Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

21 | Some Lost Things Are Found Again

"Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly -- they'll go through anything."
Aldous Huxley

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⚠️MENTIONS OF SELF HARM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS⚠️

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Harry wondered how hard it was to get a fake ID in the Wizarding World. The idea of doing a runner to somewhere other than here was becoming more and more appealing by the second. Harry had seen Aunt Petunia's dreamy holiday brochures— Bora Bora (wherever that was) sounded rather nice. As did Hawaii. The Maldives too, whilst he was at it.

Perhaps he ought to make a list.

Harry glanced down at the very reasons why he wanted to turn to the life of a runaway child. He felt his day couldn't have gotten any worse after his talk with Malfoy— the thought of it sent a prompt shiver down his spine.

Apparently he'd been wrong.

Amongst his mail, Harry had retrieved three distinct Muggle missives. A letter from Uncle Vernon (somewhat expected), a folded-up piece of lined paper from Dudley (Harry's eyes had almost popped out their sockets), and the local Surrey newspaper (Harry's stomach had immediately disappeared).

Nothing from Sirius. Obviously. Sirius was dead and dead people couldn't send mail.

The fact that Harry had had to remind himself of that had made him want to stick his head into his pillow and scream.

Instead, he'd merely stared up at the canopy of his bed, shook his head at God, and pulled towards him Uncle Vernon's letter. His friends' letters he could save for another day, when he could muster the will to draft out convincing and relatively lively replies.

The contents of his uncle's letter had been rather predictable. Many "boy"s, quite a few "fucking"s, the usual "or else". However the finale of "I'll haunt you from beyond the grave when you get us all killed, boy" had numbed Harry to his very fingertips.

True, his presence at Privet Drive had forced the Dursleys into a world which they had never wanted to be part of. And true, the fact that he was Harry Potter made it a bit worse. But he'd only ever been a burden, a waste of space and a freak to them, never their... executioner.

What in Merlin's name had drawn Uncle Vernon to that conclusion?

Curiousity won out; with cold fingers, Harry unfolded the piece of Muggle lined paper, smoothing it out to reveal Dudley's hesistant handwriting in biro.

A cursory look by a passive observer, and they would've deemed the letter messy, with multiple crossings-out and scribbles, re-written words all over. And yet the writing was as neat as what Harry had seen on the Post-It—which Harry may or may not have taken out to stare at several times this week, trying to figure out any one of the 'how's and 'why's of Dudley's change of heart.

Well, perhaps he was about find out. Maybe even more beyond that, if possible.

Harry,

You've got to do what Dad wants if you have to come back. He's gone mad again— blaming St Anthony's burning down on you and all, said you'll get us killed too. And he's been talking with Auntie about your secret money. He'll kill you dead, and Mum'll said nought.

One of your lot came over and told us we can't leave the house, and the old man with the beard did something to the fireplace, so now Dad can send as many letters as he wants.