Diagon Alley
The sidewalk in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was packed with summer shoppers. Off to the left of the entrance, Hermione was practically vibrating with worry.
"Has Sean written back yet? Justin? What on earth is going on with Harry?"
"Easy, Hermione," Justin said, trying to sound calm. "Whatever it is, we'll sort it out. Let's see what Sean says first."
He'd barely finished the sentence when Ron came tumbling out of a nearby public Floo fireplace in a cloud of soot.
"What's wrong with Harry?! Merlin! Where's Sean?"
Ron wiped his face, smearing the ash worse, and looked around frantically for the one face he didn't see.
"Watch out, Ron!" Hermione yelped.
Justin yanked Ron aside just in time for Neville to stumble out of the same fireplace, coughing up gray dust.
"My gran absolutely refused to let me come," Neville wheezed, "until I mentioned Sean's name."
Everyone's eyes flicked upward, as if the sky itself might deliver the answer.
High above the clouds, a snowy owl named Bai clutched a letter in her beak and arrowed toward Privet Drive.
Meanwhile, Sean Green sat in the quiet of the farmhouse, thinking.
So the house-elf Dobby had shown up and barricaded Harry in his room, all because "next year at Hogwarts would be too dangerous."
Sean almost laughed.
Dumbledore and McGonagall kept insisting Hogwarts was the safest place on earth, yet Harry came back every June looking like he'd been through a war.
First year: mountain troll + Voldemort face-hugger.
Second year: basilisk.
Third year: supposed mass-murderer on the grounds.
By the later books the castle basically became a battlefield.
Maybe Hogwarts' safety record was cursed the same way the Defense Against the Dark Arts position was.
Sean pulled out a small stack of pure-white paper: Professor Tala's enchanted paper planes. Distance didn't matter; location didn't matter. They always found their target. (The Ministry's memo planes were the cheap knock-off version.)
His quill flew across the page:
Harry,
We've noticed you haven't been getting any of our letters. They all vanish the moment we send them.
Don't worry. The second you read this, grab the blank sheet included and write back to me. This paper is special: it will fly straight to me no matter what.
Anything wrong: anything at all: tell me.
— Sean Green
He folded the plane, whispered the charm, and watched it wobble straight through the wall and disappear.
Time to find Professor McGonagall. Justin's second letter had just come in; he needed to head to Diagon Alley.
In the farmhouse living room, Professor McGonagall sipped steaming tea and glanced up as Sean came downstairs. At this hour the boy was usually lost in Transfiguration practice.
She had a hunch. When he walked over, she forced herself to stay calm even though her heart leapt a little.
"Professor, I need to go to Diagon Alley."
Her brooch translated the words perfectly.
McGonagall nodded. Finally, he was willing to talk to her. "Of course, dear. Shall I come with you?"
Sean shook his head, eyes distant.
Harry and the Dursleys: such a tangled, painful knot of mistakes and years that couldn't be undone or cut away.
Back at the farm, Marcus stood in silence long after the carriage had disappeared down the dusty road.
"You should ask more questions," he said at last, voice quiet but trembling. "If it's anything like last time—"
The man who'd faced Dark wizards without flinching was shaking at the thought that a child: his child: was the one standing between Voldemort and the world.
"You already know how dangerous it is. Promise me you'll watch over him."
The words scattered on the wind as the carriage rolled out of sight.
Privet Drive, Number Four
Harry spent his days staring out the window like a prisoner.
The moment he'd arrived home, Uncle Vernon had confiscated every spellbook, his wand, robes, cauldron, even his shiny new Nimbus 2000, and locked the lot under the stairs.
Whether Harry got kicked off the Gryffindor Quidditch team from lack of practice? The Dursleys couldn't care less.
Homework? Completely undone. Not their problem.
Hedwig was shut in her cage and forbidden to carry letters to "any of your freak friends."
Staring at the furious owl, Harry felt exactly like her: trapped in a dark, airless box.
"Ha! Freak!" Dudley sneered from the hallway, pink face twisted in an ugly grin. "None of your freak friends have written, have they? Face it: nobody cares about you!"
Harry stared at him until Dudley's bravado cracked.
"W-what are you looking at?"
"I'm trying to decide which spell would set you on fire the fastest."
"Jigglypuffly!" Harry barked. "Horklump—pikachu—wigglytuff!"
"MUUUUM!" Dudley shrieked, tripping over his own feet as he fled. "MUM! HE'S DOING IT AGAIN!"
Scaring Dudley didn't actually make Harry feel better.
Because Dudley was right: no letters.
Not from Ron. Not from Hermione. Not even from Justin, who'd sworn everyone would stay in touch.
Sean and Neville might be bad at writing, but Ron? Hermione? Justin?
Unless "everyone" didn't include Harry.
He knew his friends wouldn't ditch him. But the thought still wormed its way in.
And now, because he'd fallen for Dudley's taunting and scared him, Aunt Petunia was going to make the rest of his day hell: windows, car washing, weeding, pruning roses, repainting the garden bench…
Harry didn't even care anymore.
Then, while Petunia's shrieks echoed downstairs, something fluttered into view outside the window.
A white paper plane wobbled through the tree branches, paused as though something invisible was trying to stop it, then stubbornly rocked forward until it hovered right in front of Harry.
He knew exactly what it was.
Sean had used these in the Forbidden Forest when everything was going to hell.
He hadn't been forgotten.
Sean had written.
Hands shaking with sudden hope, Harry snatched the plane out of the air and unfolded it.
Harry,
We've noticed you haven't been getting any of our letters. They all vanish the moment we send them.
Don't worry. The second you read this, grab the blank sheet included and write back to me. This paper is special: it will fly straight to me no matter what.
Anything wrong: anything at all: tell me.
— Sean Green
Harry's eyes stung. He blinked hard, clutched the blank sheet like it was the most precious thing in the world, and reached for a quill.