Classified (HP) WTM/RTB

Unveiled Dreams and Strange Conversations

Nearly a decade had slipped away since the Dursleys awoke to find their nephew on the doorstep, yet Privet Drive remained an unchanging canvas of suburban monotony. Only the mantelpiece photographs hinted at the swift passage of time, revealing Dudley Dursley's progression from infancy to computer games with his father and maternal affection. The rooms bore no trace of another occupant, concealing the existence of Harry Potter.

Yet, Harry lingered in the shadows, momentarily asleep but on the verge of awakening. The shrill voice of Aunt Petunia heralded the commencement of another day, dispelling the remnants of Harry's dream—an elusive fantasy that featured a flying motorcycle. His peculiar reaction drew concerned glances from those around him, perplexed by his unusual behaviour.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

As Aunt Petunia's footsteps echoed toward the kitchen, accompanied by the clatter of a frying pan, Harry, now alert, rolled onto his back, grappling to recall the remnants of his dream—a dream that seemed to replay periodically, always with the same flying motorcycle.

"Are you up yet?" demanded Aunt Petunia upon returning.

"Nearly," Harry replied.

"Well, get a move on. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn; I want everything perfect for Duddy's birthday."

Dudley's impending celebration, a fact Harry momentarily forgot, unfurled before him, and he reluctantly emerged from his bed, seeking a pair of socks under his cot. A spider clinging to one sock prompted a nonchalant flick before Harry put them on. The familiarity of spiders didn't faze him, as the cupboard under the stairs, his abode, harboured countless arachnid companions.

"PETUNIA, I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!"

"The Potter Heir living under a cupboard."

"I'm going to punch someone."

The outburst of frustration emanating from the room, for the young Potter. For it was clear that not even those whom he called friends knew about this. They knew things were never perfect but they never thought this.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"There was nothing you could have done."

Once dressed, Harry navigated the hall to the kitchen, where Dudley's birthday presents overshadowed the table. A new computer, a second television, and a racing bike lay amidst the pile, testimony to Dudley's extravagant wishes. Dudley's peculiar desire for a racing bike, given his aversion to exercise, unless it involved violence, left everyone perplexed. Dudley's favourite punching bag was Harry, but he could never often catch him, Harry was faster than he looked.

Lily and James exchanged glances, silently vowing to shield Harry from the Dursleys if they couldn't alter the future to preserve their own lives.

Despite having undergone numerous haircuts, Uncle Vernon's weekly decree that Harry needed another persisted. Harry, accustomed to such demands, donned Dudley's old clothes, his thin frame accentuated. A thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, a source of his only vanity, distinguished him.

"Quite the Potter hair you've got," remarked Sirius.

"If only I knew what it meant," said Harry, contemplating the scar.

Harry recounted his earliest memory, asking Aunt Petunia about the scar, only to receive a curt dismissal linking it to a car crash during his parents' demise. The unspoken rule was clear: don't ask questions for a quiet life with the Dursleys.