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It was July 2nd, and Harry was baking under the hot summer sun. The day had already been long. He’d started with cooking breakfast, as usual, managing to swipe a couple of breakfast sausages when no one was looking. Then came the dusting, the laundry, and washing the linens. After that, he cleaned the kitchen, scrubbing every surface until it gleamed. Now, he was bent over in the front yard, yanking stubborn weeds from the flowerbeds of number four Privet Drive.
The garden was meticulously maintained, much like the rest of the house, but Harry didn’t mind. The monotonous tasks helped him keep his mind occupied, away from the pressing thoughts that always seemed to swirl around, especially when he thought about the coming school year. He could already feel the weight of it settling on his shoulders, and he hadn’t even returned to Hogwarts yet.
There was the constant worry about what Voldemort could be planning next, and whether the other students would believe him when he told them about his return. He had been reading the Daily Prophet desperately, looking for anything that could have been caused by the Dark Lord, and had noticed the paper’s not-so-subtle stabs at him and Dumbledore. He didn’t think the rest of the school would believe it, how could they? But then memories from the past school years resurfaced. reactions to his name coming out of the Goblet in his fourth year, and back in second year when they all thought he was the heir of Slytherin. Those moments replayed in his mind, and Harry wondered, with a sinking feeling, if things might go the same way again.
After what felt like hours, Harry finally finished caring for the front yard. His hands were covered in dirt, and his back ached from the constant bending. He straightened up with a groan, stretching his stiff muscles before heading inside. The Dursleys were probably still holed up in the house, oblivious to his work, but Harry didn’t mind. He was used to it by now. Inside, he grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold water, and drank it down in one go. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat, but it didn’t do much to ease the heaviness in his chest. He still couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him.
After finishing his water, Harry washed up quickly, scrubbing the dirt from his hands and face. The sink was small, and the warm water did little to cool him off, but it was a brief relief before he moved on to his next task. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was getting close to dinner time. Harry opened the fridge, scanning its contents. After a moment of thought, he decided on shepherd’s pie. He began pulling the ingredients out, ready to start cooking.
He chopped the vegetables, peeled the potatoes, and mashed them with the same careful precision he used for everything else. The process reminding him of potions class, and then of Snape. He briefly wondered if the man was any good at cooking. By the time the pie was ready to be served, the kitchen was filled with the smell of cooking ingredients.
Once the pie was out of the oven, Harry quickly set the table, choosing the green and white picnic-patterned placemats. He spooned some deliberately leftover mashed potatoes and vegetables onto a paper towel, carefully tucking it into his pocket before bringing the rest of the food to the table. The shepherd’s pie was one of his uncle’s favorites, and Harry wanted to keep him in a good enough mood, especially since Vernon had been more easily angered than usual, something about issues at work. Harry hoped that a full stomach would help keep the evening at least somewhat peaceful.
The pie was golden and bubbling by the time Harry set it down on the table. He quickly filled the three plates with the hot, savory meal, making sure to put a generous serving on Vernon’s plate. As he prepared to bring the meal to the Dursleys, he glanced around the kitchen one last time, ensuring everything was in its place. Then he headed into the living room to call them for dinner.
The Dursleys were sitting on the couch, as usual, engrossed in the television. Vernon was in his usual green and yellow striped shirt and brown slacks, looking as though he could burst out of them at any moment. Petunia, wearing a floral peach colored dress that harry thought really didn’t suit her complexion, sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression rigid. Dudley, in a red t-shirt and basketball shorts, was sprawled across the other end of the couch. The lack of air conditioning left the room stuffy and sweaty, but the Dursleys didn’t seem to mind as they remained glued to the television.
He hesitated for a moment before stepping into the living room.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said flatly, trying to keep the tone neutral.
Vernon didn’t look up from the TV. “Good, good,” he muttered, and then grunted when he shifted his weight on the couch. “We’ll be there in a minute.”
Petunia’s gaze flickered briefly in Harry’s direction, but she didn’t acknowledge him directly. “I hope you didn’t burn it,” she said with an absent flick of her hand, eyes still on the screen.
After a few minutes, whatever they were watching went to a commercial break, and the Dursleys sluggishly moved from the couch. Petunia gave Harry a quick glance as she stood, while Vernon muttered something under his breath, clearly not pleased with the interruption. Dudley got up without a word and waddled over to the table.
As Harry busied himself with the dishes, he could hear Vernon grumbling about work in the other room. His voice, already low, took on a more irritated edge as he continued his rant.
“Don’t know how much longer I can keep this up,” Vernon muttered. “Client’s been dragging their feet for months. I swear, I’m on the edge of losing them. If that happens, we’re in real trouble.”
Petunia made a noise of agreement, but it was clear she wasn’t truly listening to his uncle’s rant, “Years of practice,” Harry thought. Dudley, in his usual fashion, didn’t seem to care at all, shoveling food into his mouth without a word.
As the Dursleys finished their meal, they didn’t say much, merely getting up from the table and returning to the couch. The soft hum of the television filled the room again, and Harry was left in the quiet of the kitchen. He began collecting the plates, scraping off the scraps into the trash before rinsing them under warm water. The clinking of the dishes was the only other sound, and Harry focused on the simple task, letting his thoughts drift while the warm water ran over his hands. It was one of those rare moments of peace in the house.
After he was done, Harry quickly ran upstairs and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He pulled the paper towel from his pocket, eager to eat the food he’d saved for himself. With quick, practiced movements, he scarfed down the mashed potatoes and vegetables, not caring much about savoring the meal, just needing to fill the hunger that had built up over the day. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.
Once finished, he quickly undressed and showered, making sure to avoid looking at the mirror, knowing that the scars and bruises would be there.
Just another reminder of the things he couldn’t escape.
Once he finished in the shower, Harry went to his room, feeling a little more refreshed. As he entered, something caught his eye, A letter lying on his bed. His heart skipped a beat, and he hurried over, hoping it was from one of his friends. Maybe Hermione, Ron, or even Sirius, explaining why they hadn’t written to him or why he’d barely heard from them.
Once Harry opened the letter, his excitement quickly turned into mild disappointment. It was just his grades and booklist for next year. He should have known, really. The brief flutter of hope that had surged in his chest was gone as quickly as it came. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit foolish for getting his hopes up, even if only for a moment.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you of your academic results for your fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Below is a summary of your performance:
Passing grades:
O — Outstanding
E — Exceeds Expectations
A — Acceptable
Failing grades:
P — Poor
D — Dreadful
T — Terrible
• Transfiguration: E
• Charms: O
• Potions: O
• History of Magic: P
• Defense Against the Dark Arts: O
• Astrology: A
• Herbology: E
• Divination: P
• Care of Magical Creatures: E
Yours sincerely,
Professor Minerva McGonagall
Head of Gryffindor House
Harry stared at the letter, his mind processing the grades one by one. He had expected an O in DADA and probably Charms too. He knew he wouldn’t do so well in History of Magic and Divination, but what really shocked him was Potions— O . He stared at the grade for a moment longer, trying to make sense of it. He had always struggled with Potions, especially with Snape, but then he remembered the extra credit questions at the end of the final exam. He’d nailed the ones about Polyjuice Potion and Veritaserum, things he had studied in detail during the year. Maybe that had made all the difference.
As he read through it, Harry couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the new books and start studying. He also found himself wondering who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would be.
After a few moments, Harry glanced back at the paper, his attention shifting to the second sheet. It was the booklist for the upcoming year, something he had been hoping to see. He picked it up, scanning the list of required texts for his fifth year at Hogwarts. As usual, there were several new books, some more advanced than others, and Harry made a mental note of what he’d need to pick up before the term started.
The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 5
Magical Drafts and Potions
Dark Arts Defense: Basics for Beginners
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi
A History of Magic
Intermediate Transfiguration
Monster Book of Monsters
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
As Harry set the letter down, his mind was already drifting toward the upcoming school year. It felt strange to be away from his friends for so long, and though his grades were good, there was still a weight on his shoulders, an undercurrent of anxiety about everything else. He thought about the looming war, Voldemort’s return, and how, even now, he couldn’t escape the sense that everything was about to change again.
With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside. Tomorrow was another day, and the summer was still long, despite the heaviness that seemed to settle in his chest. Harry glanced out the window, the last rays of the sun slipping beneath the horizon, and he finally allowed himself a moment of peace, before the reality of the next school year came crashing down again.
For now, though, he just wanted to rest.