Harry Potter and the Magic ClubTheThinkMakerSummary:
An intelligent and aware of his roots, Harry Potter rescues his new neighbour, Hermione Granger, from his cousin and his gang one afternoon—an act that would forever alter the course of the magical world.
Notes:
Story inspiraed in the fic "Harry Potter and The Sphinx Club"
This story will be somewhat dark. It contains themes such as suicide, depression, abuse, underage sex, among others. Consider this your warning should you choose to continue, and if you do, please do not be taken aback by the content.
Chapter 1: The Girl of of number six, Privet DriveChapter Text
Harry I
The summer sun in Little Whinging was as oppressive as the atmosphere at Number Four, Privet Drive. Ten-year-old Harry Potter had slipped out from the suffocating chaos of the Dursleys' house. That morning, Aunt Petunia had thrust the lawnmower handle into his hands with her usual sharp instruction to "make it look presentable" before Uncle Vernon returned. Harry knew from experience that it was a thankless task; no matter how neatly he trimmed the grass, Vernon would always find a crooked edge or a stray blade to complain about. Deciding there was no point in exhausting himself for nothing, Harry abandoned the chore and set off for a walk instead.
His refuge was that faded, forlorn park where no one usually bothered him—or at least that's what he had always thought, until that morning. From a distance he heard them: the nasal, arrogant voice of Piers Polkiss and the grunts of his cousin Dudley, who, that day like every other, was bullying someone near the swings.
"Weird! Freak!" yelled Piers and Dudley, throwing a stone that grazed his target's head.
Harry clenched his fists. He hated those thugs; he hated their stupid, senseless cruelty. Normally, he would have lowered his head and kept walking—he didn't need any more trouble. But something was different this time. The person they had cornered was a girl. Her hair was thick, curly, and brown, and her large hazel eyes glistened with tears.
"Leave me alone!" the girl demanded, on the verge of tears.
"Or what, freak?" sneered Dudley, pushing her against the metal swing post. "Are you going to cry until your mummy comes?"
Although most of the time he ignored his cousin's affronts to other children, something in Harry ignited when he saw Dudley and his bullies mocking that girl. "Hey, morons!" shouted Harry, advancing towards them with a bravery he hadn't known he possessed. "Don't you lot have anything better to do than annoy a girl you don't even know?"
Dudley turned. His fat face, a copy of his father's, was distorted into a sneer. "What do you want, Potter?"
"I'm just saying that five idiots against one girl is cowardly—even for you," Harry replied, standing in front of him.
The girl looked at him in confusion. Piers laughed. "Are you going to defend her, four-eyes? Is she your girlfriend, Potter? Another weirdo like you?"
Dudley stepped forward to push him away, but the laces of his became inexplicably tangled, and he fell face-first to the gravel floor with a growl of surprise and pain. The other thugs froze.
Harry stared at them. "Anyone else?"
Piers, unsure, helped a plaintive Dudley to his feet.
"It doesn't end here, Potter," Dudley muttered, his nose bleeding. The group withdrew, hurling insults over their shoulders.
Harry took a deep breath. He turned to the girl, who was still watching him with a mixture of amazement and caution. "Are you, all right?" he asked, worried that his cousin might have hurt her.
She nodded, cleaning the dust from her white shorts trousers. "Yes. Thank you for helping me," the strange girl said. "Why did you help me?" she asked, her eyes fixed on him. "They could have hurt you."
"Don't thank me, they're just a bunch of cowards," he assured her with a small smile. "They're scared if anyone stands up to them," he added with a shrug, his eyes dropping to the spot where Dudley and his friends had disappeared. "Besides, I helped you because I know what it feels like—wanting someone to help," he replied simply. Then he added, "By the way, I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
"Hermione Granger," she said, cracking a small smile. "I just moved in, in house number 6."
Harry blinked, surprised. "Really? I live at number 4."
They both sat on the swings and talked about how boring Little Whinging was, how horrible kids like Dudley were, and most of all, about books. Hermione adored them, something Harry found deeply interesting.
Then, Hermione sighed. "Sometimes things happen... weird around me. Things I can't control. That's why they called me a freak. Once, at school, a girl made fun of my hair, and suddenly... hers began to fall."
Harry stood still. Hearing her words, he stared at her. "Weird things?" he repeated in a whisper. "Like... Like make things move without touching them?"
Hermione's eyes widened. "Can you make strange things happen, too?" she asked incredulously.
Harry nodded slowly. "One time my aunt yelled at me about a horrible haircut my uncle gave me, and suddenly all my hair grew back in a few hours," he explained. A mischievous smile appeared on the girl's face. "That day, my Uncle Vernon almost died of anger."
A clear giggle escaped Hermione. "Really!"
"I'm being serious," Harry confirmed. She then told him about some things she had done without explanation.
"Hermione... what if I told you that we are not freaks? That there is a reason for all the things that happen around us?" Harry began, his tone serious. She looked at him, completely absorbed.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"We are wizards," Harry finally said, with a quiet smile, as he made a small flower sprout in the palm of his hand, the petals slowly unfolding and showing their colours. Hermione flinched, her eyes widened, and she stepped back a little on the swing, as if she feared that what she was seeing wasn't real.
"That... "That's not possible," she murmured, her voice trembling. "That's a trick. One... a sleight of hand. It has to be."
Harry smiled slightly as he shook his head. "It's not a trick, Hermione. My parents were wizards, really. They studied at a school called Hogwarts. There they learnt to control their powers."
She watched him in disbelief, her brow furrowed and her lips parted, as if she wanted to protest but didn't know what to say. "A school... of magic?" she repeated sceptically.
"Yes," Harry said, making the flower disappear from his hand. "In a month and a half, we will receive a letter of admission. So, will you."
Hermione squeezed her fingers on the swing until her knuckles turned white. "And how can you be so sure of that? Why me? My parents are not wizards; they are... they're dentists," she said almost defensively, as if the mere act of naming her parents' profession was a shield against the impossible.
Harry looked at her calmly. "I didn't understand it at first either," he confessed, playing with gravel with his foot. "When I was younger, strange things happened around me, like you. I thought I was crazy, or that I was a freak, as the Dursleys said... until my aunt told me the truth. She told me that my parents were witches and that I was too."
Hermione blinked several times, as if trying to put the pieces of an impossible puzzle in order. "Did your aunt tell you?" she asked quietly, curiously.
"Yes," Harry said, nodding and looking up. "And not only that. In the attic, I found a trunk that had belonged to my mother. It was full of books, robes, notebooks... everything from her seven years at Hogwarts. I have read it; I have studied it. I learnt that it is not necessary for your parents to be wizards for you to be one. People like your parents are called Muggles, or non-magical people, and witches like you are called Muggle-born. Wizards do magic with a wand, although there are wizards and witches who can do magic without a wand, like this."
He raised his hand again, and an invisible breeze gently lifted Hermione's unruly curls. She gasped, putting her hand to her hair, and her expression changed from fear to cautious amazement.
" "No... it can't be possible," she murmured, though her voice no longer sounded so certain in her denial.
"I know," Harry said softly. "I didn't believe it either. But the magic is real, Hermione. And it lives inside you too."
Hermione was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on him as if searching for a lie in his face. Finally, her lips barely moved. "So, am I not a freak?" she asked fearfully.
Harry smiled, and his green eyes shone with sincerity. "You're a witch. Just like my mother. And I'm a wizard. And soon we'll go and learn magic."
Hermione, still sceptical, looked down at her hands and murmured, "If all this is true... I want to know more."
The sun began to set on the horizon, painting Little Whinging's sky with orange and purple hues. The park, now empty except for them, grew quieter. Harry leaned back on the swing, the chains creaking gently with his movement. For the rest of the afternoon, he told Hermione about the wizarding world.
He told her about the Leaky Cauldron, described Gringotts, and spoke of wands, flying brooms, and sweets that could make someone fly or spit fire. With each description, Hermione's hazel eyes widened, reflecting the evening light and boundless wonder.
"Everything sounds amazing," she murmured, rocking gently on her swing, her white trainers scraping against the gravel to propel her forward. "Your parents must have been very important," Hermione remarked when she heard Harry talking about the magical castes: pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns.
Harry kicked a pebble with the toe of his worn shoe. "They were," he replied, and his voice, once full of enthusiasm, grew shadowed. "But I'm afraid they passed away when I was just a baby."
Hermione's swing stopped abruptly. The gravel crunched under her feet as she planted them on the ground. Her face, once lit with emotion, twisted into genuine horror. "Oh, Harry... I'm so sorry," she whispered, her cheeks turning slightly rosy with embarrassment at mentioning it so lightly. "I... I didn't know."
He shook his head, causing his messy black fringe to flutter. A sad smile curved his lips. "Don't apologise, Hermione," Harry reassured her, looking her in the face. "You couldn't know. That's why I live with my aunt and her family." He paused, gazing up at the sky. "My father was a pure-blood, born into an old and noble house. My mother, Lily... she was a Muggle-born. Like you." As he said this, his eyes met hers. "And she was, according to all who knew her, the most brilliant witch of her generation. That makes me a half-blood."
Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
"That my mother, a Muggle-born, was so brilliant... it didn't sit well with a lot of people," Harry continued, his fingers tightening on the cold chains of the swing until his knuckles turned white. "In the wizarding world, there are people who... who believe that Muggle-borns are inferior. They call them, derogatorily, 'mudblood'."
The eleven-year-old girl gasped, one hand instinctively flying to her mouth. "Why?" she asked, her voice a thread of horror. The idea was as absurd and cruel to her as the segregation she had read about in history books.
Harry shrugged, a gesture meant to be nonchalant but failing to hide the tension in his shoulders. "Ignorance. Fear of what is different. The stupid idea that the 'purity' of blood guarantees power." He stared at Hermione, his expression intense and serious. "But don't worry. They are nothing but stupid ideas—don't let their words hurt you or make you feel less."
Hermione nodded, though her gaze drifted towards the horizon, a little crestfallen. The shadow of prejudice, which she thought she had left behind in her old school, now reached her in this new and wonderful world. Harry, sensing her concern, quickly changed tactics.
"Look," he said, his voice regaining a lighter tone, "how about I tell you about Hogwarts?"
And so, he did. He described her the great castle with its shifting staircases, the ghosts that wandered the corridors, and the Sorting Hat that delved into your thoughts to choose your house.
"And which house would you like to enter?" asked Hermione, her interest in magic rekindled.
The green-eyed boy looked up at the sky, where the first stars were beginning to twinkle. "Actually," Harry began thoughtfully, "I don't care too much. Every house has something good. My father's whole family, the Potter's, were in Gryffindor for generations. But my paternal grandmother's family, the Black's, were always in Slytherin." At the mention of Slytherin, he noticed Hermione's face cloud slightly.
"Slytherin... that's the house what you say were purists... it doesn't seem like a very friendly house for people like me," she said cautiously, digging the tip of her shoe into the gravel and drawing an imperfect circle.
"Some of its members are openly reluctant about Muggle-borns belonging to the snake house, it's true," Harry admitted honestly, shrugging. "But you can't judge an entire house by a handful of bad apples. Blood purists are found everywhere, not just in Slytherin. The problem is not the house; it's the person. And besides," he added, trying to ease her concern, "direct insults about lineage are strictly forbidden at Hogwarts. The headmaster Dumbledore doesn't allow it."
Hermione looked at the circle she had drawn on the ground, then looked up to meet his gaze. "You may be right," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "You can't generalise."
The silence between the two became comfortable. The swings swayed gently in the wind, the metallic sound of the chains mingling with the distant cries of some children already heading home. The sun was slowly sinking behind the rooftops of Privet Drive.
Suddenly, Hermione jumped up, shaking the dust off her knees. "It's getting late," she said, and then, with a shy smile, added, "Hey, Harry... my parents are home. I'm sure they wouldn't mind you coming over to dinner with us. It would be... well, a way of thanking you for today. And you could tell me more about... all this."
Harry looked at her, surprised. A dinner in a normal house, with a normal family. Not with the Dursley's. The idea sounded so wonderfully Muggle, and yet so magically attractive, that a wide, genuine smile lit up his face.
"I would love to," he replied, getting up from the swing as well.
Both children left the park and walked together along the pavement of Privet Drive, breathing in the cool evening air. The sun was already setting behind the houses, dyeing the uniform rooftops orange. Harry walked with his hands in his pockets, occasionally kicking a pebble on the pavement. Hermione, for her part, spoke briskly, as if she did not know what to say and what to hold back. From time to time, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye with a mixture of shyness and excitement.
"Here I live," Harry said, pausing for a moment in front of Number Four and pointing with his finger. The façade was identical to all the others: cream-coloured walls, a dark green door, and a large, shiny car parked in the drive.
Hermione nodded, and they both kept walking. Just two houses away, the girl pointed out, "And here's mine."
The Grangers' home was not very different in structure from the rest of the street, but Harry noticed small details that set it apart: a manicured garden with newly planted blue and white flowers, a trimmed hedge, and two cars parked in the driveway, both impeccable. The neatness conveyed a certain cold, almost fake as if everything had been meticulously planned.
Hermione opened the front door, and a wave of delicious aromas filled the air. Harry's mouth watered. The smell of homemade food was unfamiliar, and for a moment he stood motionless in the doorway.
"I'm home!" Hermione announced, hanging her jacket on a hanger. She beckoned Harry in, and he followed.
"Where have you been all afternoon, Hermione?" asked a female voice from the back of the house, accompanied by the clinking of cutlery.
Hermione took a deep breath, shooting Harry a quick, slightly nervous look. "I made a friend," the girl confessed, and the word echoed in the spacious hall with unusual force.
The word 'friend' struck him in the chest with a strange weight. He had never used it to refer to anyone, nor had anyone used it to refer to him. It was a foreign concept to him.
As he took off his trainers, following Hermione's lead, Harry took the opportunity to look inside. The Grangers' house was arranged with the utmost care. The walls were painted in cool shades, grey and blue, and the light wood of the floor contrasted with the minimalist furniture. Despite having recently moved, everything was in place, as if they had lived there forever. There was not a single book out of place or a crumpled cushion.
His gaze swept over the walls. There were several framed photos of the Grangers smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower, in the Alps, and another of a younger Hermione, with baby teeth and a wide smile, holding a trophy. Next to the photos hung diplomas and university degrees with the names Dr John Granger and Dr Emma Granger, followed by a litany of dental specialities.
And then there were Hermione's diplomas. Several, individually framed: Academic Excellence, First Place in the Mathematics Contest, and Best Oratory, among other recognitions that hung on the walls.
"Really?" a male voice rang out from the top of the stairs.
Harry looked up. Coming down with a calm step was Hermione's father. He was a middle-aged man, of slim build and average height. His light brown hair was beginning to thin, showing a receding hairline, and soft wrinkles had formed around his eyes and forehead. He was dressed in a plaid shirt beneath a grey cashmere sweater, with neatly pressed beige trousers free of any creases. The man was the complete opposite of Vernon Dursley, who was fat, rude, and loud.
"Dad, this is my friend, Harry Potter. He lives a few houses away," Hermione introduced him, with a formal tone that sounded strange for an eleven-year-old girl.
Mr Granger stepped down the last step and stopped in front of Harry. His clear eyes assessed him with curiosity. Harry watched as the man took his right hand out of his trouser pocket and held it out.
"Nice to meet you, sir," Harry said, with a firm, steady grip, just as he had reluctantly learnt from his uncle.
"John Granger. The pleasure is mine, Harry," the man replied, with a genuine smile.
"I hope you don't mind that I invited Harry to dinner. He... he helped me when I got a little lost in the neighbourhood," Hermione explained nervously. Harry noticed the slight hesitation in her lie.
"Don't worry, honey. It's always a pleasure to meet Hermione's friends," Mr Granger said, letting go of Harry's hand. His tone was gentle, but Harry detected a thin layer of scepticism. Not about the invitation, but about Hermione having made a friend so quickly.
Soon, Dr Emma Granger emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She was a petite woman, a few inches shorter than Petunia, her black hair pulled back into a sleek bun. Her face was a future map of Hermione's—the same features, the same eye colour—except for the very fine wrinkles marked around her eyes and lips.
"Ah, so this is the famous friend," Emma said, with a smile. "Nice to meet you, young man. I'm Emma, Hermione's mother."
"Harry Potter, ma'am. Thank you so much for having me," Harry replied, feeling strangely formal under their polite gazes.
The four of them went into the dining room, a room with a square table. Dr Granger served dinner – a beef stew with vegetables and fresh bread. The Granger doctors sat together on one side of the table, while Harry sat next to Hermione.
The dinner passed with fluid courtesy. They asked him questions about Privet Drive, about his school, and about his life. Harry's responses were polite, and he tried to avoid talking too much about the Dursley's. That's when Dr Granger curiously asked him:
"And your parents, Harry, what do they do?" The question arose naturally.
"Mum!" shrieked Hermione, in a tone of genuine horror, her face instantly flushing with embarrassment at mentioning it so lightly.
Harry, however, was unfazed. At school he had had to answer that question too many times. "They are dead," he explained calmly. "They died in a car accident when I was a baby."
Dr Granger's smile froze and faded. "Oh my God, Harry. I am sorry. There shouldn't be..."
"Never mind," he interrupted softly, taking a sip of water.
But the atmosphere had broken down. The rest of the dinner passed with an effort on the part of the adults to redirect the conversation towards safer waters. And that's when Harry catalogued them.
If there was one word to describe the Grangers, it would be 'insipid'. Though his new neighbours were infinitely kinder and politer than the Dursleys, there was a perfection about them so rigidly displayed that it was almost suffocating. Everything in their home seemed arranged not out of love or the natural warmth of a family, but purely to impress visitors. Harry didn't see so much as a trace of everyday disorder—a thrown shoe, a cushion on the floor, or the TV left on, even if no one was watching. It was as if the Grangers could not tolerate the slightest imperfection or a single speck of dust.
The dinner conversation followed the same pattern. The Granger's radiated pride in their daughter, as if every sentence they uttered revolved around how much Hermione had accomplished in her short life. They told him about her impeccable grades, her early love of reading, and the prize she had won at the science fair at her school in London. It was evident that, for them, excellence was an obligation for their daughter.
Harry listened to them politely, responding when appropriate, but every word that came from their mouths felt empty to him. The Grangers' comments about their daughter's past accomplishments lacked genuine warmth. There was pride, yes, but it was a cold, measured pride, like that of someone boasting that their dog had learned to sit before their neighbour's. It wasn't the excited glow of a father celebrating his daughter's every discovery, but the satisfaction of displaying a polished trophy.
"Hermione achieved academic excellence in primary school," Mr Granger said, taking a small sip of his red wine.
Beside him, Hermione's back was stiff, and her gaze was fixed on the peas on her plate, an intense blush betraying her agony. "Please stop," she murmured, almost imploringly, but her parents ignored her words. "Harry is not interested in that."
Harry, on the other hand, did notice it – that plea hidden in Hermione's voice. It was just a murmur, a timid protest, but it was enough for him to understand what was hidden behind it. The Grangers' words of praise were not mere displays of pride; they were a conditional love, measured in grades, diplomas, and medals. An affection given only as long as Hermione delivered brilliant results. They did not boast of their daughter as proud parents; they displayed her as if she were a polished trophy, the most successful result of their careers and meticulously ordered lifestyle. Hermione was not, for them, simply their daughter; she was their most perfect project.
Harry looked at her. His new friend's body was stiff, and yet she seemed to want to shrink until she disappeared. Her shoulders were tight, her eyes were fixed on the plate, and there was something about her posture that screamed she wished she were invisible. And in that instant, Harry understood it perfectly. Behind the façade of a child prodigy, behind the diplomas hanging on the wall and the smiles in family photographs, Hermione was trapped in an invisible cage. It wasn't made of bars or screams or the suffocating darkness of a cupboard under the stairs, like his.
Hermione's prison was subtler, built on the constant pressure to always be the best, to never fail, and not to allow herself a mistake, not a stumble, not even a breather. It was a solitude different from his, but solitude nonetheless. Plunged into a silence her parents would never notice, Harry felt a twinge of sadness. For the first time in a long while, he understood that he was not the only one who lived locked up in a life he had not chosen.
When the dinner finally came to an end, Harry rose with exquisite politeness. "Dinner was delicious; thank you very much again for your invitation," he thanked them, nodding slightly at each of them.
"It's been a pleasure, Harry. You are a very polite young man," the mother replied, smiling.
"Don't hesitate to come back," Mr Granger added, though Harry knew it was more of a courtesy than a genuine invitation.
Hermione escorted him to the entrance, closing the door behind them and giving them a respite from the neat, tidy world of her parents. They stared at each other in the dim light of the porch.
"Thank you for the food," Harry began, with a shy smile.
Hermione shook her head, her cheeks rosy. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her pink t-shirt. "Thanks to you," she corrected, her voice a little firmer now that they were alone. "For... you know. Helping me with your cousin and his friends."
"It was the least I could do," he assured her, shrugging his shoulders. "Dudley is an idiot. He is used to no one standing up to him."
"Still, you did." Hermione looked at him admiringly. Then her expression darkened slightly. "And... I'm sorry you had to hear all that stuff from my parents. They... it's not evil. It's just that they like to talk about my... academic results with everyone, as if it's the only interesting thing about me." The confession came out with a bitterness that Harry noticed instantly.
"Don't apologise. You don't have to," he assured her, offering a reassuring smile, making her blush even more. As they stared at each other, an idea crossed her mind. "Hey, do you want to come to my aunt and uncle's house tomorrow? At noon. My uncle works until night; my aunt will take my cousin out all day to buy his new school uniform, or something like that. They will be out all day and won't arrive until the evening. That way we can talk calmly... and I'll be able to teach you some things about magic."
Hermione's eyes lit up instantly, all the previous embarrassment and discomfort vanishing. "Really?"
"Yeah," Harry confirmed, with a hint of pride he rarely felt. "But we have to do it in secret; my aunt's husband doesn't like magic—he really hates it."
Hermione nodded, instantly understanding that he too had problems like her. "Yes," the girl replied without a second's hesitation. "Of, course I do. I'll be there."
"Perfect." Harry smiled, a genuine, rare smile. "I'll be waiting for you." He said goodbye to her once more, turned around, and made his way home. The Grangers' perfect house was left behind, and he soon found himself in the oppressive familiarity of Number Four, Privet Drive.
His aunt and uncle's house was the reverse side of the coin. There were no achievement paintings or diplomas proudly hung up, only plain walls, fashionable ornaments, and a household obsessed with appearing to be something they were not. Where Hermione's house shone with an almost suffocating order, the Dursleys' house exuded falsehood.
As soon as he opened the door, Vernon's roar greeted him. His uncle was red with fury, his moustache trembling; the air in the room was dense. Petunia stood pale, her lips pressed together in a very fine line. And in the centre of the room, like a grotesque throne of misery, sat Vernon, his face a mask of apoplectic purple, and in his lap, moaning with a bloody handkerchief pressed to his nose, was Dudley.
Harry closed the door behind him, and Vernon looked up. His small, bloodshot, piggy eyes locked on Harry with a hatred so pure you could almost taste it.
"Where the fuck have you been, idiot?" his uncle roared, clearly furious.
Harry stood in front of him, calculating the distance to the stairs. "I've been out," he answered, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
"Out?! Has been outside?! I come home from work all fucking day and find my son with a broken nose, and you've been out!" Vernon stood up, his huge double chin shaking. Dudley let out a plaintive groan and ran to hug his mother.
Petunia cast a look of anguish at Harry, a mixture of reproach and fear. "Vernon, please calm down," she muttered, fearful not because of what Vernon might do to Harry, but that some neighbour would hear them.
"Shut your mouth, woman!" Vernon snapped at her without looking at her, his gaze still fixed on Harry. "He is to blame! It's always his fault when weird things happen! Tell us again what happened, Dudley!"
Dudley, between snot and blood, mumbled something unintelligible.
"What?! Speak plainly!" demanded Vernon, crouching over him.
"Harry... Harry made me fall," Dudley sobbed, pointing to his nose with the bloodstained handkerchief.
Vernon wrinkled his face, his chest swelling like that of a giant toad. His finger, thick as a sausage, jabbed at Harry. "See? You and your... bloody freakiness! It's always the same!"
Harry felt a surge of cold anger. Not because of the accusation, which was usual, but because of Dudley's cowardly lie.
"I didn't throw him," Harry said with clarity. "He fell."
Vernon blinked, puzzled by the tone. "What?"
"Dudley stumbled himself," Harry repeated, keeping his gaze steady. "He and Piers Polkiss were in the park. They cornered the new neighbour, the girl who has just moved to Number Six. They were insulting her and throwing stones at her."
Petunia stopped rubbing Dudley's hair, but Vernon seemed not to care. "So, what? Children are children! That does not justify that—"
"I got in the way," Harry interrupted, his voice now louder. "I told them to leave. Dudley tried to push me, and... he tripped. On his own cord." He wasn't going to mention that he had tied it with magic. "He fell by himself because he's a clumsy bully who doesn't even know how to fight without his gang."
"You..." Vernon began, with a low, vibrant tone more dangerous than a scream. His cheeks were ablaze like embers, and his tiny eyes glowed with fury. "You... ungrateful brat... after all we've done for you..."
Harry didn't wait to hear more. His body reacted before his mind: he turned and ran, climbing the stairs two at a time. His trainers hit the wood with a dull echo that seemed to multiply his uncle's fury. Behind him, Vernon's voice rose in a roar that made the walls of the house tremble. Dudley's sobs mingled with his father's insults.
When he reached his room, he slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, panting. His heart thudded in his chest as if it were trying to burst through his throat. With trembling hands, he slid the latch and locked it. He sank onto the bed, drawing a deep breath, while Vernon's shrieks echoed from below, so violent that for a moment he thought his uncle might actually break the door down.
But he didn't. And Harry calmed. He had defended Hermione. The very thought gave him a flicker of pride. Yes, he had stood up to Dudley and his gang, and he would do it again if he had to.
After a few moments, he knelt beside the bed and prised open a small slit in the edge of the mattress, one he had cut weeks earlier with an old kitchen knife. From that secret hiding place he withdrew one of his few treasures.
He carefully drew out a photograph, old and creased at the corners, yet still vivid. It showed his parents standing in front of a white house with a sloping roof and flowers spilling from the window boxes. His mother was pregnant, her hand resting on her rounded belly, smiling with a warmth that seemed to light the whole picture. His father had an arm around her and flashed a mischievous grin at the camera. Best of all, the photograph moved. His mother laughed softly, turning to look at his father, while James lifted a hand in an enthusiastic wave, as though he knew Harry was watching.
Harry had found it a couple of months earlier, tucked away in the attic inside a trunk that had belonged to his mother, amidst a jumble of books, clothes, and letters. There had been several photographs, but this was the one he cherished most, the one he kept hidden ever since.
"I've met a friend," Harry whispered, lifting the picture into the dim light that filtered through the window. "Her name's Hermione Granger. She's just moved to Privet Drive. She's clever and bright, and she's a witch too. Today we found out together."
His mother's smile in the photograph seemed to answer him, as if she approved of his words. Harry swallowed hard and went on, a lump tightening in his throat.
"We will go to Hogwarts together. I don't know which house we'll be in, but I know that... that I will not be alone."
For several minutes, Harry spoke quietly to the photo, telling it about the park swing, Hermione's questions, and how she had turned red when her parents started showing her off at the table. It was strange: the words flowed on their own, as if the photo could actually hear and understand.
"She'll be coming tomorrow," he told it, feeling a spark of warmth in his stomach. "As long as the Dursleys are gone. I'll show her your books. I'll teach her... about our world."
But little by little his eyelids grew heavy. The day, full of emotions and tension, poured over him like a mantle of lead. With one last effort, he slid the photo back under the mattress, in its safe hiding place. Then he curled up on the bed, hugging his pillow.
Vernon's voice still boomed faintly from below, like a distant echo. But it didn't matter anymore. Harry closed his eyes with a tired smile, thinking of Hermione's curious, bright look, of the promise that tomorrow they would see each other again. And, for the first time in a long while, he fell asleep with the feeling that the next day could bring something good.