Chapter Text
"It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time… It gave him an odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost."
- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
It was not easy being Harry Potter, even now that he was twenty-four years old.
The number looked odd to him, as if it belonged to someone else: someone much older than he was, someone he should have respected as a role model instead of staring at in the mirror. In the layer of himself that rested deepest in his soul, it seemed that his life had paused at age seventeen. Most of the time, he didn't feel a day older. For one thing, he was in training to become an Auror, which meant that he remained a schoolboy of sorts. He still loaded his pockets with cauldron cakes and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, complained about needing to fill twelve inches of parchment when he had only written five, and craved more free time to spend with Ron and Hermione.
But then there were other times that he remembered things - not simply with his head, but also with his heart. In these moments he was filled with a quiet sadness for the little boy he had once known so well.
He had a still photograph of his childhood cupboard on Privet Drive, which he had taken several months after the Battle of Hogwarts. He hadn't told Ron or Hermione about it, or even Ginny for that matter. He wondered if Hermione would recognize some of the Muggle children's books by their blurred outlines in the corner of the picture. Sometimes he held the photograph in his hand and gazed at it for what could be either minutes or hours, but felt like eternity.
****
It was winter. Underneath the threadbare spaceship blanket, Harry had rolled himself into the fabric so tightly that only his neck was free to move. He couldn't really see the stars and planets on the print anymore – it had all faded to a homogeneous gray – but he could still imagine rocketing past them as he tried to drift off to sleep.
On the wall next to him was the circuit breaker for the entire house, which whirred incessantly and clicked at random times. It gave him the cover of background noise that he needed to talk to himself without the Dursleys listening.
There were shelves behind him, too, and Harry regarded their contents as landmarks for his own personal possessions. His khaki trousers lay underneath the dishwasher soap, his gray sweater on top of the screwdriver, his navy shirt held down by the broken TV remote, his underwear and socks tucked behind the box of cleaning rags. He kept his favorite paperbacks under his mattress, flat against the two storage crates. He also had a couple of three-legged model horses, which he had rescued from Dudley's rubbish bin and propped up on the highest shelf. Sometimes he would ask his friend, Alastair, to ride the horses into battle; she wouldn't mind that the horses were injured, of course, because she had plenty of legs to spare.
That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He squinted in the flickering light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, but he still couldn't make out any words from his copy of James and the Giant Peach. When the lightbulb went out, he was left in total darkness; Uncle Vernon had slammed the little shutters in the door shut before locking him in. He reached overhead for Alastair's silken abode and smiled as her spindly legs pattered down his fingers into his palm.
"G'night, Alastair," Harry whispered. "Why are you still awake? I hope you had enough to eat today. I'll try to leave the door open in the morning. That way some bugs might make it inside. I know there haven't been many flies lately."
At that moment, sawdust cascaded from the ceiling and Alastair scuttled away into the darkness.
Harry sat up with a start just as the door flew open. A dark silhouette was standing in the hallway with a torch in hand, towering over Harry's bed.
"Get up," Vernon snarled through his teeth, reaching down to grasp Harry by the collar before tossing him to the opposite wall of the hallway.
Harry found a certain comfort in knowing that he hadn't actually done anything wrong, that Vernon didn't need even a triviality to justify the motions of his fist. It had taken Harry a while to figure this out. He landed with a thud on the hardwood floor and scrambled to his feet.
"You – " Vernon pointed a pudgy finger at Harry's throat. "You – "
"I didn't do it," said Harry, taking a step back toward the kitchen. He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes – he wasn't sure how much Vernon could see with the torch aimed shakily at the ceiling.
"Of course you did, boy," Vernon spat. "Who else could it be… just like that wasteman father of yours… a ball of rubbish, you are. At least a crapstained scrap of underwear can be washed – but you are nothing but a parasite in my own house!"
Harry shook his head slowly. Creativity was not one of Uncle Vernon's strengths.
"Uncle Vernon," Harry said steadily, "It's past midnight. You have work tomorrow."
He could smell it now, the sickly-sweet mist of Jack Daniel's wafting toward him. He needed to be extra careful.
"Are you disrespecting me?" Uncle Vernon leaned forward until his nose was inches from Harry's. "You know, I could make it a lot worse for you… withhold meals until your stomach rots from the inside… lock you back in the cupboard and tell your school you're ill with the flu… those revolting eyes of yours won't see daylight for another week…"
Harry's gut wrung itself into a knot.
"Uncle Vernon, I don't know what you're talking about," he said slowly. "Why don't I make a kettle of tea, and then you can get some rest – "
"Don't play stupid with me, you nasty little insect. YOU know why our Dudley's been sniffling all night."
"Well, yes, actually," said Harry. "He and his friends tried to stuff my head down a toilet, but he got splashed with whatever was in there. He spat it right out, though."
There was a moment of stillness during which Harry knew, with a heavy feeling in his insides, that he had said too much.
With a roar, Vernon struck Harry on the side of the jaw with a hook punch that sent him sprawling onto the kitchen floor. Before he could stand, Vernon landed a kick to Harry's chest with the tip of his boot. Bile bubbled in Harry's throat, and he raised his arms to shield his face.
When Harry opened his eyes again, Vernon's shadow was standing over him with Petunia's broom in hand.
"It's Monday tomorrow, Uncle Vernon! I'm going to school! You don't want people to see!"
For a moment, it was as if Vernon had heard him; the man paused with his arm in midair, holding the broom like an axe, before he swung it down onto Harry's ribs.
"HOW – DARE – YOU – " Vernon panted after each strike, "THREATEN DUDDERS – AFTER ALL WE'VE DONE FOR YOU – YOU DISGUSTING SLUG – "
It was probably the wrong time to tell Vernon, Harry thought, that he hadn't touched Dudley at all. The toilet had regurgitated of its own accord and the wave of contents had caught Dudley in the face.
At long last, Vernon lowered the broom, kicked Harry one last time for good measure, and staggered back against the doorway, gasping for breath. Harry knew that any sudden movement on his part would only aggravate Vernon further, so he waited there on the linoleum floor, clutching his ribs.
The session seemed to end as abruptly as it had begun. Uncle Vernon leaned the broom against the wall, fumbled with the loose drawstrings of his pajamas, and started down the hallway to the staircase; Harry pulled himself up by the handle of the refrigerator door, and braced himself against the kitchen counter. He was still standing there minutes later, forehead pressed to the cool marble countertop, when he heard footsteps behind him again.
"Boy."
Harry rose slowly and looked over his shoulder with bleary eyes. Vernon stood behind Harry with long loops of extension cable dangling from his fingertips.
Uncle Vernon spoke again, this time in a whisper so low in tone that Harry might not have heard him if he hadn't seen the lips move in the light from the microwave clock.
"Come with me, boy."
Something deep inside Harry's chest curdled as his eyes darted from the cable, to Vernon's dimly lit face, and up to the uninhabited lightbulb fixture on the ceiling. It occurred to Harry that if the racket happening downstairs had not yet woken up Aunt Petunia and Dudley, nothing would – or, at least, nothing would prompt them to roll out of their beds to investigate. Vernon was safe in his own liquor-fueled delirium, relishing privileges he didn't have by the light of day. Harry could imagine no worse feeling than to know, without a doubt, that he was alone. No one would be coming to rescue Harry from this nightmare – he was cornered into the space between the stove and the sink, it was two in the morning, and not a single neighbor remembered his name.
"A good butcher-style beating," Uncle Vernon rasped, still breathing hard between each set of words, "will teach you to be grateful – for this roof – over your head – you insolent snake – "
"Leave me alone," said Harry.
The words escaped him before he could make up his mind. Uncle Vernon raised his eyebrows.
"What's that, boy?"
"Leave me alone," repeated Harry. He could feel his voice shaking.
With a snarl, Uncle Vernon lunged forward with his fingers outstretched like claws toward Harry's neck. Harry ducked under Vernon's armpit and spun so that the two of them faced each other, but now Harry stood in the doorway that led to the living room, and directly to the front door.
"Don't – touch – me." Harry lifted the broom from the wall, pointed the handle toward Uncle Vernon's chest, and looked the man in the eye as he paused after each word. "Stop hurting me!"
In the semidarkness of Harry's vision, Harry thought he saw the cable draped around Uncle Vernon's elbow sliding of its own accord. The pronged end looped up to Vernon's shoulder, around the back of his neck, and into his gaping mouth. There was a high-pitched squeal, and then a yelp, and Uncle Vernon was hopping around the kitchen on one foot, spewing spittle onto all three walls, and swatting frantically at his own nose. He stumbled into the kitchen stove, and the evening's forgotten pot of canned spaghetti catapulted into his face. Vernon bolted into the hallway, soon followed by the sound of his footsteps thundering up the stairs and the click-clack of the extension cable dragging behind him.
Harry stood motionless for some time, staring at the dark puddle on the kitchen floor seeping underneath the vent of the refrigerator.
He could leave. It was a daring, almost impossible thought, but he could. He could pack whatever hand-me-downs he had into his school bag and take off into the night. No one had cared about what had had happened tonight; no one would care if he vanished. He might as well as do it on his own terms.
But then again, where would he go? He looked back at the cupboard, only just visible in the hallway around the corner from where he stood. At least he had a mattress to sleep on. And Alastair – he had promised Alastair with help catching a decent meal. Alastair, at least, would know Harry was lost.
So it was that Harry staggered back to his cupboard, fumbled with the lock, and collapsed onto the ragged mattress. He last remembered Alastair's dainty feet brushing over his cheek before he drifted into a restless slumber.
A few hours later, as Harry lay awake in the darkness trying to find a comfortable position, he thought back to the previous morning, when Dudley's friend Piers had arrived at the front door and promptly punched Harry on the nose.
Through the stars in his vision, Harry had noticed the message printed into Piers' T-shirt:
Parents for Sale
(Slightly Damaged)
Buy One, Get One Free!
The sans serif typeface was seared into Harry's memory.
Is that what it's like? thought Harry, a surge of anger coursing through his face. To not be parentless? To have so many T-shirts that you have the choice to buy one that insults the provider of such clothing?
"I'll take that bargain any day," Harry muttered to the ceiling. A single tear ran down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away.
Chapter Text
****
Almost as soon as Uncle Vernon had laid down his fork on his empty plate, Harry heard a knock at the door. Harry wiped the dish soap off his hands and started for the entry hall, but Uncle Vernon grabbed his sweater from behind.
"I'll get this one," said Uncle Vernon in a low voice.
Vernon pulled Harry close by the scruff of his collar until Harry was leaning over the wooden backrest of Vernon's chair, struggling to find purchase on the linoleum floor with his oversized socks. Harry had rarely seen his uncle's eyes this way, except maybe under the cover of night– like glowing, blistering spheres of ice. Harry signaled his understanding with a slight nod, and Vernon let him go with a hiss.
"Petunia, tea!"
Aunt Petunia's eyes grew wide, and she hastily cleared Dudley's half-full plate of mac-and-cheese from the dinner table.
"Diddykins," she whispered over the beginnings of Dudley's protest, "I need you to go out the backyard and visit your friend Piers until I call his mother."
Dudley crossed his arms against his chest. "But Mum, I want to st – "
"No, no! Shush! Out, now!"
It was no use asking if he should join Dudley in his flight from the mysterious home invader – Harry knew he wasn't allowed to ask questions. He watched Dudley slip into his Nikes, pocket a handful of wrapped chocolates from the kitchen counter, and hobble out the patio door.
Finally, Uncle Vernon looked around the room at Harry and Aunt Petunia, gave a curt nod, and headed for the front door.
A woman stood at the threshold to number four, Privet Drive. She was dressed in an ironed black pantsuit and held a messenger bag over her shoulder that hung down by her knees, so filled to the brim with papers that the zipper only shut halfway.
Uncle Vernon spoke a couple of words under his breath as Harry eavesdropped from around the corner. Even from where he stood, Harry could see the back of Uncle Vernon 's neck flushing a violaceous red.
"Well, certainly," Uncle Vernon said, in a higher-pitched voice than his usual. "Oh, Harry! We have a visitor. Where are you, son?"
Before stepping out from behind the wall, Harry unrolled both his overly long sleeves and the collar of his turtleneck. He tried to smile at the woman by the door.
"Hello," he said. He wanted to swallow, but there was no saliva left in his mouth. "It's nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too, Harry." She was smiling, but the slightest furrow over her eyebrows told a different story. It struck Harry just how young she looked – fresh out of university, most likely – and yet there were dark circles under her eyes that rivaled those of Uncle Vernon's after a night of indulgence.
There was a moment of silence between the three of them. Uncle Vernon's hand repeatedly reached for his own mustache to tug at a loose whisker. The woman shuffled her feet on the doormat and squinted at Uncle Vernon as if she had smelled an old vegetable. To Harry's relief, Aunt Petunia stepped out from the kitchen and broke the silence.
"Oh, Miss Parker, please, come inside," said Aunt Petunia, stepping forward to take the woman's coat. "Such a pleasure to have you join us. You must be freezing. May I offer you some coffee or tea? Vernon and I were just about to spend some time next to the fire."
"Oh, that's very kind of you," said the woman. "And please call me Catherine."
Harry stepped aside to let Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Catherine pass by him. He watched as Aunt Petunia sat Catherine down in the armchair closest to the fireplace and set a plate of shortbread cookies on the coffee table. Even Uncle Vernon grunted a barely audible "thanks" when Aunt Petunia poured three cups of steaming hot black tea.
"This tea is very flavorful, Miss Dursley," said Catherine. "You must tell me how…"
Harry turned to leave. He had no idea what this woman was doing in their house after dark on a chilly March evening, but it couldn't have anything to do with him. Or could it? Come to think of it, Harry had never been allowed to stay when important visitors came over. If it was daylight out, he would be asked to leave the house, and maybe spend the afternoon with Mrs. Figgs, Tufty and Tibbles. After dusk or on short notice, they bolted him into the cupboard, sometimes with an empty can from the rubbish bin if they thought it could take a while.
Unlike Dudley, however, Harry was too exhausted to investigate this conundrum. After a long day, all he wanted was to sleep. He walked to his cupboard in the hallway and unlatched the bolt at the top of the door. In Dudley's absence, the creak of the hinges reverberated throughout the house. Then, there was silence.
"Harry." Aunt Petunia's voice cracked as she called from the living room. "No Nintendo tonight. Shut that – that cupboard and come eat cookies with us."
Shut that cupboard. Harry froze. He was still standing on his tiptoes to reach the bolt. He lowered himself slowly.
In the living room, Catherine's eyes followed Harry his entire way to the armchair. Making brief eye contact with Uncle Vernon, who looked as if his mustache was about to set fire, Harry took a cookie from the coffee table. A wave of smooth, creamy sweetness melted in his mouth.
"So, Harry," said Catherine, as Harry carefully licked the crumbs from his molars, "Can you tell me about school? What year are you in, for starters?"
"Er." Harry tugged his sleeves down to his wrists. "Er, I'm finishing the sixth form. Same as my cousin, Dudley," he added as an afterthought.
So began the questions. Catherine started with school – who were his friends, what did he like to eat for lunch, did he like any classes or teachers more than others, etcetera – and then she asked what a typical weekend day was like for him. Harry had never been asked this many questions before. It felt like an interrogation, especially with both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon glowering at him from the couch.
"Er, on a Sunday, like today, I, er…" Harry paused, shrugged his shoulders, and popped another cookie in his mouth. This interview session did have its perks. "I make breakfast for – for myself. And then I play Nintendo. Er – Super Mario. Or something."
It wasn't true, of course – Harry had never been allowed to lay hands on any of Dudley's Nintendos – but Uncle Vernon's gaze carried an aura of grave peril.
"All right."Catherine paused for a minute, as if expecting Harry to say more, but Harry didn't oblige. "Well, then– would you like to show me your room?"
Harry's eyes grew wide. He looked at Aunt Petunia, then Uncle Vernon, neither of whom offered any wisdom; Aunt Petunia's mouth was hanging open, and Uncle Vernon was making fists in his lap.
"No – no. Not really." Harry gulped. "My room – in its current state it's not suitable for civilized society." Harry's history teacher had once said that about her own study. The gym teacher had been hiding under the desk.
Catherine smiled. "Believe me, Harry, there's nothing I haven't seen before."
There was no way out of this one. Harry met Uncle Vernon's eyes as he rose from his seat. In a heavy silence, the four of them made their way to the entry hall, past Harry's cupboard, and up the stairs. Harry stopped at the first door to his left. Dudley had conveniently left it open.
"This is your room, Harry?" said Catherine.
"Oh, yeah." Harry looked askance at Uncle Vernon over the woman's shoulder. "See all this stuff? All my birthday presents over the years."
It was Dudley's second bedroom. A set of bicycle training wheels, a couple of first-edition Nintendo consoles with the backs torn off so all the wiring was visible, and a one-limbed stuffed bear were piled onto the bed in the corner. A TV with a fist-sized chasm through the middle of the screen teetered at the edge of the coffee table. The rest of the walls were taken up by boxes stacked up to Harry's height, blocking the way to both the wardrobe and the window. Several extension cords littered the floor, intertwined with the cord from an old vacuum cleaner.
"My aunt and uncle keep reminding me to tidy up," added Harry, when the woman had said nothing for a full minute. "You know, for surprise visitors."
"I can't say I blame them." Catherine paused to check her notepad, and then turned to Harry. "Do you mind if I take a look inside?"
Harry shrugged. "There's not much to see. But go ahead."
Harry, Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon stood by the doorway while Catherine entered Dudley's room. Her eyes scanned the twin-sized bed underneath the junk – Harry now realized that the bed had been made with only a dusty white sheet. She knelt down by an extension cord to examine its three-ended prong, and looked up at the climbing-grade carabiner hanging from a metal ring on the ceiling.
When she was done, the four of them headed back to the stairs in silence. Catherine smiled and gestured for Vernon and Petunia to go first. With Harry by her side on the stairs, she slipped a scrap of paper into Harry's fingers. Harry cupped his left hand and unrolled the paper with his right.
Do you need help?
Harry looked up. Maybe it was the lighting, but even through the coat of makeup, Catherine's face was tinged green. She was biting her lip, and her eyes were wet.
Harry hesitated. Both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia still had their backs turned to him. He thought of Aunt Petunia's cookies, the leftover eggs and toast on weekend mornings, and his friend Alastair. Then he thought of a pair of gleaming eyes looming towards him with a stick raised in the air.
But was it really that bad? He didn't want to make a huge fuss over nothing. His aunt and uncle had never loved him, but he found ways to scrounge up enough to eat, most days, and he had his own place to sleep. He shuddered at the thought of having to share a room with Dudley. His run-ins with Uncle Vernon were, well – Harry had handled them before, hadn't he? He could handle them again.
Uncle Vernon reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for the rest of the party to catch up. Catherine started smiling again.
******
It took another twenty minutes for Catherine to leave the house. Harry wanted to stay out of the way, and the cupboard was off-limits for the time-being, so he retreated to the only other safe space he knew – the bathroom – and waited.
After his shower, Harry pressed his ear to the bathroom door and listened closely. He heard his aunt and uncle exchange a few words, and he tried to gauge the tone of Vernon's voice. There was something about calling Piers' mother to let Dudley come home. The freezer door opened; Aunt Petunia was probably taking out the ice cream to thaw before Dudley returned.
Harry had finished brushing his teeth when he felt a low rumble beneath his feet. Harry spun on his heels just as the bathroom door blasted open and Uncle Vernon charged inside, a one-man stampede, with his hands outstretched toward Harry's neck. He slammed Harry backward into the wall. The toilet paper holder snapped in half, hit the rim of the bathtub, and rolled to Harry's feet.
Can't - breathe - Harry mouthed at Uncle Vernon, clawing desperately at the sausage-sized fingers that encircled his throat.
"After ALL we've done for you, you decide to betray my family! Make us look like uncivilized brutes to that socialist woman! Mark my words, boy - when they come to take you away and lock you in a children's home until you decompose, it'll be all your fault!"
The longer Uncle Vernon spoke, the more muffled his words became. It was as if a wall of glass was expanding between them, and the arm that reached for Harry's neck was stretching like a stick of string cheese, so Uncle Vernon's massive figure slid further and further away. Harry stomped the heel of his trainer against Uncle Vernon's bare foot, grasped at Uncle Vernon's thumbs, and wrenched himself out of the grip. He ducked under Uncle Vernon's armpit and dashed out the open door.
He couldn't believe what he had done. He had won a fight, against Uncle Vernon, no less. This was it. He was done. His days at Privet Drive were over. He would live the rest of his days as Harry Potter the adventurer, 10-year-old hitchhiker extraordinaire, prancing across the mountains of Europe and answering to no one -
The front door flew open just as Harry reached the end of the hallway. Dudley and Piers stood there, laughing together, half eaten Mars bars melting at their fingertips. Harry tried to shoulder past them, but Dudley grabbed him by the wrist.
"Looks like Harry's in a hurry today - Harry?" Maybe it was the wild, crazed look in Harry's eyes, or the fresh elliptical prints on Harry's neck, but it was enough to make Dudley pause in his tracks.
"Let me go." It was the first time Harry had ever pleaded with his cousin. "Please, Dudley – "
It was too late. Uncle Vernon emerged behind them holding a 6-foot-tall hallway floor lamp in the air. The lightbulb collided with the ceiling, tumbled from the fixture at the top of the lamp, and shattered on the wooden floor at Uncle Vernon's heels. Uncle Vernon raised the lamp even further above his head and poised it like a battle spear. Harry had a glimpse of the bloodshot eyes, and of the mustache contorted in a snarl. Both Dudley and Piers had taken a step backward on the doormat. At the end of the hallway in the dining room, Harry could see Aunt Petunia glancing over her shoulder.
Somewhere, someone screamed.
And then, without warning, Harry's forehead was on fire. The world burned white inside his eyelids, and roared with all the deafening fury of a thunderstorm. He felt himself falling backward and was vaguely aware of his own wrists bracing for impact. Something trickled down his forehead into his eyes, but his arms were lead and he lacked the strength to wipe it away. Then the howling winds of the hurricane lifted him from the ground and tossed him into the turbulent skies. Harry embraced the darkness and let it encircle him like a worn blanket until he sank into a restful sleep, entering a dimension where no one and nothing could hurt him.
****
"Come inside, you lot." Uncle Vernon reached over Dudley's head to push the front door shut and gesticulated toward the living room. "Dudley's mum has rocky road ice cream for you two."
****
He could hear Dudley and Piers slurping their ice cream five feet away from the door of his cupboard. But here in the darkness, it was warm and comforting. He sat across the table from Alastair, but there were others, too - Marilla of Green Gables, the Big Friendly Giant, and Quasimodo of Notre Dame were among the ones he recognized - and they had all cooked a meal for him, just some spaghetti with fresh spinach and tomatoes and mushrooms and a touch of habanero, but it was perfect because it was warm and he didn't have to wait until the others had had their share. He had forgotten how real warm food tasted, fresh from the stovetop, and he could add all the mustard and pepper he liked without anyone protesting how much he was wasting on himself.
He ate so much that he vomited over the side of the cot where he sat. It was a cramped space, but his friends didn't seem to mind. Alastair poured him hot tea and asked him if he was feeling better.
His sleeve was wet - stained, probably - from all the times he had dabbed his forehead, but it was better like this. Frodo Baggins showed Harry his battle scar from Weathertop, and how the wound in his chest still set off waves of shooting pains from time to time. The price you pay to become a legend, he told Harry.
I don't have to live like this, thought Harry. I don't have to accept this reality. I can soar up to the sky, grasp the strings of my cousin's balloons, hold on through the winds of a monsoon, and emerge through the eye of the storm into a land without bitterness, floating on the clouds.
He vomited again. The thunder pierced his eardrums.
****
A girl named Sara Crewe was reading to Harry.
Run past the rivers
run past all the light
over the flaming bridges
and the flooding streams
through the fuming forests
and their toxic dreams
Tumble into the tallest weeds
and you will find a refuge
of food, and warmth, and joy,
waiting as the storm passes
to welcome you home.
Chapter Text
A girl and a boy sat on either side of Harry’s cot. Except it wasn’t a cot, Harry realized, as he blinked away the crust from his eyelids. It was a four poster bed, with red silky curtains that were swept aside and tied together at the foot of the bed. The girl held a tome of a thousand pages on her lap, and kept tossing her dark frizzy hair over her shoulder as it fell across her face. The boy appeared disinterested in whatever the girl was reading out loud, and instead twirled a tree branch in his fingers.
There was sunlight streaming in from a window. It was so beautiful that Harry wished he could hold it to his face and drink in its warmth. He had not seen the sun in ages.
The boy and the girl had noticed that Harry was awake. The girl shut her book and rested it on the bedside table. They were both smiling. Harry could tell, even before the girl handed him his glasses. The boy offered Harry a hand, and pulled Harry to his feet.
“Welcome home, Harry,” he said.
Harry was unsteady at first. His forehead ached and the room swayed liked a raft at sea. But the boy and the girl held his hands and shoulders from either side. He took one step, then another, and each step was easier than the last.
Together they strode out the door, down the staircase, and into the world.