Chapter Text
Living at Number Four, Privet Drive was pretty much the worst thing in Harry’s life. He hated it here—hated the Dursleys with every bit of him.
Uncle Vernon cleared his throat like he was some big important wizard about to give a prophecy. “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”
Harry looked up, almost shocked Uncle Vernon might actually say something actually important for once.
“Today, I might be making the biggest deal of my career,” Uncle Vernon said proudly.
Harry bit back a snort and went back to his toast. Of course. What else would it be? For two whole weeks there’d been only one topic in this stupid house: the Masons. The rich couple coming over for dinner. Uncle Vernon was hoping for a huge order for his drill company.
“I think we should review the evening plan one more time,” Uncle Vernon said, sitting up straighter. “We all need to be in position by eight o’clock sharp. Petunia, you’ll be…?”
“In the living room,” Aunt Petunia said quickly. “Greeting them gracefully.”
“Good, good. And Dudley?”
“I’ll open the door.” Dudley grinned, looking as dopey as ever. “May I take your coat, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
“They’re going to adore Dudley!” Aunt Petunia squealed, looking like she might cry.
“Excellent, my boy,” Uncle Vernon beamed, then turned to Harry. “And you?”
“I’ll be in my room, silent as a ghost, pretending I don’t exist,” Harry said flatly.
“Exactly,” Uncle Vernon said with satisfaction. “I’ll bring them in, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them some drinks. At a quarter past eight…”
“I’ll announce dinner is ready,” Aunt Petunia finished.
“And Dudley, you’ll say…”
“May I show you to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” Dudley said sweetly, offering his pudgy arm to an invisible guest.
“My perfect little gentleman,” Aunt Petunia whispered, touched.
“And you?” Uncle Vernon barked at Harry again.
“I’ll be in my room, silent as a ghost, pretending I don’t exist,” Harry repeated, bored out of his mind.
“Exactly. That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Uncle Vernon snapped. “The Masons don’t know you exist, and it needs to stay that way. After dinner, Petunia will take Mrs. Mason back to the living room for coffee, while I steer the conversation toward drills. If everything goes well, the deal will be done and the contract signed before the Ten O’Clock News. And tomorrow night, we can celebrate by buying a holiday home in Majorca.”
Harry didn’t feel even a bit excited about that. He knew the Dursleys wouldn’t like him any more in Majorca than they did here.
“Right—I'm heading into town to pick up the dinner jackets for me and Dudley,” Uncle Vernon said, getting to his feet. He shot Harry a threatening glare. “And you—don’t you dare bother your aunt while she’s cleaning the house.”
Harry slipped out the back door. The weather was ridiculously bright, the sun beating down on the too-neat, too-boring Privet Drive. He crossed the yard, flopped onto the garden bench, and sang quietly under his breath, like he didn’t want even the wind to hear.
“Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…”
No cards. No presents. And tonight he’d spend his birthday pretending he didn’t exist. He stared emptily at the hedge, chest tight like someone was pressing down on it from the inside. He’d never felt this lonely before.
More than anything at Hogwarts—more than flying lessons, more than Quidditch, more than warm dinners in the Great Hall—Harry missed his friends. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, even Crabbe and Goyle. But none of them had sent him a single word all summer. Not one letter. It was like the entire wizarding world had quietly shut him out.
More than once, Harry almost opened Hedwig’s cage with magic—almost let her fly off and carry a letter to anyone who remembered Harry Potter was still alive. But the risk was too big. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to do magic outside school. And even though he’d never explained that rule, the Dursleys were still terrified of him—terrified he might actually turn them into dung beetles.
For the first two weeks, Harry still got a bit of fun out of scaring Dudley with fake spells—just whispering “abracadabra” was enough to make the big lump bolt out of the room screaming.
But eventually, even that wasn’t funny anymore. With no news, no voice, nothing from the wizarding world, it all felt like it was drifting further and further away. Harry felt stranded in some strange dimension, trapped in strangers’ house, slowly being forgotten by the world that once felt real.
And today—even his birthday—was forgotten.
He would’ve given anything for a letter from Hogwarts. From anyone.
Even bad news would’ve been fine. Even Voldemort showing up right in front of him—at least that would prove the world was still real. That he was still part of it.
All his magical things—books, wand, robes, cauldron, his Nimbus Two Thousand—were locked in the cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon. Harry was pretty sure the only reason they hadn’t locked him in there too was because they were scared of him.
Good thing Uncle Vernon didn’t know about the potion Snape had given him before he left; the one Harry drank every night in secret. That potion was the reason he could stay healthy even with the horrible excuse for food in this house. Without it, he’d probably look like a ghost of himself.
Harry was grateful for that. At least when he went back to Hogwarts, he wouldn’t look weak in front of anyone—especially not Draco.
And that’s when his thoughts slipped again.
That name—Draco Malfoy.
Harry let out a sharp, angry huff at himself. But it was useless. The moment he tried to stop thinking about Draco, the blond’s image came back even stronger. Everything about Draco haunted his mind without mercy. The longing felt like a sickness that crept from his chest into every corner of him.
Every night, he tried to distract himself: by thinking of Ron, Hermione, the other Slytherins, anything except those grey eyes and that stupid, perfect hair.
But the more he pushed it away, the worse it got. Like his soul was rattling under his skin, begging to release something—magic, emotion, maybe both.
Day after day, he waited for a letter from Draco. But it never came.
Not a single owl.
Not a single message.
And that’s when things really started breaking.
His magic, normally obedient, began to twist and surge on its own. Aunt Petunia’s plants wilted and died overnight—she cried so loudly the neighbors probably heard. Dudley screamed when the cake in his hand exploded into a cloud of sugar—he hiccupped and sobbed for half an hour. The bathroom mirror shook and cracked, pulsing in time with Harry’s anger.
Harry tried to hold everything in—swallowing every spark, every tremor of magic desperate to burst out, biting his lip until it bled just to keep the energy from jumping out of his fingertips.
But no matter how hard he fought it, his longing for Draco burned hotter, wilder, like embers doused in gasoline.
He knew that if he let his mind drift to Draco again, even for a second… something inside him might explode.
And still, he slipped.
One second. That was all it took. Draco’s face flashed through his mind—sharp, sudden—and it felt like someone reached inside his chest and crushed his heart with their bare hands. His breath hitched, his eyes stung, and his ribs felt like they were going to crack open. He almost cried—not because he was weak, but because the longing hurt so much his body had no idea what else to do except fall apart.
That was when he felt it—his magic pulsing, trembling, strung tight like a bowstring about to snap.
And right at that perfect, horrible moment, a heavy, annoying voice sliced through the air.
“I know what day it is,” Dudley sing-songed as he waddled toward him.
Harry wiped his eyes fast, trying to shove the magic firestorm back down. At least Dudley’s interruption kept him from blowing up the whole street.
“It’s your birthday,” Dudley sneered. “Why didn’t you get a single card? Don’t you have any friends at that freak school?”
In an instant, the sadness twisted into pure fury.
“Say one more thing about my friends and I’ll roast you alive,” Harry growled. His eyes flashed, his voice shook, and magic buzzed at his fingertips like static begging to burn.
Dudley stumbled back, face pale, shaking. “B-but Dad said you’re not allowed to use magic! He said he’ll kick you out! You don’t have anywhere else to go—you don’t have any friends who actually want you—”
“Jiggery pokery,” Harry snapped. “Hocus pocus. Squiggly wiggly.”
“MUMMMMM!” Dudley screamed, tripping over his own feet as he bolted for the house. “MUUUM! He’s doing the freak stuff again!”
Harry let out a loud, sharp breath, trying not to scream. His magic thrashed around him like a storm barely held in place. He forced himself to calm down—but even his heartbeat felt like a spell about to explode.
Aunt Petunia punished him ruthlessly that day, without a shred of mercy. Harry took it without fighting back. At least it drowned out the ache in his chest.
By the time night came, he’d finished cleaning the whole house.
“Eat! The Masons will be here any minute!” Petunia snapped, pointing at two slices of bread and a pathetic lump of cheese. She was already wearing her salmon-pink evening dress.
Harry washed his hands, ate his sad excuse for dinner, and was immediately sent upstairs. As he passed the living room, he caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in tuxedos and bow ties, looking like overgrown circus clowns. He’d barely reached the stairs when the doorbell rang.
“Remember—one sound…” Vernon hissed.
Harry slipped into his room, shut the door quietly, turned around—
—and froze.
Because someone was already sitting on his bed.
Harry managed not to scream—barely.
The tiny creature sitting on his bed had huge bat-like ears and big, tennis-ball-sized green eyes staring right at him.
They stared at each other for a few long seconds—long enough for Harry to hear Aunt Petunia greeting Uncle Vernon’s guests downstairs.
Then the creature slid off the bed and bowed so low its long, thin nose actually touched the carpet. Harry finally got a good look at what it was wearing: an old pillowcase, patched up everywhere, with rough holes ripped for arms and legs.
“Uh—hi,” Harry said carefully.
“Harry Potter!” the creature squeaked, voice so shrill Harry was positive everyone in the living room heard it. “Dobby has wanted to meet you for so long, Sir… such a great honor!”
“Th-thanks,” Harry stammered, pressing himself against the wall and dropping into the chair next to Hedwig’s cage. His owl was still fast asleep, completely unfazed by the chaos.
Harry really wanted to ask What are you?, but that felt rude, so he went with, “Who are you?”
“Dobby, Sir,” said the creature, eyes shining like he was looking at a legend. “Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf.”
“Oh… okay,” Harry murmured. “Um—not that I’m trying to kick you out or anything, but… this is, like… a really bad time for me to be hosting—uh—house-elves in my bedroom.”
From downstairs came Aunt Petunia’s fake, high-pitched laugh, followed by the scrape of chairs. Harry knew that meant Uncle Vernon’s guests were getting drinks.
Dobby’s head drooped instantly, his big ears flopping down like wet cloth.
“It’s not that I’m not happy to meet you,” Harry rushed out, not wanting to crush whatever feelings the elf had, “but… uh… is there a special reason why you’re here, Dobby?”
“Oh yes, Sir,” Dobby said excitedly. “Dobby came to warn you, Sir… hmm, where should Dobby start…”
“Go ahead, sit down,” Harry said politely, pointing to the bed.
He nearly choked when tears immediately streamed down the elf’s face—Dobby burst into loud sobs.
“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never in my whole life…”
Harry heard the voices downstairs suddenly go quiet.
“Sorry,” he whispered quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend Dobby!” the elf cried, barely able to talk through his hiccups. “Never has Dobby been asked to sit by a wizard—like we’re equals…”
Harry panicked, waving his hands, desperate to calm him down before the whole house heard. Thankfully, after a moment, Dobby slowly settled.
“You probably just haven’t met many polite wizards,” Harry said, trying to cheer him up.
Dobby shook his head. Then—without warning—he jumped up and started smashing his head against the window.
“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
“Stop—what are you doing?” Harry hissed, leaping forward and dragging Dobby back onto the bed.
Hedwig jolted awake, screeching loudly and flapping her wings like the world was ending.
“Dobby has to punish himself, Sir,” the elf said, eyes a bit crossed. “Dobby almost spoke badly about his family, Sir…”
“Your family?”
“The wizard family Dobby serves, Sir. Dobby is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…”
“Do they know you’re here?” Harry asked, curiosity creeping in.
Dobby shuddered violently. “Oh, no, Sir. No… If they find out, Dobby will have to punish himself terribly for coming to see you, Sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door if they ever knew…”
“Why don’t you just leave? I mean—run away?”
“House-elves can only be freed if their masters free them, Sir. And that family would never free Dobby. Dobby will serve them until he dies, Sir…”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“And here I was thinking my situation was bad because I have to live here for another month,” he muttered. “Your story makes the Dursleys look almost human. Isn’t there anyone who can help you? Can I help you?”
The moment he said it, he regretted it.
Dobby burst into tears again—this time because he was touched.
“Quiet—please,” Harry whispered urgently. “Please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear… if they find out you’re here…”
“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby…” Dobby sobbed, voice shaking. “Dobby has heard of your greatness, Sir, but your goodness… Dobby never knew…”
Harry’s face went hot. “Whatever you heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish,” he said fast. “I’m not even the best in my class. The real champion is Hermione, she—”
But his voice cut off, like something in his chest jerked hard.
That sudden, sharp longing slammed into him again—the flash of pale blond hair he couldn’t stop seeing.
“Harry Potter is humble and pure,” Dobby said in awe. His huge eyes gleamed like two green gemstones. “Harry Potter does not brag about defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“Voldemort?” Harry said without thinking.
Dobby clapped both huge ears with his hands and squealed, “Ahh! Don’t say his name, Sir! Don’t say it!”
“Alright, alright—sorry,” Harry said quickly.
“Dobby has heard,” the elf continued hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord again a few weeks ago… and that Harry Potter escaped him once more.”
Harry nodded slightly.
Dobby’s eyes filled with tears—and weirdly, Harry’s own eyes stung too. That same blond shadow flickered painfully in his mind.
“Ah, Sir…” Dobby sniffled, scrubbing his face with the corner of his worn pillowcase. “Harry Potter is so brave! Has faced so much danger! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter… to warn him… even if it means Dobby must later shut his ears in the oven door.”
His eyes went round with fear.
“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. The only sounds were the faint clinks of forks and knives from the dining room downstairs, and the distant drone of Uncle Vernon’s voice.
“W–what?” Harry stammered. “But I have to go back! School starts on September first! It’s the only thing keeping me sane here. You don’t understand what it’s like living in this place. I don’t fit in with them! I belong in your world—at Hogwarts! I want to see my friends!”
His voice wobbled dangerously close to yelling, but he forced it down.
“No, no, no!” Dobby squealed, shaking his head so hard his ears slapped his cheeks. “Harry Potter must stay where it’s safe! He is too great, too noble… such a waste if the world were to lose him!”
He gasped sharply. “If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, his life will be in terrible danger. There is a wicked, secret plan—Dobby has known for months, Sir. Harry Potter must not put himself at risk.”
“What horrible plan? Who’s behind it?” Harry asked quickly, every muscle tensing.
Dobby let out a strangled noise—half choke, half sob—before suddenly slamming his head into the wall again and again.
“Alright!” Harry yelped, grabbing the elf’s arm. “You can’t say it, I get it! But why warn me? You know Dumbledore’s there—you do know who Dumbledore is, right?”
But before Harry could stop him, Dobby sprang off the bed, snatched the desk lamp, and started whacking himself on the head with it while screaming at the top of his lungs.
Downstairs, everything went silent.
Two seconds later, Harry’s heart lurched as heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Uncle Vernon’s voice bellowed, “That useless boy has left the TV on again! I told him about the electricity bill—”
“Quick! Closet!” Harry hissed, shoving Dobby into the wardrobe, slamming the door shut, and diving onto his bed just as the doorknob turned.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Uncle Vernon snarled, face inches from Harry’s. “You just ruined my joke about the Japanese golfer. If you make one more sound, you’ll wish you were never born!”
He stomped out, slamming the door so hard the wall shook.
Shaking, Harry rushed to open the wardrobe and pulled Dobby out.
“Now you see what it’s like here?” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you get why I have to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I have—well… I thought I had friends.”
“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby asked, voice suddenly sly.
Harry glared at him. “I think they—wait.” His voice dropped, brows knitting. “How do you even know they didn’t write to me?”
Dobby squirmed, feet tapping nervously. “Harry Potter must not be angry—Dobby did it for your own good…”
“You mean…” Harry froze, his voice tightening. “You took my letters?”
“Dobby took them, Sir,” the elf blurted, jumping back out of Harry’s reach. With shaky hands, he dug into his filthy pillowcase and pulled out a whole stack of envelopes. Harry recognized the handwriting of his friends—Hagrid’s too… and one more, written in that familiar slanted script that made his stomach drop.
Draco.
Dobby looked up at him, terrified.
Damn it.
Harry knew he wasn’t supposed to get mad. He had to stay calm. But how the hell was he supposed to do that? For weeks he’d been choking on loneliness in this house, clinging to the hope someone—anyone—still remembered him. And this tiny elf from nowhere had stolen it all.
Even Draco’s letters.
Draco’s letters.
Magic roared in his chest like something waking up angry. The air around him practically vibrated.
“Give them to me,” Harry hissed, the words sharp as a blade.
His eyes weren’t soft anymore—they were dark, heavy, dangerous.
Dobby squeaked, feeling the pressure in the air—not enough to hurt a house-elf, but enough to terrify one. “Harry Potter must not be angry… Dobby only hoped… if Harry Potter thought his friends forgot him… then Harry Potter would not want to return to school…”
But Harry wasn’t listening.
His magic surged, thick and buzzing in the air.
“I’ll give them to Harry Potter, Sir,” Dobby whispered, voice shaking, “if Harry Potter promises he will not return to Hogwarts. Please, Sir! It is danger you must not face! Tell Dobby you won’t go back!”
“No!” Harry snapped, his voice trembling with fury. “Give me back my friends’ letters!”
Dobby stared in horror—but it was too late.
Harry’s magic exploded.
He felt it blast out of him—wild, uncontrollable—and the entire room erupted. Wind whipped around violently, papers spinning like frantic birds, curtains snapping, the wardrobe shuddering like it might jump to life. Hedwig screeched from her cage, and the windowpanes rattled so hard they sounded ready to shatter.
Dobby felt the magic ripple through the floor, racing downstairs.
“No—no, Dobby must fix this!” he cried, and bolted out of the room. He just wanted Harry safe here; at least here Harry Potter wouldn’t walk straight into misery.
Harry, still shaking, ran after him. He thundered down the stairs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned his thoughts.
But it was pointless.
By the time he reached the living room, everything seemed to freeze for one impossible second—
and then all hell broke loose.
Aunt Petunia’s giant pudding suddenly crashed to the floor.
It hit with a boom that sounded way too much like a tiny explosion. Thick cream splattered everywhere—across the window, all over the fancy woman’s dress, straight onto Uncle Vernon’s tie. The porcelain plate shattered into pieces, and Mr. and Mrs. Mason froze with identical looks of absolute horror.
Harry stood on the stairs, shaking, his face drained of color. He tried to breathe, tried to pull himself together, tried to hold back the leftover magic crackling around him like static.
Dobby popped into existence near the dining table, looking completely panicked, arms reaching out. With one blink, the mess vanished—floor spotless, plate whole again, cream gone like it never existed. But the mood? Yeah, that wasn’t fixable.
“Harry Potter will not be returning to Hogwarts,” he whispered shakily, before disappearing into thin air.
Harry collapsed onto the steps, legs giving out. He could hear Uncle Vernon in the living room desperately trying to calm their guests.
But the disaster wasn’t done with him yet.
THRAKK!
A hoarse owl smashed its way through the dining-room window, dropping a letter right onto Mrs. Mason’s head before swooping back out.
Mrs. Mason let out a full-on horror movie scream, staring around like she’d just been cursed.
“This house is insane! You’re ALL insane!”
She bolted out the front door, shrieking, and Mr. Mason followed, face black with fury.
“My wife is terrified of birds!” he barked at Vernon before storming off. “If this is your idea of a joke—you people are absolutely unhinged!”
The door slammed behind them, leaving a silence so tense it hurt to breathe.
Harry stared at the half-wrecked living room—then at the trainwreck his future had just become.
He curled up on the stairs, terrified—of his magic, of himself, and of Uncle Vernon, who was seconds away from erupting.
Uncle Vernon stomped into view with a face that could’ve scared a banshee.
“Read this!” he snarled, waving the letter the owl had dropped. “Go on—READ IT!”
Harry took it with numb fingers.
It definitely wasn’t a happy birthday card.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.
As you know, under-age wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and any further magic on your part may lead to expulsion (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).
Please also remember that any magical activity likely to attract the attention of members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense, under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.
We hope you enjoy your holidays!
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Everything officially fell apart after that.
And of course, the Dursleys immediately figured out the whole “no magic outside school” rule.
Uncle Vernon stared at Harry like an angry bulldog ready to bite, his lips stretching into a grin that was way too wide to be normal.
“Well, I’ve got great news for you…” he said, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “I’m locking you up. You’re never going back to that school. Not ever. And if you even try to magic your way out— they’ll expel you!”
His laugh burst out loud and metallic, like steel scraping on steel. He dragged Harry upstairs, ignoring Harry’s protests, ignoring how pale he’d gone.
The next morning, some handyman showed up to bolt bars over Harry’s window.
Uncle Vernon installed a cat-flap on his door himself—just big enough to shove in a plate of cold food three times a day. They only let him out twice, morning and evening, to use the bathroom. Other than that, total lockdown.
Perfect. He’d ruined everything.
Now he really couldn’t go back to Hogwarts—couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t protect anyone.
Harry stared out at the sky through the bars, a tightness clawing up his chest, squeezing the breath out of him.
And as much as he tried not to think about it, one name kept echoing in his head.
Draco.
The ache hit hard.
Sharp.
Constant.
Like a spell gnawing at him from the inside, one he had absolutely no defense against.
He missed Draco so badly it scared him. And if this kept going, he knew perfectly well—
He was going to lose his mind.
Three days passed, and the Dursleys still hadn’t shown a shred of mercy.
Harry saw no way out.
He just lay on his bed, watching the sun sink behind the bars on his window. The orange light faded into grey—exactly how his hope felt.
He kept replaying the incident in his head—how the Ministry only detected a simple Levitation Charm, even though his magic had exploded way bigger than that, wandless and wordless.
Weird.
And honestly, a little scary.
At least the two potion bottles he had left kept him going. The liquid was running low, but the stuff gave him strength—kept his body steady even though he was barely eating.
Drinking it on an empty stomach burned like fire, like his body hated it, but Harry had long gotten used to ignoring that kind of pain.
The cat-flap scraped open. Aunt Petunia’s hand shoved a bowl of cold canned soup into the room.
Harry, starving and shaky, practically dove for it.
The soup tasted like nothing and was still half-frozen, but he gulped it down anyway, then shuffled to Hedwig’s cage.
“For you,” he murmured, pouring the mushy leftovers into her little dish.
A few minutes later he drank more potion. A thin warmth spread through his veins, giving him just enough strength to stay awake—but not calm.
Night dragged him into confusing nightmares: Draco’s face, Dobby’s terrified eyes, a whispering voice behind a locked door.
When he jerked awake, the moon was already high.
Silver light filtered through the bars, hitting the dusty floor of his bedroom.
And behind those bars… someone was there.
Freckled face.
Messy red hair.
Long nose and wide, curious eyes.
Harry froze.
Ron Weasley stared back at him from outside the window—like this was both the craziest and most normal thing in the world.
“RON!” Harry gasped, scrambling to the window and shoving it up as far as the bars allowed. “Ron, how—what—?”
Then Harry finally registered the whole scene.
Ron was leaning halfway out of the back window of an old turquoise car… parked in midair.
Fred and George were crammed in the front seats, grinning like maniacs.
“Alright there, Harry?” Fred called.
“What’s going on?” Ron demanded. “Why didn’t you answer any of my letters? I’ve sent, like, twelve! Then Dad gets home and says you got a warning from the Ministry for doing magic in front of Muggles—”
“Well, yeah, that— wait, how’d he know?”
“He works at the Ministry,” Ron said. “And you know we’re not supposed to do magic outside school…”
“I’ll explain, I swear. It’s just—this is so weird,” Harry said, staring at the floating car.
“Oh, this doesn’t count,” Ron said with a shrug. “We just borrowed it. It’s Dad’s car, not ours that’s enchanted. But using magic in front of Muggles, in your own house— we had to come get you.”
“But you can’t exactly magic me out of here…”
“No need,” Ron said, jerking his thumb toward the front seat and grinning. “Forgot who I brought with me?”
“Tie this around the bars,” Fred said, tossing the end of a rope to Harry.
“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” Harry muttered, tying the rope tight around one of the bars while Fred mashed the gas pedal as hard as he could.
“Don’t worry,” Fred said. “Back up now.”
Harry scrambled back to the dim corner near Hedwig. The owl seemed to get just how serious this was—she didn’t make a sound. The car roared louder, and then, with a clattering bang, the bars finally popped out of the window as Fred shot the car upward—Harry sprinted back to the window and saw the bars dangling about a meter from the ground. Gasping, Ron grabbed him into the car.
Harry held his breath, listening, but no sounds came from the Dursleys’ bedroom.
Once the bars were safe in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed the car as close as possible to Harry’s window.
“Get in,” Ron said.
“But all my Hogwarts stuff… my wand… my broom—”
“Where are they?”
“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t leave my room…”
Fred and George climbed carefully through the window into Harry’s room. Harry stared, amazed, as George pulled a regular Muggle hairpin from his pocket and started fiddling with the cupboard lock.
“Lots of wizards think learning Muggle tricks like this is a waste of time,” Fred said, “but we think it’s worth it, even if it’s a bit slow.”
There was a soft click, and the door swung open.
“Alright—grab your trunk. Take whatever you need from your room and hand it to Ron,” George whispered.
Harry moved quickly, gathering his things and passing them to Ron.
“Okay, we’re off,” George whispered.
But as Harry climbed the window ledge, a loud scream cut through behind him, followed by the thunderous voice of Uncle Vernon. “DAMN OWL!”
“I forgot Hedwig!”
Harry dashed back across the room as the loft light flicked on. He grabbed Hedwig’s cage and handed it to Ron. He was climbing onto his trunk when Uncle Vernon pounded on the now-unlocked door—it burst open with a boom.
For a second, Uncle Vernon froze in the doorway, then let out a bellow like a wounded bull and lunged for Harry’s ankle.
Ron, Fred, and George all grabbed Harry’s arms and hauled with all their might.
“Petunia!” Uncle Vernon roared. “He’s escaping! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”
The Weasley twins yanked so hard that Harry wrenched free from Vernon’s grip. As soon as he slammed the car door shut behind him, Ron shouted, “Step on it, Fred!”
And the car shot off—straight toward the moon.
Harry couldn’t believe it—he was free. He rolled down the car window, letting the night wind whip through his hair. He watched the rooftops of Privet Drive shrink behind them. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all frozen in the window of Harry’s room, staring.
“See you next summer!” Harry shouted. The Weasley twins howled with laughter, and Harry leaned back in his seat, grinning from ear to ear.
He let Hedwig fly free, the owl enjoying the wind she’d surely missed as much as Harry had.
“Tell us everything,” Ron pressed, eager for the story. Fred and George leaned in, ready for every juicy detail.
Harry took a deep breath and started from the beginning—arriving at Privet Drive, Hedwig locked up, his things confiscated, waiting endlessly for letters that never came, and finally discovering that Dobby had been hiding them all. He explained how the house-elf had warned him about danger at Hogwarts, and how his anger had exploded, sending magic through the Dursleys’ house in chaos.
“Sounds suspicious,” Fred said finally.
“Totally made up,” George agreed. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who was behind all this?”
“I don’t think he could,” Harry replied. “Like I said, any time he almost spills a secret, he bangs his head against the wall.”
Fred squinted. “Okay, forget that for now. I wanna know something else. You said… your magic came out without a wand? Without words? And two of them didn’t even get noticed by the Ministry?”
George leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You do realize how insane that is, right? Even adult wizards struggle with that.”
Ron looked curious too, though not shocked. Harry didn’t even know how to explain—he didn’t have the answers himself.
“Last year, when I was still stuck in the hospital because of Quirrell, Dumbledore told me my magic is unusually strong, and the trigger… is Draco,” Harry said quietly.
A hush fell over the trio. The twins were suddenly serious, letting Harry speak without a single joke.
“Since then, I decided to learn to control my emotions and my magic so it wouldn’t hurt anyone. At first, I thought it would be easy with books and letters from all of you—especially Draco. But I failed… mostly because I got frustrated that Draco never wrote to me.”
“I didn’t know the magic I released wasn’t being detected. I assumed it wasn’t strong enough to be noticed. But the last time… I got really angry at Dobby for hiding your letters. I don’t know exactly why it triggered detection in the end.”
Fred and George exchanged a glance, remembering all the stories Ron had told them about Harry. This wasn’t exaggeration. It was real.
“But I’m glad we came to get you,” Ron said. “I was really worried when you didn’t reply to a single letter. At first, I thought it was Errol’s fault…” He trailed off, changing the subject—he knew there was no easy way to explain Harry’s magic.
“Who’s Errol?” Harry asked, curious.
“Our owl,” Ron said. “He’s really old. Not the first time he’s passed out while delivering a letter. So then I tried borrowing Hermes…”
“Who?”
“The owl Mum and Dad got Percy when he became a Prefect,” Fred chimed in from the front seat.
“But Percy wouldn’t let me borrow him,” Ron added. “He said he needed him himself.”
“Percy’s been acting super weird all summer,” George said, frowning. “Sending tons of letters but locking himself up in his room a lot… I mean, how many times do we really need to polish the Prefect badge? You’re steering too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at the compass on the dashboard. Fred twisted the wheel.
“Does your dad know you’re flying this car?” Harry asked, already guessing the answer.
“Uh, no,” Ron said. “He’s working tonight. Hopefully we can get it back in the garage before Mum notices we flew it.”
“What does your dad even do at the Ministry?”
“He works in the most boring department ever,” Ron said. “The Muggle Artifacts Misuse Office.”
“Excuse me?”
“Anything to do with putting spells on Muggle stuff. Yeah, Dad’s obsessed with all things Muggle. Our garage is full of Muggle stuff. Taking it apart, enchanting it, putting it back together. If he raided our house, he’d probably arrest himself. Mum’s not happy about it either.”
“Oh, by the way—happy birthday, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. Harry grinned, genuinely happy to hear it.
They’d finally arrived at the Weasley house. The day had turned, the sun shining again as the moon tucked itself away.
“Landing!” Fred called out as the car bumped lightly against the ground.
They landed beside the almost-crumbled garage in the small yard, and Harry got his first proper look at Ron’s home.
It looked like it had once been a giant pigsty, with extra rooms haphazardly added here and there, giving the house multiple crooked levels—as if it were only standing thanks to magic (which, Harry reminded himself, was probably true). Four or five chimneys jutted out from the red roof. A slanted board staked into the ground near the front door read The Burrow. Boots and rusty cauldrons were scattered around the entrance, and a few fat brown chickens pecked at the yard.
“Not bad,” said Ron.
“This is amazing,” Harry said cheerfully, thinking of Privet Drive.
They climbed out of the car.
“Alright, we sneak upstairs,” Fred whispered, “and wait until Mum calls us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you go down and say, ‘Mum, look who turned up last night!’ She’ll be thrilled to see Harry, and no one needs to know we flew the car.”
The plan seemed perfect—but Harry was too busy gawking at the house to notice the three Weasley kids going pale.
He realized their silence when Mrs. Weasley came striding across the yard, scattering the chickens. For such a short, plump woman with a kindly face, it was shocking how fierce she looked now, like a tiger baring its teeth.
“Where have you lot been?” Mrs. Weasley barked at her three children.
“Morning, Mum,” Fred and George said, trying to sound innocent.
Mrs. Weasley glared at them for a moment before softening her gaze toward Harry. “Harry, it’s so lovely to see you, dear.”
But as her eyes fell back on her children, her anger returned. “Empty beds. No notes. The car gone. You could have been killed. You could have been seen!” Her voice was sharp, but she softened again as she faced Harry. “Of course, I don’t blame you, Harry.”
“They starved him, Mum. There were bars on his window,” Ron said pitifully.
Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms and said, “You’d better hope I don’t put bars on your window, Ronald Weasley.”
Ron swallowed nervously.
“Come on, Harry, breakfast time!” she said cheerfully, turning to him.
The kitchen was small and a little crowded. A wooden table and chairs sat in the middle, and Harry perched at the edge of a chair, looking around. He’d never been inside a wizarding home before.
The clock on the wall in front of him had only one hand and no numbers. Around the edges were little notes: Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late. Piles of books were stacked on the mantelpiece—titles like Conjure Your Own Surprises, Spells for Baking, and One-Minute Meals—all utterly magical! And, if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced the next program: Witching Hour, featuring the famous female wizard singer, Celestina Warbeck.
“There you go, Harry. Now, eat up.”
Just then, a small red-haired figure in a long nightgown appeared in the doorway, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Mother, have you seen my sweater?”
“Yes, dear. It’s on the cat.”
The little figure caught sight of Harry and glared, startled. Harry awkwardly said, “Hi.”
The figure ran off again, leaving Harry a little insulted and confused. “What did I do?”
Harry glanced at Ron. “That’s Ginny. She’s been talking about you all summer. Honestly… a little annoying.”
“Good morning, Weasley,” a deeper voice interjected, drawing Harry’s attention. He assumed it was Mr. Weasley.
“Morning, Dad.”
It seemed the figure hadn’t noticed Harry yet. He chatted a bit about his work before kissing Mrs. Weasley on the cheek and sitting down.
“Who’s this?” Mr. Weasley asked.
“Sorry, sir. I’m Harry. Harry Potter,” Harry hurriedly introduced himself.
Mr. Weasley looked surprised and impressed. “Blimey. You really are Harry? Ron must’ve told us about you. When did he arrive?”
Neither Harry nor Ron answered. Mrs. Weasley spoke up: “This morning. Your children flew the car to Surrey and back last night.”
“Really? How’s the car?” Mr. Weasley asked eagerly.
Mrs. Weasley elbowed him. “What I mean, dear, that was completely wrong, children. Very wrong indeed.”
Harry and Ron grinned—turns out Mr. Weasley wasn’t as scary as he’d imagined.
“Harry, you live in the Muggle world. Tell me—what does a rubber duck really do?”
“Uh… umm…” Harry stumbled, completely unprepared for that question.
“Let him eat in peace, dear,” Mrs. Weasley interrupted.
Once breakfast was over, Ron hurried Harry along. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”
They sneaked out of the kitchen and down a narrow hallway to a crooked, zig-zagging staircase. On the third landing, a slightly open door revealed a pair of bright brown eyes before it slammed shut.
“That’s Ginny,” said Ron. “You have no idea how shy she’s gotten. Normally, she can’t stop talking…”
They climbed two more steps until they reached a peeling door marked with a small sign: Ronald’s Room. Harry ducked inside, his head nearly brushing the slanted ceiling. He blinked. The room glowed like a fireplace: everything bathed in warm orange—sheets, walls, even the ceiling.
Then Harry noticed that Ron had plastered almost every inch of his drab walls with posters of seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, holding brooms, and waving enthusiastically.
“The room’s kinda small,” Ron said quickly. “Not like your Muggle room. And it’s right under the attic ghost’s spot. He’s always banging pipes and groaning…”
But Harry grinned wide. “This is the coolest house I’ve ever been in.”
Ron’s ears instantly turned bright red.