Year Seven

Chapter 1 – Dursley Drama

 It was the 30^th of July, and the residents of Privet Drive should have been enjoying a fine summers day. At this time of year the temperature climbed very high and the identical looking houses with their immaculately-tended gardens should have been sweltering in the heat-wave. The streets should have been filled with the sounds of children, free from school for six weeks, playing and laughing, the gentle swish-swish-swish of lawn sprinklers and the occasional chime from a passing ice-cream van.

 This was, however, not the case.

 Although the sun overhead was blazing and there was hardly a cloud to be seen in the bright blue sky, the summer heat was not there. The air had the fresh, verging-on-chilly feel of a late autumn day. The slight haze rising into the sky was not heat waves but something else; even in the bright daylight the haze had a silver sheen to it. The fog that came down every night only retreated so far during the day, and its continuing presence during the daylight hours was disruptive – people were afraid to go outside.

 Privet Drive itself looked as it always did; the rows of houses near-identical, the lawns precisely cut and the gardens neat and tidy. Cars sat on driveways. From the odd open window came the sounds of television programmes or radio broadcasts. Number Four, the home of the Dursley family, had freshly-painted fences and an impressive, expensive looking saloon car sitting on the driveway as a result of a year of particularly good business at Grunnings. Inside the house the Dursleys were doing what they did best – complaining.

 The topic of their complaint was of course the strange fog and its effect on the weather. Vernon Dursley disliked this cool weather; it made the other residents of the street not feel like washing their cars, so Vernon was unable to wax his own car and comment loudly about how much more expensive his was as the other residents soaped and sponged, nor could he make any remarks about people breaching the hosepipe ban as there was no ban because of this dreadfully cool air. No lack of rain in the nights, that was for sure. Petunia Dursley disliked this cool weather as most of the other residents of the streets were choosing to stay indoors, robbing her of her most favourite pastime of being nosy. No matter how long she peered around the curtains her hawk like eyes were unable to tell what the other residents were doing. Dudley Dursley disliked this cool weather because he no longer had any children to beat up. During the day it seemed like only Dudley and his gang were roaming the streets, the play-parks and children’s haunts deserted. Dudley disliked the nights even more, when the creeping fog appeared and it grew even colder still. It brought back unpleasant memories of those things . . . the Dismembers, or whatever they were called. A shudder ran through him whenever he thought of them, which was often.

 With their usual outlets gone, there was only one logical place for the Dursley’s collective annoyance to be vented. Vernon rose from the kitchen table, placing the Saturday morning newspaper down as he did so and casting his gaze out of the kitchen window. He took in the appearance of the back garden and then lent his head out into the hallway and bellowed:

 “Boy!”

 Upstairs in his room, Harry Potter was shaken out of his thoughts by his uncle’s yell. He had been gazing out of his bedroom window, deep in thought, as he had been for much of the two weeks since his arrival back at Privet Drive. Slightly wearily, he got up and went downstairs to the kitchen. Uncle Vernon was standing by the window holding a cup of coffee with a smug look on his face. Aunt Petunia was washing up the breakfast dishes, humming along to the radio whilst Dudley was still busy shovelling his face with eggs and bacon, his piggy eyes fixed on the portable television set. Harry’s stomach rumbled as he eyed the remains of Dudley’s bacon – he had not been offered breakfast.

 “You called?” he asked.

 “The garden needs weeding,” Uncle Vernon told him, nodding his head towards the windows and making his jowls swing. “Get to it.”

 For the umpteenth time since he had come back Harry controlled the anger that threatened to rise every time he was forced to do some kind of chore for his relatives and simply nodded and went to fetch his trainers and the gardening gloves. He didn’t know what exactly was causing the Dursleys to be so cruel once again; perhaps it was the quiet and withdrawn way he had been acting, or the lack of any kind of communication from the Order of the Phoenix which had subdued them last year, or the knowledge that this was their last chance to take advantage of him. For whatever reason their confidence had been boosted and Harry had found himself once again being routinely ignored, shouted at and made to do draining household chores. He went along with it, partly because it was a return to some kind of normalcy after the chaos at the end of the school year and partly because the chores kept him occupied. When he was not busy in the garden or cleaning some part of the house (always done again later by Aunt Petunia, for he would never meet her high standards), or when he was not actively concentrating and making his plans for what was to come, his mind had a habit of slipping away and re-visiting those dreadful scenes that he still found it hard to believe had only happened two weeks before: Snape’s leering look of disgust as he cast the Killing Curse. Dumbledore laying broken beneath the Astronomy Tower. Bill’s horrifically maimed face. How close he had come to losing his friends. And Snape once again; Snape continually stopping every curse he threw at him as he had given chase over the grounds of Hogwarts, taunting him and his weakness, his ineptitude.

 Beneath his gloves Harry crushed a particularly persistent weed with his fist.

* * *

 Harry did not finish the garden to the satisfaction of Uncle Vernon until the afternoon. He was offered a meagre lunch and then allowed to return to his room.

 “We’re going out for the afternoon,” Uncle Vernon told him through the door.

 “You are not to leave your room.”

 “All right.”

 Harry watched the Dursley’s expensive car drive away down the street and resumed his familiar position of staring out of the window. It was open slightly, allowing the fresh breeze from outside in and ruffling his untidy black hair gently. His bedroom, usually a tremendous mess after only a short time, was unusually neat and tidy; all of his school things remained packed away in his trunk, which sat open at the foot of his bed. A few items of Muggle clothing hung over the back of the desk chair he was sitting in, and there was an empty glass on the bedside table, but otherwise the room looked barely lived in. The only reminders of the magical world were on his desk: the framed picture of his parents, Lily and James, dancing on a bandstand as the leaves swirled around them – Harry’s favourite picture - and next to that the empty cage belonging to his snowy owl, Hedwig. Hedwig was gone; Harry had sent her off to the Burrow a few days earlier with a reply to the letter Ron had sent him, which he idly turned over in his hands now.

Dear Harry

How are things mate? Mum wants to know when to expect you, I told her you’d be coming but I wasn’t sure how long you were going to stay with the Muggles. The wedding is on August 20^th but obviously the sooner you get here the better. Hermione and her parents are coming the day before I think, cause she wants to spend some time with them. Bill is loads better – he’s up and around and is talking about going back to work soon. If it wasn’t for the scars you wouldn’t think anything had happened to him really. Ginny says hi.

Ron

 Harry had sent Hedwig back telling Ron he would be coming during the day on his birthday, not wanting to spend any longer at Privet Drive than he had to, and to look after Hedwig until he arrived. Harry was not exactly sure how he was going to get there, as Ron had not mentioned anything about coming to get him. Perhaps he could catch the Knight Bus, if it was still running, or perhaps he would wear his invisibility cloak and fly there on his Firebolt, both packed away in his trunk. He did not have much longer to wait anyway; tomorrow was his birthday. He would be seventeen, and finally be of Age in the Wizarding World. He would be allowed to perform magic whenever and wherever he wanted. He had a vague idea that this occasion should be rather happier than it was going to be; it should be something to be celebrating with friends and – he felt with a pang – his parents, not passing uneventfully with his Muggle family. He glanced sideways at the picture of his parents, resting his chin on his hands. They smiled warmly at him as they danced.

 “There’s so much to do,” he said to them, his voice quiet. After Dumbledore’s funeral the anger that he had felt had given him a fierce determination for what had to be done. That determination was still in him, but after having two weeks of little to do here with the Dursleys but think he had begun to realise the enormity of the task that lay in front of him. It scared him, and it was coupled with a mixture of guilt and shame that he was not strong enough. It angered him to think it, but Snape had been right. He had not been able to stop him. He had not mastered non-verbal spells, and he had not mastered Occlumency. Snape had overcome him with ease, and so too would Lord Voldemort. Harry thought back to the ill-fated night within the Ministry, the night that Sirius died, and to the duel he witnessed between Voldemort and Dumbledore. Their spellcasting had been silent, fast, and so powerful. He could still remember the tingling sensation he felt from the spell Dumbledore had sent at Voldemort that had forced him to conjure a shield. The power was incredible . . . he was nowhere near that level. What hope did he have of destroying the Horcruxes, of taking on Voldemort, if he could not even perform non-verbal spells?

 Well, he knew he could do it some of the time, as a brief image of him dangling Ron above his bed in Gryffindor Tower when he had tried out the Levicorpus spell floated through his head. But some of the time was not good enough. He needed to be able to do it all of the time.

 Practise, Harry said that voice in his head that so often sounded like Hermione, as it did now. You just need to practise.

 Unfortunately that was the one thing he could not do. He was still bound by the Decree Against Underage Wizardry, at least until midnight. After his last conversation with the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, Harry had not dared try a single spell here at Privet Drive. As chaotic as things were at the Ministry at the moment, he had a feeling the Minister would not be averse to Harry being thrown to the Wizengamot for underage magic yet again, which was the last thing he needed.

* * *

 The hours passed slowly and day turned to night, the thick fog descending once again and pressing against the windowpanes. Harry was allowed to eat once the Dursleys had finished and were laughing at a game show on the television in the living room, although they thoughtfully left him all the dishes to wash up. He listened to the sounds coming from the living room as he dried the last plate and returned it to one of the cupboards; Uncle Vernon’s deep snorting laugh and Aunt Petunia’s whinnying kind of giggle. He allowed himself a small amount of joy in the knowledge that this was the last time he would be doing this. In a few hours time he would be seventeen, and tomorrow morning he would be leaving. Leaving this horrible place where he had been so miserable for so many years. But he would honour Dumbledore’s wishes – he would not leave until tomorrow, when the magical protection the Bond Of Blood gave him here ceased to function.

 He paused at the living room doorway on his way upstairs. Aunt Petunia was sitting next to Dudley on the sofa (with some difficulty, as he took up most of the two cushions) and Uncle Vernon was sitting in his chair next to them, all of them laughing as the game show host good-naturedly ribbed a contestant’s poor performance. He wondered if they even remembered he would be leaving.

 “What are you looking at, boy?” Uncle Vernon said sharply. “Get upstairs!”

 He suspected they did. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had a party to celebrate once he was gone. A grin broke out on his face as he headed up the stairs. He was going to have some fun tomorrow morning.

-

 Harry’s eyelids were beginning to droop when a loud double-beep from the digital watch on his wrist snapped him alert, his now rather battered copy of Quidditch Through The Ages sliding down from his chest and falling to the floor. The house was silent, the windows misted up from the fog outside. From the glow of his bedside lamp Harry looked at his watch. It was midnight.

 “Happy Birthday to me,” he said quietly.

 He got up from the bed, wincing at the throb in his neck from where he’d been slumped against the bedrest, and pulled his wand out from his back pocket. He always carried it, despite not wanting to risk trying any magic. Constant vigilance, he thought with a smile. But now a small thrill stole through him as he held his wand up.

 “Lumos.”

 His wand ignited with magical light, shining brightly and throwing out a long shadow behind him. Then he sat down to wait. Three, four, five minutes passed, and nothing. No owls came rapping on the window brandishing reprimands from the Ministry, and it had not taken this long the previous two times. The house was silent save for Uncle Vernon’s resonant snore from down the corridor. An odd feeling of nostalgia washed over Harry as he sat there, bathed in wand-light. It seemed like so long ago when Hagrid had first arrived and told him he was a wizard, and becoming of Age had seemed so far away. Now he was here, and free to make his own choices. Concentrating, he pointed his wand at his parent’s picture:

 Accio picture, he thought clearly, and it zoomed across the room and into his free hand with a small swish of air.

 “It’s a start,” he said, looking down at his parents. They smiled back as they danced.

 Nox.

-

 Vernon Dursley was having a very good Sunday morning. His coffee was rich and sweet, the kippers Petunia had cooked were delicious, the radio had brought news about a proposed increase in fuel tax for him to have a good complain about and Dudley had a boxing match that afternoon so he would no doubt be watching his son retain the county title for sixth time.

 “Eat up, Dudders,” he said, as Petunia put another two kippers onto his son’s plate. “Got to have plenty of energy for the big fight eh?”

 Dudley grunted what was probably agreement as he continued to stuff his face.

 “We’re so proud of you Duddykins,” simpered Petunia, her face glowing. “County champion for two years running!”

 “Great sport, boxing,” Vernon said as he drank more coffee. “Makes a boy strong, gives him the right attitude towards life. Not like half the other boys who go to Smeltings, eh Dudders? Bunch of pansies the lot of them, probably never put up a half decent fight in-“

 Crack!

 Harry materialised out of thin air next to the kitchen table. Dudley screamed, spraying half-chewed kippers across the table, Petunia shrieked and turned white and Vernon bellowed in surprise, half-jumping backwards out of his chair.

 “Good morning!” Harry said brightly, and pulled himself up a chair.

 “What the devil!” Vernon cried angrily.

 “What’s for breakfast then?” Harry asked, ignoring him. “Cornflakes, great.”

 He picked up the cereal packet (Dudley’s first course) and poured himself a bowl, then looked around.

 “Where’s the milk? Oh, there it is.”

 The milk was sitting on the kitchen counter. Harry took out his wand (Dudley screamed again) and with a flick he summoned the carton to his hand and poured it over the cereal generously.

 “What the blazes do you think you’re doing, boy?!” Vernon yelled, his face already red. “You can’t do . . . do . . .”

 “You can’t do magic outside of school” Dudley squealed. “You’re not allowed!”

 “DON’T SAY THE ‘M’ WORD!” Vernon roared at him.

 “I can now,” Harry said with a grin, enjoying every moment. “It’s my seventeenth birthday today, in case you’d forgotten. I’m legally allowed to o magic anytime now.”

 He began to eat his cereals, crunching loudly. Uncle Vernon’s mouth opened and closed rapidly, his eyes contracting with rage as he took this in. Dudley’s eyes never left Harry’s wand, which he still held in his other hand. Aunt Petunia was still staring at Harry, white as a sheet.

 “WHETHER IT’S LEGAL OR NOT YOU DO NOT DO . . . THAT . . . IN MY HOUSE!”

 “Going to stop me, are you?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow at him. He raised his wand again and summoned an empty cup from the cupboard, which closed neatly behind it after the cup flew out, and poured himself some coffee. It was beginning to go cold; another tap from his wand and it was piping hot again, steam wafting off it. Uncle Vernon watched this display, his face rapidly turning the puce colour that appeared when he was either afraid or particularly outraged. Harry crunched another spoonful of cornflakes loudly.

 “Daddy tell him to stop,” Dudley squeaked, his voice seeming to revert to that of a six year-old.

 “How dare you sit there and do that!” Vernon bellowed. “You ungrateful wretch! After we take you in yet again, keeping you safe-“

 Harry snorted.

 “Just like her,” Aunt Petunia said suddenly, and all eyes turned on her. She was still staring at Harry, her face white as a sheet.

 “Petunia, dear?” Vernon said worriedly, the anger quickly fading from his voice. “Are you all right?” His wife looked like she had seen a ghost.

 “She was always doing that, appearing all over the place and frightening me every time. Our parents thought it was hilarious, obviously, didn’t mind that it scared me . . .”

 “What are you talking about dear?” Vernon asked her, reaching over and patting her hand. Harry continued to eat but more slowly, listening with interest.

 “Lily,” she said. “As soon as she learned how to do that. What Harry just did.”

 “Apparition,” Harry said, smiling faintly as he imagined his Mum appearing at the Evans family kitchen table.

 “Sometimes it feels like it’s her looking out at me from behind those glasses,” Aunt Petunia said, her head shaking from side to side rapidly. “Those eyes. Like she’s watching me . . .”

 “Maybe she is,” Harry said, watching his aunt thoughtfully. He finished his cornflakes, tuning out the sound of Uncle Vernon’s voice as he once again began to berate him for use of magic and upsetting his aunt and Dudley.

 “Scourgify,” he said, pointing his wand at his bowl which instantly became spotless. Dudley yelped again.

 “You’ve upset my family for the last time, boy,” Uncle Vernon was saying as Harry left the kitchen. He grinned. That had felt good.

 He came back downstairs a few minutes later, dragging his heavy trunk behind him and wearing his black school travelling cloak. He found the Dursleys still in the kitchen; Uncle Vernon was still attempting to calm down Aunt Petunia, while Dudley had been forced to wash the dishes. He was up to his arms in soap bubbles as he watched Harry come in, glancing quickly to see if he was carrying his wand.

 “I’m leaving,” Harry announced, “and I won’t be coming back.”

 “Too right you won’t be coming back,” Uncle Vernon said as he rose up, his moustache bristling. “You’re not welcome in this house any more!”

 “I wish I’d never had to come here,” Harry said right back at him, allowing some of the anger and frustration from the years of misery he had suffered here to come to the surface. “But I made a promise, and now I’ve kept it.”

 He looked around at them, his Muggle relatives who still refused to permit magic in their lives, after everything that had happened. The ones who had treated him so badly. He turned his head to the hallway, and the hateful cupboard under the stairs that had used to be his home. His raised his wand and pointed at it.

 “Colloportus.”

 There was the familiar squelching sound and a faint glow from the outline of the cupboard door.

 “That cupboard’s had enough use.”

 “What have you done, boy?” Uncle Vernon said angrily. “My best suit is hanging in there!”

 “And my new trainers!” Dudley wailed.

 “And the hoover,” Aunt Petunia said, her voice now sounding normal again but horrified at thought of nothing to vacuum with.

 Harry grinned.

 “Bye.”

 And then, concentrating firmly on the Burrow, he turned to his left and with another crack! he vanished.

* * *