Emma Potter

50: Teenagers

It was nearly midnight, and I was lying on my stomach in bed Harry was doing the same,the blankets drawn right over my head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. I moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as I looked for something that would help me write my essay, "Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless —discuss." 

The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph,I moved my flashlight closer to the book, and read: 

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty seven times in various disguises. 

I put my quill between my teeth and reached underneath my pillow for my ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully I unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped my quill into it,and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of our quills on their way to the bathroom, This was one of my last essays thank god, regardless, we'd probably find ourselves locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.

 The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that Harry and I never enjoyed our summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son, Dudley, were Harry and my only living relatives. They were Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude toward magic. Our dead parents, who had been a witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned under the Dursleys' roof. 

For years, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry and me as downtrodden as possible, they would be able to squash the magic out of us. To their fury, they had been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of anyone finding out that  we had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

The most they could do, however, was to lock away our spellbooks, wands, cauldrons, and Harry's broomstick at the start of the summer break, and forbid us to talk to the neighbors. This separation from our spellbooks had been a real problem for us, because our teachers at Hogwarts had given us a lot of holiday work. 

One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking potions, was for my least favorite teacher, Professor Snape,who was also my head of House. Harry and I had therefore seized our chance in the first week of the holidays. While Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire Uncle Vernon's new company car (in very loud voices, so that the rest of the street would notice it too), We had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of our books, and hidden them in our bedroom. 

As long as we didn't leave spots of ink on the sheets, the Dursleys need never know that we were studying magic by night.Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with our aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood with him, all because he'd received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week into the school vacation.

Ron had called him, and Gryffindors being idiots well..

"Vernon Dursley speaking." 

Harry and I, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as we heard Ron's voice answer. 

HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT —TO — TALK — TO — HARRY — POTTER!" 

Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.