The premise: Figure it out, asshats.
The first Monday of the summer so far was drawing to a close and the bland suburban street that was Privet Drive descended into a drowsy silence as night approached. It had been a hot day, and there was no sign that anything but hot days would be on offer in the near future. Cars stood dusty in their driveways; lawns were drying. Only this morning a notice that hosepipes looked to be banned had gone out. It had not been well-received.
Deprived of the ability to posture in front of their neighbors via washing their cars or mowing their lawns or pruning their flowerbeds, the residents of this section of Little Whinging had retreated indoors and flung open their windows in hopes of tempting in a non-existent breeze. A breeze that the only person outdoors knew perfectly well would not come.
That person was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled, teenage boy lying flat on the lawn outside Number Four. He was not even attempting to hide himself: he knew his appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, but he had not cared about their opinions before and certainly did not now.
Harry Potter shifted slightly, and lay still. The hot lawn was mildly uncomfortable, but he had endured worse than mere mild discomfort, and the discomfort was a good way to be silent and compose his thoughts.
His thoughts were on the future that was now the past, and the past that was now again the present. He had come back, gone back.
He wondered if he was already being watched by a member of the Order, hidden under an Invisibility Cloak. If so, who? He put the thought away; it was pointless, he would not find out.
He knew, at least, that he was not being watched by Lord Voldemort. There was no connection anymore.
Harry assumed that the Order had already taken up residence at Grimmauld Place; he believed that the Weasley family – apart from Percy, who would break from them, and from Charlie, who would stay in Romania – would soon move there, and that they would continue or begin the task of making it inhabitable. Hermione would probably be there soon as well, perhaps on the very same day the Weasleys moved in. He knew that within a week, the useless letters he had received last time around would begin again.
Ron and Hermione would not be able to satisfy his demand for news, though he knew now there was no news. Sirius would not be able to answer him either. None of them were allowed, would be allowed.
He had, he figured, almost four weeks of exile ahead of him. Hedwig would come back each morning carrying useless letters; an owl would arrive bearing a Daily Prophet with snide comments unsubtly demeaning him and making him more of an outcast; and he would lie in the yard of Number Four, or else wander the streets of Little Whinging clad in his ill-fitting clothes and falling-apart trainers, looking sullen and angry and seventeen-fourteen soon to be eighteen-fifteen.
It was the fifth of July. Nothing of interest would happen, should happen, before the night of the second of August. The second of August. The second of August. Four solid weeks to wait.
Time damned him.
This seems complete to me, but if anyone wants to run with it, I guess they can do that.
The first Monday of the summer so far was drawing to a close and the bland suburban street that was Privet Drive descended into a drowsy silence as night approached. It had been a hot day, and there was no sign that anything but hot days would be on offer in the near future. Cars stood dusty in their driveways; lawns were drying. Only this morning a notice that hosepipes looked to be banned had gone out. It had not been well-received.
Deprived of the ability to posture in front of their neighbors via washing their cars or mowing their lawns or pruning their flowerbeds, the residents of this section of Little Whinging had retreated indoors and flung open their windows in hopes of tempting in a non-existent breeze. A breeze that the only person outdoors knew perfectly well would not come.
That person was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled, teenage boy lying flat on the lawn outside Number Four. He was not even attempting to hide himself: he knew his appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, but he had not cared about their opinions before and certainly did not now.
Harry Potter shifted slightly, and lay still. The hot lawn was mildly uncomfortable, but he had endured worse than mere mild discomfort, and the discomfort was a good way to be silent and compose his thoughts.
His thoughts were on the future that was now the past, and the past that was now again the present. He had come back, gone back.
He wondered if he was already being watched by a member of the Order, hidden under an Invisibility Cloak. If so, who? He put the thought away; it was pointless, he would not find out.
He knew, at least, that he was not being watched by Lord Voldemort. There was no connection anymore.
Harry assumed that the Order had already taken up residence at Grimmauld Place; he believed that the Weasley family – apart from Percy, who would break from them, and from Charlie, who would stay in Romania – would soon move there, and that they would continue or begin the task of making it inhabitable. Hermione would probably be there soon as well, perhaps on the very same day the Weasleys moved in. He knew that within a week, the useless letters he had received last time around would begin again.
Ron and Hermione would not be able to satisfy his demand for news, though he knew now there was no news. Sirius would not be able to answer him either. None of them were allowed, would be allowed.
He had, he figured, almost four weeks of exile ahead of him. Hedwig would come back each morning carrying useless letters; an owl would arrive bearing a Daily Prophet with snide comments unsubtly demeaning him and making him more of an outcast; and he would lie in the yard of Number Four, or else wander the streets of Little Whinging clad in his ill-fitting clothes and falling-apart trainers, looking sullen and angry and seventeen-fourteen soon to be eighteen-fifteen.
It was the fifth of July. Nothing of interest would happen, should happen, before the night of the second of August. The second of August. The second of August. Four solid weeks to wait.
Time damned him.
This seems complete to me, but if anyone wants to run with it, I guess they can do that.