Ex-Friends || A Drarry Story

Four: One

Laying flat on his back, Harry van his fingers lightly over the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It was burning viciously, as if someone had pressed a white-hot wire to his skin. With one hand pressed to his scar, Harry turned on his bedside lamp, feeling around for his glasses.

Taking a look around his bedroom, Harry didn't expect it to change; A large wooden trunk sat open, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and an assortment of spell books. Rolls of parchment littered a part of his desk that wasn't taken up by a cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig,usually perched.

He tried to distract himself, but nothing, not even thinking about Quidditch,was helping. His mind turned to Sirius Black, his godfather. Thanks to his history, he was the reason Harry could keep his school things in his bedroom. Usually, the Dursleys would do their best to keep Harry as miserable as possible. But, after telling them about Sirius, a man framed for the murder of thirteen Muggles and Peter Pettigrew, they were extra terrified of his magic. Conveniently, Harry forgot to tell them that he was innocent.

Finally, the sun had risen, Harry's lamp seeming to grow dimmer as the early morning light crept through his window. Faintly, he wondered what Draco Malfoy was doing, if he was awake and thinking about him. He wondered how Ron was doing with that small owl that Sirius had sent him to replace Scabbers, who turned out to be Peter Pettigrew, who had been the one responsible for the deaths of Lily and James Potter. He wondered if Hermione had begun reading any new books, if she had really decided to drop some of her courses.

He heard the door bell ring, and it was a matter of moments before he heard Uncle Vernon shout, "Boy, living room, now!"

Bewildered, wondering what on earth he could have done in such short time awake. He dressed as quickly as he could and walked downstairs. Gulping, he saw that Uncle Vernon was livid. "So," he grunted, crossing his meaty arms. Aunt Petunia was knitting in an armchair, and Dudley was sulking on the couch. "So," he repeated, marching over to the fireplace.

"So what?" said Harry without thinking, and he instantly regretted it; Uncle Vernon made his way to Harry, grabbing him by his unruly hair slapping him swiftly and hard. His glasses flew off, and he picked them back up. "Do not back-yack me, boy.I don't care who your godfather is."

Choking back his tears, Harry murmured, "Yes, sir."

"This arrived for you," he grunted, pulling something out of his pocket. "A letter."

Harry's confusion replaced his hurt. Who would be writing a letter to be delivered by the postman? Glaring at Harry, Uncle Vernon glared at him before reaching into his pocket again, pulling out the envelope.it was covered by stamps at every inch, except for Harry's address. He threw the letter to Harry, who read it quickly.

It was from Mrs Weasley, asking for permission for Harry to accompany the family to the Quidditch World Cup, getting tickets from Mr Weasley's connections at the Ministry of Magic.

"Can I go, then?" he asked, seeing an odd spasm go across Uncle Vernon's large purple face.it was a furious battle that was definitely going on: allowing Harry to go would make Harry happy, something he had struggled with against for thirteen years. On the other hand, Harry would be out of his home weeks before he was scheduled to.

"What does she mean, send a response back the normal way?"

"By owl," said Harry curtly, "normal for wizards."

Outraged, Uncle Vernon shook with anger, and before Harry could say anything, he slapped him on his cheek, his glasses sailing across the den again, but he couldn't go and pick them up before Uncle Vernon punched his eye. Harry cried out, and fell to the ground. Towering over him, he said nothing, fat fists balled, ready to hit Harry again.