The Brazilian Boa Constrictor incident had left an indelible mark on Harry, etching an episode into the tapestry of his life that would endure as one of the most peculiar and consequential, for a little while at least. It was an incident that had repercussions far beyond the Dursley household, transcending the mundane contours of suburban existence. Little did Harry know that this encounter with the serpent would become a harbinger of the extraordinary journey awaiting him.
As the summer holidays unfolded, Harry was allowed out of his cupboard again.
"Well, there is your answer mum."
"I am actually going to kill my sister."
Dudley's gang became an unwelcome fixture, descending upon the Dursley residence with the regularity of clockwork. The quartet of boys, mirroring Dudley's brawn and lacking in intellectual finesse, made Harry's sanctuary increasingly precarious. The concept of "Harry Hunting" became a perverse sport, a macabre ritual that echoed with the taunts and jeers of bullies who found delight in the torment of the vulnerable.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere within the Dursley abode, the prospect of leaving for secondary school offered a glimmer of hope for Harry. The idea of escaping Dudley's shadow and embarking on a new chapter at Stonewall High, while not entirely devoid of challenges, held promises of independence and a reprieve from the relentless persecution.
"Stonewall High? That sounds dreadful," Ron quipped, casting a sympathetic glance at Harry.
However, the contrasting destinies that awaited Harry and Dudley at secondary school added a layer of complexity to the narrative. The chasm between Smeltings, a bastion of privilege with its maroon tailcoats and boaters, and Stonewall High, a humble local public school, served as a constant reminder of the disparate worlds that coexisted within the Dursley household.
Hermione, ever the advocate for equality, couldn't resist expressing her dissent. "There's no issue with going to a public school," she asserted, a declaration that prompted an impassioned debate on the nuances of educational institutions.
"He's not going there, he's going to Hogwarts."
"He didn't know that then."
"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall. Want to come upstairs and practise?"
"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it- it might be sick." Running off before Dudley could work out what he'd said.
Harry's comment caused the entire hall to smile and most cracked up laughing.
"Very nice," James said as he lifted his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes.
The evening after Dudley paraded in his Smeltings uniform, the living room witnessed a spectacle of contrasting emotions. Uncle Vernon, in a rare display of paternal pride, lauded Dudley's sartorial elegance. Aunt Petunia, overcome by maternal sentimentality, marveled at her "Ickle Dudleykins," transformed into a vision of maturity, "all handsome and grown-up". Harry on the other hand didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.
"Laughing at Dudley's expense is always a highlight," James commented with a chuckle.
Smelting's boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. On top of them, they carried knobby sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.
"Training for later life, what on earth."
"I'm suddenly grateful for the Hogwarts uniform."
The subsequent morning brought an unpleasant surprise in the form of a peculiar smell emanating from the kitchen.
"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia whose lips tightened as they always did when he dared to ask a question.
"Your new school uniform," she declared.
Harry looked in the bowl again. "Oh, I didn't realize it had to be so wet."
"Oh, Harry."
"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things grey got you. By the time I finish, it will look just like everyone else's."
"Sure"
"How in the merlin is that to look like everyone else."
"What's the issue with getting the actual uniform?"
Examining the damp bowl, Harry couldn't help but doubt the success of Aunt Petunia's makeshift uniform. He resigned himself to the situation, contemplating how he would appear on his first day at Stonewall High—perhaps resembling someone clad in bits of old elephant skin.
"Sassy Harry," Ginny laughed.
Dudley and Uncle Vernon entered the room, their expressions twisted in disdain at the peculiar odor that lingered in the air. Ignoring the olfactory assault, Uncle Vernon mechanically unfurled his newspaper, while Dudley, never without his Smelting stick, created a noisy clamor as he banged it on the table.
Amidst this mundane spectacle, the resonant click of the mail slot echoed, heralding the arrival of letters that landed with a soft flop on the doormat. From behind his paper fortress, Uncle Vernon issued a command, "Get the mail, Dudley."
"Holly Merlin, he's making Dudley do something," remarked one of the onlookers, a mixture of amusement and disbelief in their tone.
"Make Harry get it."
"Get the mail, Harry."
"Spoke too soon, didn't I."
"Got my hopes up there."
"Make Dudley get it."
"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."
"Is that part of the future life practice?"
Harry dodged Dudley's Smelting stick on the way to retrieve the letters. Upon reaching the doormat, Harry discovered three items, one of which bore the promise of a letter addressed to him, one that held an unexpected promise. The sheer novelty of the situation, receiving a letter, was not lost on him. For the first time, someone had written to Harry, and the letter bore a distinctive wax seal—a lion, eagle, badger, and snake surrounding the letter H.
He had no friends and no other relatives- he hadn't been to the library, so he never got those letters asking for the books back. Yet the letter was addressed so plainly that there could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
"You knew he was living under a cupboard," remarked a voice, laden with a mix of empathy and incredulity.
"Who writes that and doesn't do anything about it?"
"We don't write them, a self-writing quill does. Though it looks like that's going to change." answered young McGonagall.
"Who knows how many other kids are going through something similar."
"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still holding his letter close, handed the remaining two to Uncle Vernon, who proceeded to open them with varying degrees of interest. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust and flipped over the postcard.
"Marge's ill ate a funny whelk..." he began to inform Aunt Petunia.
"Who's this mysterious sister?"
"She's not mysterious, just unpleasant," Harry replied, evoking memories of an eccentric relative who, when present, brought an air of unpredictability that bordered on the surreal.
"Dad, Harry's got something!"
"Oh great."
"Why did you take it to the table, Harry," questioned Hermione
"Cause I didn't think that far ahead."
"That's mine!" said Harry, exclaimed, attempting to reclaim his letter from Uncle Vernon's grasp, the air crackling with tension.
"Who'd be writing to you?" Uncle Vernon sneered as he shook the letter open. One glance at it caused his face to turn to a greyish white of old porridge.
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. Looking like she might faint she clutched her throat and made a choking noise.
"Vernon! Oh my goodness- Vernon!" They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that there were two others in the room.
"I want to read that letter," Dudley said loudly.
"I want to read that letter, as it's mine," Harry said furiously.
"Get out the both of you," Uncle Vernon croaked as he put the letter back inside its envelope.
"I WANT MY LETTER!" shouted Harry as he didn't move.
"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.
"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall slamming the kitchen door behind them. The two cousins had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; which Dudley won, causing Harry to lay flat on his stomach to listen through the crack between the door and floor.
"Let go of my son, you walrus."
"That's offensive to walrus, James."
"You're right, Sirius."
"Vernon, look at the address- how could they possibly know where he sleep? You don't think that they're watching the house?" she said in a quivering voice.
"Watching – spying – might be following us," Vernon muttered, his rhetoric laced with a palpable fear that echoed through the cramped quarters of the Dursley household.
"But what should we do? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want-"
"No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything.." Vernon said after a lot of pacing.
"Like that's going to work."
"But-"
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?
"I'm sorry, what in the bloody merlin saggy pants?"
"I am going to murder my sister and her bloody husband."
"That's so dangerous."
"What's so dangerous about that?"
"It can cause someone to become an Obscurial, which is when due to abuse, psychical or emotional they developed a parasitical magical force inside of them."
This caused more distress in the magic community.
"Who treats a magical child like that? Stomping out the magic, what bloody idiots," Bellatrix added. Her more positive outlook on children causes her daughter and Draco to share a look of pure confusion that only the two of them can understand.
Later that evening, after work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before, he visited Harry in his cupboard.
'Where's my letter? Who's writing to me?" Harry said the moment Vernon squeezed through the door.
"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake, I have burned it."
There was an immediate uproar upon hearing this change of events.
"That's his letter"
"It was not a mistake, it had my cupboard on it," was the angry reply given.
"Nothing that accurate could be a mistake."
"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon. He took a few deep breaths and forced his face into a smile which looked rather painful.
"Yes-- Harry - about his cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... We think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."
"Second bedroom."
"Harry, how many bedrooms were in that house?" Lily asked, barely concealing her anger.
"There's four."
"Four and they made you sleep in the cupboard."
"What on earth was the last bedroom for."
"That's for Uncle Vernon's sister."
"His sister has a room there and you didn't," James added.
"Yeah, it's always eventful when she comes."
"Why?"
"Don't ask questions. Take this stuff upstairs, now."
The transition from cupboard to a designated room was a tectonic shift in Harry's circumstances, an ascension from the abyss of isolation to a semblance of normalcy. Yet, the room itself bore the scars of neglect, a testament to the superficiality that pervaded the Dursley household. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to the new room.
"Oh, that is ridiculous."
From downstairs the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out..."
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Knowing full well that yesterday he would have done anything to have this room, today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.
The following morning, a subdued atmosphere pervaded the breakfast table, Dudley's shock of not having his second bedroom back contrasting with Harry's bitter musings on missed opportunities. The arrival of the mail became a spectacle, marked by Dudley's reluctant attempt at politeness, Uncle Vernon's frenzied reaction to another letter, and the ensuing scuffle for possession.
When the mail arrived Uncle Vernon made Dudley get it, in what seemed like an effort to be nice to Harry. They heard the banding of the Smelting stick as he went down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive-' "
"The smallest, you got to be kidding me."
"At least he's in a bedroom now."
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon left from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right to his feet. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was difficult since Harry had grabbed him around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, everyone had been hit by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon had picked himself up, holding Harry's letter in his hand.
"Go to your cupboard, - I mean, your bedroom, Dudley, just go," Vernon managed to get out as he panted, trying to catch his breath.
Harry walked around his new room. Someone knew had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know that he hadn't received his first letter. That meant they'd try again, and this time he'd make sure they didn't fail.
The following morning, the meticulously repaired alarm clock chimed at the early hour of six o'clock. With a swift hand, Harry silenced its intrusive tones and embarked on the process of dressing himself. Choosing to move stealthily, he navigated the darkened corridors of the house, opting to avoid the flicker of lights that might betray his movements. His destination was clear — the corner where the postman would deliver the morning letters. The anticipation throbbed in his chest as he tiptoed toward the front door.
A sudden exclamation, "ARGH!" pierced the air, and he found himself launched into the air, he'd stepped on something big and squashy on the doormat- something alive!
The culprit? A sizable, squishy object on the doormat, which, to his dismay, turned out to be his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon, strategically concealed in a sleeping bag at the foot of the front door, had foiled Harry's intended interception of the letters.
"Not a bad plan, though," Neville said, his tone holding a mix of admiration and rueful acknowledgment.
"Pity it didn't work," Ginny added.
Uncle Vernon berated Harry for a substantial half-hour, concluding with a directive to make tea. Amid the clinking of tea cups, three letters addressed in conspicuous green ink made their appearance.
"I want- " Harry began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes.
"This son of a bitch," James muttered, his parents too furious about what was happening to comment on his language.
A sense of palpable tension enveloped the household as Uncle Vernon, driven by an illogical resolve, stayed home from work and fortified the mail slot to fend off the mysterious letters.
"That's not going to work."
The orchestrated campaign against the influx of mysterious letters marked a futile attempt to stem the tide of the unknown. Uncle Vernon, driven to the brink of paranoia, embarked on a mission to protect his familial fortress from the perceived threat of external intrusion.
The absurdity of Uncle Vernon's attempts, epitomized by the reinforcement of doors and windows, evoked both pity and amusement among onlookers who, privy to the magical undercurrents, recognized the futility of his endeavors.
"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up. These people's minds work in strange ways."
"He's underestimating the magical world."
"Or overestimating his ability to control it."
"Are you sure that it's ours that works in strange ways, cause what you do is not normal for anyone."
The narrative wove through days of escalating chaos, marked by the relentless pursuit of letters. Uncle Vernon's increasingly desperate attempts to repel the onslaught reflected the futility of resisting the magical forces now encroaching upon their mundane lives.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. They had been pushed under the doors, slotted through the sides and a few had even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
Uncle Vernon stayed home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and bordered up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could get out.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty- four letters had found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window.
"Oh, that's brilliant."
"Minnie, have new respect for you. Well, that's if you do deliver the letters," young Sirius said.
"I don't deliver them, I just resend but have never looked at the letters themselves, Should start going that too," she responds.
While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.
"That bitch."
"Sorry your related to her Lily."
"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in amazement.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. "No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully, "no damn letters today-"
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. The next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Durley's ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one-
"Yes"
"Why didn't you pick on off from the floor Harry."
"I was ten."
"It's better that he didn't. Would have wasted more time by bending over and standing up."
"See, my ten-year-old self is smarter than you currently are."
"OUT! OUT!"
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall. Once everyone was out of the room he slammed the door shut. They could still hear the letters bouncing off the walls and floor.
"That looked like it hurt."
The tension escalated further as Uncle Vernon, in a fit of desperation, commandeered the family away.
"That does it. I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!" he said trying to speak calmly but failing miserably.
They drove and they drove, not even Aunt Petunia dared to ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake 'em off.. shake 'em off," he would mutter.
"He is a crazy person."
As the day wore on, the Dursleys, driven by Uncle Vernon's increasingly erratic behavior, refrained from stopping for food or drink. Dudley, whose resilience was finally wearing thin, reached the breaking point. His howls of frustration echoed through the air as he grappled with the unprecedented miseries of hunger and the missed television programs that had become the focal point of his existence.
"That's the worst day of his life."
"Wow okay sure."
"Well, we can't all be winners," added Sirius, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
The weary Dursleys arrived at a gloomy-looking hotel on the city outskirts, seeking refuge from the relentless pursuit of the mysterious letters. In a gesture that almost resembled mercy, Dudley and Harry found themselves sharing a room with twin beds adorned with damp, musty sheets.
"At least there's a bed for you."
"Quality accommodations, as always," remarked Remus with a wry smile.
The following morning, a meager breakfast of stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast awaited them. The owner of the hotel approached their table, an air of curiosity surrounding her.
"Pardon me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? I've received about a hundred of these at the front desk," she said, displaying a letter with distinctive green ink.
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
"Can't get rid of the letters that easily."
Harry attempted to seize the missive however, Uncle Vernon, unfazed, deftly knocked his hand away.
"I'll take them," he declared, swiftly rising from his chair to follow the hotel owner.
Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia timidly suggested hours later. Her words, however, seemed to fall on deaf ears as Uncle Vernon continued his quest for an elusive resolution.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley mused, his realization arriving like a belated epiphany. The family had been locked inside the car at the coast, Uncle Vernon having vanished in pursuit of some undisclosed objective.
"You just realized that."
"He's a bit slow.
"It's Monday. The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television," Dudley insisted, clinging to the semblance of normalcy provided by his beloved television schedule.
Amid the chaos, it dawned upon Harry that if it was truly Monday, and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. His birthdays were never actually fun, the Dursleys' gifts, if they could be called such, were invariably disappointing. The previous year, Harry had received a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's worn-out socks.
"That was your present."
"I am going to spoil that kid so much."
"You, Harry, are going to be so sick of your birthdays in the future."
Uncle Vernon returned, his mood buoyant and accompanied by a long, thin package. The revelation that he had found the "perfect place."
"Storm forecast for tonight, and this gentleman kindly agreed to lend us his boat! I've already got us some rations, so all aboard!" He proudly announces as the Dursleys and Harry were led to an ominous-looking shack perched on a rock in the sea. The shack, their supposed refuge, was nothing short of miserable, exuding the unmistakable stench of seaweed, with a fireplace that was both damp and devoid of warmth.
"That's where you actually stay. Though he was joking."
"That's so stupid.
Uncle Vernon's optimism seemed unfazed as he proudly announced their stormy sojourn. The shack, battered by the impending storm, became the stage for the family's nightmarish ordeal. The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Uncle Vernon's chip bags-and-banana rations failed to inspire confidence, and his attempt to start a fire with the empty chip bags resulted in nothing but shriveled up and smoking chip bags.
"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" Uncle Vernon remarked cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the magical means that had been employed to reach them in the first place.
"I think he forgot that we have magic."
"He did read the letter, didn't he?"
Harry privately agreed though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.
As night descended and the promised storm loomed, Aunt Petunia, undeterred by the shack's inhospitable conditions, managed to scrounge up a few moldy blankets. A makeshift bed for Dudley was arranged on the moth-eaten sofa, leaving Harry to find solace on the floor beneath the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
Those who cared about Harry struggled to contain their anger, their thoughts veering toward revenge against the callous Dursleys. The room buzzed with silent plotting, a collective desire for retribution.
Harry, unable to find rest, shivered in the oppressive cold, his stomach growling with hunger. The thunderous snores emanating from Dudley failed to drown out the approaching storm that heralded the onset of his eleventh birthday.
"You poor thing," Molly Weasley murmured empathetically.
As Dudley's watch signaled the imminent arrival of Harry's eleventh birthday, the atmosphere inside the shack grew tense. Harry, contemplating whether to rouse Dudley just to annoy him, counted down the seconds.
"Please say you did do that," teased one of the pranksters.
"I was ten. Cut me some slack."
Three... two... one.
BOOM.
The entire shack trembled, and Harry jerked upright, fixating his gaze on the door. A mysterious presence loomed outside, knocking to gain entry.
"I'm sorry, what."
"This better be a joke."
The abrupt cessation of the narrative, marked by the screen turning blank, left the wizarding community on the edge of their seats, yearning for the continuation of the enigmatic events that unfolded in the desolate shack.
"Harry what happens after this??"
"You'll have to find out later," he said with a smirk that rivalled James.
~~author's rambling ~~
Sorry that this took a while to finish, I just found it really boring to write so I began working on other parts. I never realized how little Harry actually spoke in the first few parts of the book.
The next chapter is planned to be published on the 9th of December this is a Saturday where I am. If that changes I will comment about it.