Gaunt ~ Book 2

One~Potter

a/n:REMINDER FOR THE ENTIRE BOOK: SOME OF J.K. ROWLING'S WORK IS COMBINED WITH MINE.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry's room.

"Third time this week!" he roared across the table. "If you can't control that owl, it'll have to go!"

Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

"She's bored," he said. "She's used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night –"

"Do I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his mustache. "I know what'll happen if that owl's let out."

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue but his words were drowned out by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys' son, Dudley.

"I want more bacon."

"There's more on the frying pan, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes to her massive son. "We must build you up while we've got the chance. . . . I don't like the sound of that school food. . . ."

"Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings," said Uncle Vernon heartily. "But did you see that boy at Kings Cross?"

"Which one?" asked Aunt Petunia.

"The one with the boy," as he said this, Uncle Vernon did a sharp jab of his head toward Harry. "He looked like a twig. Where does he live boy?"

"He lives in an orphanage." said Harry, knowing exactly who they were talking about.

"Which one?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

It was true, Harry's friend Marvolo seldom talked about the orphanage where he lived. All Harry knew was he hated it. Uncle Vernon turned back to Dudley.

"But Dudley gets enough, don't you, son?"

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.

"Pass the frying pan."

"You've forgotten the magic word," said Harry irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands over her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

"I meant 'please'!" said Harry quickly. "I didn't mean –"

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU," thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table, "ABOUT SAYING THE 'M' WORD IN OUR HOUSE?"

"But I –"

"HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!" roared uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.

"I just –"

"I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!"

Harry stared from his purple-face uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

"All right." said Harry, "all right . . ." 

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like winded rhinoceros and watched Harry closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn't a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was not as normal as it is possible to be. 

Harry Potter was a wizard – a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like a stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the Wizarding world (six tall goalposts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

All Harry's spell books, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because he hadn't practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards call Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry's owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, stopping her from carrying messages to anyone in the Wizarding world.

Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse–faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet black hair that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.

This scar had made Harry particularly unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harry's mysterious past, of the reason he had been left on the Dursleys doorstep eleven years before.

At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards feared to speak. Harry's parents had died during Voldemort's attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow – nobody understood why – Voldemort's powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.

So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother's sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding how he could make odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys story about how he had got his scar in the car crash that killed his parents.

The Dursleys hadn't even remembered that today was Harry's twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn't been high; they'd never given him a present, let alone a cake – but ignoring it completely . . .

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said, "Now, as we all know, today is a very important day."

Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

"This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career," said Uncle Vernon.

Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking about nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming over for dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon's company made drills). 

"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," said Uncle Vernon. "We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be –"

"In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly. "waiting to welcome them graciously into our home."

"Good, good. And Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. "May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

"They'll love him!" cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

"Excellent, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. "And you?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harry tonelessly.