sort of puts it all together...

AN: Thanks for the reviews, my lovely, lovable readers!

Chapter 15: Of Curiosity and Conclusion

zt...zzt...zt...zt...zzzzzzt...

"Tom, Tom? Where are you?"

What was that sound?

"No Tom, don't...don't! It hurts! Don't...no! Tom!"

Buzzing...a droning hum...like...static...

"Hello, Tom, my name is Albus Dumbledore…"

It felt so cold...

"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to...I can speak to snakes too. They find me, they whisper to me. "

Over the murmuring, the humming – a voice? Whose voice was that?

"Sir, I wondered what you know about…about Horcruxes?"

The static's so loud...it hurt...

"Hello, Mr. Burke…"

The image of a boy – raven hair and eyes like dark rubies...

"Rumours of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them."

"Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore."

It's raining...it's cold...dark...the buzzing growing louder...and then a shriek...

"Not Harry, please no don't kill him, take me, kill me instead –"

"This is my last warning –"

"Not Harry! Please…have mercy…Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything…NO!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

He thought he saw a man, gaunt and pale – Death, his memory vaguely supplied – hovering over him, smiling and whispering something...

The cold, dead face of a young woman, bright green eyes frozen and vivacious red hair taunting the lifelessness of her features…she looked so afraid…

"MOM!"

Harry shot up in his bed, breathing heavily, brow dripping with a cold sweat. He whipped his head back and forth, blinking as he took in the pristine, whitish scenery of the Hogwarts infirmary, none other than the Headmaster seated at the foot of his bed, dressed in one of his garish, colourful satin robes - a rather bright one, with purple trimmings, and orange flowers embroidered about the tasseled edges.

"Headmaster...?"

"You have been asleep nearly three days, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said quietly, glancing over at the table beside the infirmary bed, on which was an obscenely high, unstable looking pile of sweets.

Harry blinked, slowly recovering his faculties, and also glanced at the table, smiling greedily when he saw the treasures on top. "Mine?"

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," remarked Professor Dumbledore, with a brilliant smile. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your acquaintances Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madame Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

Harry smirked. "I'll have to get it back from her – I've always wanted my own toilet seat. It's sort of like a secret desire I've never had the opportunity to articulate."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Is that so? I myself have always desired a warm, woolly pair of socks for Christmas."

Harry chuckled along with him, mulling over the events that preceded his waking - and then sobered, eyes flashing with recollection. "If I'm here...then...then you know what happened to Professor Quirrell?"

"Young Michael Corner wakened Professor Flitwick, last night, saying that you, Mr. Longbottom, and Mr. Boot had gone down the trapdoor on the third floor corridor. We found Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Boot before long - do not worry, they are quite well and unharmed - and they said that you had gone to prevent something from being stolen – we found you unconscious along with Professor Quirrell's burnt body."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, brows furrowing ever so slightly.

"I am curious, Harry, as to what happened to him…"

"I killed him," Harry interrupted quietly, "A desperate bout of accidental magic."

Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes, nodding grimly, before his twinkling blues were revealed again, warm with concern and sadness. "I am sorry, dear boy, that it came to that – but do not dwell on it, you were in –"

"I don't feel bad," Harry interrupted stiffly, though he didn't even know whether he was telling the truth or not.

"Indeed," Professor Dumbledore mumbled. "But I am curious as to how you knew of what lay below the third floor corridor in the first place."

"It wasn't hard to figure out," Harry shot back, "Your groundskeeper isn't exactly the most discrete of men. Anyone with some good instincts and a decently functioning brain could have figured it out. But on that note, I also am curious as to why something like the Philosopher's Stone was at a school in the first place. And why the protections guarding it were not designed to keep out an intruder, but rather to delay one."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, for one thing, they were obstacles - challenges that are meant to be overcome. There was no extra warding around it, either. In fact, it was almost as though you were begging someone to steal the thing."

Dumbledore's bright blue orbs twinkled rather merrily. "Indeed, Mr. Potter. You truly do belong in Ravenclaw House, don't you? Yes, I expected someone to try and steal the Stone – someone who was long believed dead –"

"Voldemort," Harry interjected, "You – you suspected that he never died that night, and you wanted to know for sure. This was all a set-up, for him."

Dumbledore nodded. "You did meet him, then?"

"Briefly. But that doesn't matter – a school, Headmaster? You endangered all of your students!"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It would not be in Lord Voldemort's best interest to attack the students of this school."

"Really? Because I think he wouldn't mind all that much if it meant living forever," Harry snapped.

Something akin to regret flashed across the elderly man's face, causing it to pale and, seemingly, to age. "Perhaps – I had counted on the fact that I and the other Professors would be present to lessen the danger."

"But in the end, it was still a gamble, even if the odds were in your favour."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "That is true, that is true. An unwise decision on my part –"

"Don't get me wrong," Harry said quickly, "I would have done the same thing, probably. It's just…not something I would expect from you given what I've heard about you."

Dumbledore's eyes opened to twinkle at Harry once again, a smile twitching across his lips. "Appearances can be deceiving, my dear boy."

Harry glanced from the Headmaster's bright, intelligent eyes, and down to his colourful, ostentatiously ornamented robes. "So you're not an old man talented at misdirection and spinning the truth, who is amused with human frivolity and uses it to disguise his own deeper designs?"

The Headmaster chuckled with a raised eyebrow. "Or perhaps, Mr. Potter, you just see things that others don't. All that, just from my wardrobe?"

"Not just your wardrobe, sir – you can tell when you look into someone's eyes how intelligent and focused they are; you're both, but you play the fool…pretty much all the time. People are distracted by your eccentric tastes and mannerisms, excusing it as pure madness, which you are apparently entitled to because of your past achievements. When you make odd decisions and make forceful moves toward a certain end, it's just 'Dumbledore being Dumbledore,' and that's alright because by all accounts, you're a great man. The wardrobe's just a nice finishing touch."

"And what do you think, Harry?"

"I actually appreciate your fashion sense," Harry mused.

Dumbledore laughed and shook his head.

But Harry only quirked an eyebrow, irritation creeping into his voice as he expounded, "I think, though, that you're just a man – I don't think you're a fool or a villain or a hero, you just let people think what they want, and use that accordingly to further your plans – because you do have plans, lots of them. There are lots of brilliant wizards around, but they all seem to lack wisdom and common sense – I think you have a great deal of both, but you refrain from flaunting it. I think, Professor Dumbledore, you know, since we're both being so honest, that you're not really a great man, not even necessarily a good man; you're just a man, who means well, and does his best, whatever the hell that means."

The Headmaster looked rather amused, and yet sobered at Harry's analysis.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "But whatever plans you've got for me, sir, you can forget about them."

"What makes you say that I have plans for you, Harry?"

"I highly doubt that you'd get into such an honest and frank conversation with a mere first year, even one as awesome as me – you're trying to earn my trust. Maybe…maybe you think, now that you know Voldemort's around, that there's some connection to me."

"But there is a connection, Harry – it was you that defeated him ten years ago."

"Really? Because I don't think you believe that, I certainly don't. Not that it really matters, seeing as he's not actually dead. But I think you might have an idea what really happened that night –even if you don't, you know what he was doing there, that night, don't you? You know why he wanted us dead." Harry dearly hoped that the anxiety and desperation wrenching through his chest didn't make it into his voice.

A deep shadow of grief passed over the Headmaster's face. "Who can weave through the mind of a madman?"

Harry grimaced. "Yeah, who but another madman?" he asked pointedly. "You do know the truth…"

"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer any question you ask me unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

"Then why did Voldemort want me dead? It was me, wasn't it?"

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day… put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older… I know you hate to hear this… when you are ready, you will know."

"Very good answer, Headmaster," Harry muttered.

Dumbledore only chuckled at that.

"I really cannot persuade you to tell me?"

The elderly man shook his head.

"You are aware that this is entirely improper and unjust, right? For you to keep so much from me."

"That, Harry, is a matter of opinion."

Harry sighed, quietly accepting that he wasn't going to get any further. "I am curious about one more thing, though, Headmaster – the mirror."

"Ah," the Headmaster beamed, looking quite delighted at the query. "The Mirror of Erised – it shows a person's greatest desire. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something; took a fair bit of tinkering. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking the Elixir of Life."

"Ah…so that's why it dropped into my pocket…I thought so."

Dumbledore looked thrilled. "You already guessed it? Wonderful, simply wonderful! I am curious, though, as to what happened to the Stone, in the end – I found only sparse remnants of it."

"A stray curse hit it," Harry lied easily, "It pretty much exploded. I hope you're not too disappointed…or Mr. Flamel, for that matter."

"Ah, you know about Nicolas? Do not let it trouble you, dear boy – I had discussed with him the possibility of destroying the Stone, and he is quite content to do so. To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, his wife, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."

"Indeed," Harry muttered.

"Now," Dumbledore said suddenly, standing up, "Enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets." He glanced up and down the shaky, poorly balanced pile. "Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavour Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit flavoured one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them – but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

A sharp warning zinged through the back of Harry's mind when Dumbledore picked up a pale brown bean, and he made to interrupt, but too soon the Headmaster smiled and popped it into his mouth.

Harry grimaced as he choked and said, "Alas! Earwax!"

Madame Pomfrey, a kind, motherly yet strict woman, had made a bargain with Harry – as long as he didn't press her to let his friends come visit him and rested quietly without making a fuss, then she would let him out in time for the end of year feast the next day, which Harry was very, very excited for. It seemed that in the end, the poor healer was not quite sure how he had managed to convince her, but Harry had only smirked at her; and to his surprise, she shook her head and smirked back.

The day of the feast, Harry was finally let out of the infirmary only a few minutes before it started, due to Madame Pomfrey's insistence on a last minute check-up – Harry, oddly enough, had found himself quite fond of the woman, and wasn't about to cross her more than he already had. Darting out of the infirmary, not even bothering to tie his tie, he burst through the doors of the Great Hall, puffing heavily, only as Dumbledore rose from his seat. The elderly Headmaster raised an eyebrow, but Harry only smirked and went to sit down between Terry and Padma, gleefully admiring the blue and bronze decorations ornamenting the hall.

"Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, looking over the suddenly hushed student body. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were… you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts…

"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; in second place, Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two; and finally, in first place Ravenclaw has five hundred and three."

The Ravenclaw table burst out in cheers, some of the students leaping up and shouting in their excitement – Terry, in particular, made a great show of leaping upon Harry and feigning tears of joy. Grin morphing into a scowl as he pushed Terry off of him and onto the floor, Harry glanced around the Great Hall, finding a few at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables clapping appreciatively – the Slytherin table, he noted, looked quite put off, except for Draco, who simply nodded at him, causing his grin to return full force.

Professor Dumbledore chuckled at the animated display, speaking loudly once again, "Yes, congratulations, Ravenclaw. I would like to note that this year, Ravenclaw has lost more points than ever before –"

Nearly everyone at the table glanced knowingly over at Harry, who grinned at them cockily.

"But nevertheless, has managed to win them all back and more, with not only academic prowess but also acts of daring. Yes, congratulations Ravenclaw!"

An applause broke out once again, and the Headmaster smiled and clapped his hands, an ostentatious feast appearing upon the tables as he sat down.

"Blimey, Harry!" Terry exclaimed, shovelling potatoes onto his plate, "They wouldn't even let us go see you – thought you were going to miss the feast!"

"Miss this? No way," Harry said, grabbing the potatoes from Terry.

"We were so worried, all of us," Padma moaned, gripping his arm, "We'd thought, since they wouldn't even let us visit, that you had been grievously wounded –"

Harry shook his head. "Just a bout of magical exhaustion."

"That took you out for three days?" Michael asked dubiously.

Harry only shrugged.

"Honestly, Michael," Lisa said, hitting him on the arm, "He just got out of the infirmary! Don't pester him!"

Michael scowled, grudgingly muttering something that sounded like "left me behind…"

"Well," Anthony said suddenly, a disapproving eyebrow raised, "At least your ridiculous scheme earned Ravenclaw some house points, in the end – you're lucky you didn't get expelled! I was sure you would be, for a while...Terry told me all about –"

"Anthony, Anthony, Anthony," Harry sighed, "I knew I wouldn't get expelled – and Michael, Terry, and Neville wouldn't either, because it would be unfair if they got expelled and I didn't."

"How can you be so sure you wouldn't get expelled?" Anthony snapped.

Harry sniffed pompously. "Elementary, Goldstein, elementary. Everyone just loves me too much."

Before leaving the feast, Harry had been glomped by Hermione, sobbing into his shoulder about how he was such a "stupid boy," Neville looking on at the uncomfortable scene apologetically, waving slightly with an awkward smile. After escaping Hermione's rant which viciously condemned putting himself at risk and disobeying school rules, he finally managed to escape the Great Hall early, making his way up to Ravenclaw Tower.

As he burst into his dorm, the first thing he did was leap in front of the mirror and grin at his reflection – no sign of Death anywhere, no sinking feeling, no despairing, irrational fear. His next course of action was to dive into his four poster bed and reach for the portrait under his pillow.

"Brat! Damn, it's been days! Where were you!"

Harry chuckled. "Aww...were you worried, Jean?"

The blonde man in the portrait scowled darkly. "Shut up. You're my heir – you can't just go off and die! Now, where have you been?"

Harry sighed, swallowing the anxiety that rose up in his chest upon hearing the barely disguised fury in his cousin's voice. "In the infirmary, mostly."

"The infirmary! What happened –"

"Magical exhaustion. I was out for a few days."

Jean let out a shaky breath. "Ok…alright, explain everything. Starting with when you left Ravenclaw Tower."

"Right…well, Terry and Michael figured out what I was doing, along with Neville. So all four of us sneaked off to the third floor corridor…"

"And you let them come?" Jean asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "It was more advantageous, in the end – I'm not sure things would have gone over half as well without them. Anyway, we left Michael up top to get help if we were down to long; turns out someone had already got past Fluffy, lulled him to sleep – by music, might I add – and so we went down the trap door, got past some Devil's Snare with an incendio….and then there were these flying keys…"

"Flying keys?"

"Yeah, weird, right? Professor Flitwick's, I think. Anyway, had to catch one while flying on a broom. There was a giant moving maze, next – we got separated, because only one of us was allowed in at time…Terry made it out way before me, even though I had to use Rhabdomancy! That pissed me off…"

"Bet it did," Jean mumbled.

"Neville got stuck in the maze though, so we went on to the next room, with a troll in it – someone'd already killed it, so we just had to endure the smell. Ugh…it was disgusting, really. We couldn't get past until we opened this muggle lock…"

"A muggle lock?"

"Yeah, one of those electric locks with the keypads, the ones you need the codes for…"

"How'd they get it to work right in the middle of Hogwarts?"

Harry shrugged. "Now that I think about it…there were some runes carved on the side – perhaps they figured out a way to make something similar? I don't know…I'm going to try to write to the Ancient Runes professor this summer – I bet it would help with that project Hermione and I are working on. Anyway, it was just a bit of combinatorics to get past; easy, actually. And then there was a room surrounded by some sort of magical fire – you needed a potion to get through, and you had to find the right one using a riddle. Only one person could go through at a time, so Terry and I split up, and I went through to the chamber where the stone was kept."

"And?"

"What?"

"What happened next?" Jean exclaimed.

"Well, it was empty, except for something called the Mirror of Erised –"

"Ah, yes…heard of it. Shows you your greatest desire. Pointless, if you ask me."

"You would say that, wouldn't you? But I didn't ask you - and I thought it was rather clever. Anyway, the Headmaster said he'd tinkered with it so that it would only give the Stone to someone who'd not use it for their own gain."

"And destroying it to save your own skin didn't count?"

"Apparently not."

"But wait – you said someone else had already come through."

Harry chuckled.

"What?"

"You're going to love this – guess who it was?"

"Who?"

Harry grinned.

"Who?"

"Quirrell."

Jean's jaw dropped. "No way! You can't be serious! Damn, the stuttering defence professor? Wow! Why'd he even want the Stone? I mean, except for the obvious reasons…"

Harry's countenance instantly slackened, growing grim. "For Voldemort."

Jean's face morphed into an expression mirroring Harry's. "Wh-what?"

"Turns out he's not quite as dead as people'd like to think…he was possessing Quirrell, somehow – had his face on the back of his head."

Jean grimaced. "Ew…"

"I know, right? Anyway, Voldemort wanted the Stone…"

"What was he like? The Dark Lord?" Jean interrupted, a strange, nervously eager light in his eyes.

Harry froze, before he shrugged uneasily. "I dunno – sort of evillish, a little pathetic, to be honest – wasn't that great," he said quietly, before he spoke up loudly again, "Turns out the whole thing about the Stone being here was really just a trap set by the Headmaster, who already suspected old Voldie never really kicked the bucket – actually, I thought Dumbledore was far more interesting than Voldemort."

"You talked to Dumbledore?"

"Yeah…came to visit me in the infirmary."

"Ok, wait a minute, how did you end up in the infirmary?"

"Er…well, I got pissed off at Voldemort, shouted at him, destroyed the Stone in front of him, and then he got pissed off at me, shouted at me, we had this badass death match, and then I somehow managed to burn Quirrell to death with my bare hands."

Jean blinked. "Wow."

"Yup."

"With your bare hands?"

"Yeah, accidental magic, I thought, maybe?"

"Huh – could be. You said your magic fended him off in the forest? I suppose it might have reacted to your distress and tried to cleanse Voldemort from Quirrell's body…kind of gross, though."

"Yeah, it sort of was. Why does my magic react to Voldemort like that, though?"

"I'd bet my entire Led Zeppelin collection -"

Harry cleared his throat.

"Er, your Led Zeppelin collection that it has something to do with why he couldn't kill you. Did you ask the Headmaster about that, by the way?"

"Yes – he sidestepped the question, though. The only thing I managed to find out for sure was that Voldemort was after me for some reason. And that the Headmaster seems to be under the impression that I'm not old enough."

"Well, you are still a brat."

"Oi!"

Jean chuckled, and then sat back in his portrait, scratching his chin musingly. "I don't suppose you asked him…Voldemort, I mean…"

"It didn't really come up," Harry replied flatly, before groaning and rolling over onto his pillows. "Bad luck, bad luck…why can't anything just, I don't know – leave me alone? It's like I should have died that night, and life's going to make me pay for getting that lucky for the rest of my sorry days."

Jean shook his head, chuckling even louder. But suddenly, his face grew grim, and his green eyes darkened sombrely. "Now that you know he's out there – and that he's after you – you've got to watch your back, brat. I can't have ya dying just yet. If he's gonna be tryin' ta kill ya…"

"Then I'll have to find a way to kill him first."

Jean raised an appraising eyebrow.

"I don't like him. Voldemort won't be alive for long, Jean, I'll promise you that."

Jean's eyebrows furrowed deeply as concern sparked in his eyes. "What happened?"

"Wha- nothing happened."

"Harry."

"Fine. I…remember what you said about oneiromancy? Well, I think…I think you may have been on to something…I think I got a vision, while I was passed out – of the past."

"Well, what did you see?"

"V-Voldemort's past..."

Jean's countenance sobered, suddenly growing blank – and then was tinted with a visage of grief. "Oh Harry…you didn't…you didn't see –"

"My mother – I saw him murder her," Harry whispered shakily, "I….I felt her die – I saw the light, I felt it snap, I saw her dead face…God, Jean…I wish…I wish that…." He struck the headboard behind him violently. "Apollo's such a damn bastard…sending me visions like that…" His head snapped up toward the ceiling. "Hear that, you pathetic nutjob? Got to start tormenting children now, you that bored!"

"You really shouldn't get in the habit of insulting powerful gods."

Harry huffed, rubbing his stinging eyes furiously. "I'll do as I like."

Jean sighed wearily. "Whatever…just…just don't die doing it."

It was not long before exam results were announced, with Harry and Hermione settling for an uneasy tie for the first years' top marks. Both received Outstandings on all their exams, but whilst Hermione's mark for History was significantly higher than Harry's (his was barely above an Exceeds Expectations), Harry's potions mark outweighed Hermione's significantly - apparently, all those times he willingly assisted Professor Snape in frightening the poor Hufflepuffs had paid off. Proud of beating Hermione 'Brainiac' Granger at an exam, Harry thoughtlessly named potions as his favourite subject, saying that it was the most brilliant study known to man. Nearly half of the student body fainted when Harry dashed to the head table the next morning and presented Professor Snape with a plate of homemade chocolate-toffee-sprinkle-marmalade flavoured cookies (made with the assistance of Tippy and the other Hogwarts elves), singing to the tune roughly reminiscent of Led Zeppelin's 'Rock and Roll':

"Long live the king of the potions lair!
May he long be crowned with greasy black hair!
Praise be to he who scowls and who stalks,
Lord of all potions, Severus Snape rocks!"

The ensuing silence had been quite awkward for both Harry and Professor Snape, and having gotten that out of his system, Charms returned to being Harry's favourite subject.

All too soon, though, the students' trunks had been packed and stowed away, and then they were being escorted, one fresh, warm June morning to Hogsmeade station, onto the Hogwarts Express. Just before he boarded the train, Harry was shocked when Hagrid barreled up to him, puffing as he presented him with a large leather bound book.

"Hagrid? What's this?"

"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer photos…knew yeh didn' have any…d'yeh like it?"

Harry had nodded forcefully, shooting Hagrid a meaningful smile before flipping open the cover and barely holding on to the bitter tears that threatened to spill upon a photograph of his mother – smiling, waving, and very much alive. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, he decided; fiery hair like a summer sunset, eyes bright emerald like the grass fields in spring, and a smile that would have made anyone's heart melt.

Harry, against his better judgement, spent the journey back to London with his new found friends and acquaintances – they conversed and laughed over the year's events, made plans for school shopping and study group for the next year, promising to exchange letters over the summer. It was a strange thing, Harry mused as the train swept through the hilly, green countryside – that he, who had always been an outcast, an unloved freak, was now surrounded by others like him, who at the very least were amused by him, and perhaps even thought of him as a friend. It was a curious thing, he decided, having friends, being liked – a rather novel and profound experience, to be actually wanted.

Hermione, just before departing with her parents at King's Cross Station, had given Harry her telephone number, so that they could continue to work on their project through the summer; Hermione had been quite thrilled (forgiving Harry of any misconduct concerning his trespassing the third floor corridor) when Harry told her about the muggle-esque lock he had found, suggesting that runes would be able to imitate muggle technology. After bidding his year mates a fond farewell, Harry had summoned the Knight Bus, greeting Stan Shunpike with a grin -

"How was school, 'Arry?"

"I totally rocked that place, Stan!"

- before paying the fare to return to Little Whinging, Surrey.

Which left Harry standing in front of Number 4 Privet Drive, setting his trunk down for a moment and taking in the scenery. It was surreal, he decided – coming back to the little house in the meek suburb, undifferentiated and perfectly ordinary. His initial reaction was conflicted, perhaps even turbulent – disgust with the plainness, the meaninglessness, the blindness of it all; relief to be in a place he knew well, a place that was starkly familiar; sadness at leaving all that he had come to...cherish, love, imbibe so fiercely; anticipation for the freedom that summertime brought.

Whatever it was that he felt, though, it did not stop him from seizing his trunk and dragging it up to the front door of Number 4 Privet drive – a white, polished, pristine slab of treated wood to hide behind – and throwing it open with a violent flourish, grinning as he stepped over the threshold and called out in a loud, cheery voice,

"Guess who's home?"

"I had a dream. Crazy dream.
Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go..."

Wow! Year one, already over…I sort of flew through that, didn't I? I think that's the quickest I've written anything in my entire life - if only I could produce essays at that rate.

And cheers, all of you, and thanks for reading (*cough*enduringmyinsanity*cough*) thus far!