Estate Life

Reddy-brown brick and mustard-yellow cement. Brick after brick after brick after brick. Brick boxes with stark white UPVC windows. If you want to be different, hey, just stick a matching UPVC conservatory on the back for good measure. Add some wooden decking to the square, too-bright, evergreen garden and you have every single house in Privet Drive, Magnolia Crescent, Wisteria Walk, Lobelia Close, bloody Geranium Terrace, I don't know. You get the picture.

I hate this place. I hate living in a brick box with shiny car parked on the block-paved drive. I hate watering those bloody hydrangeas as if I actually want them to live. I hate walking past the pampas grass that loiters just before the front door. I hate the way everybody on this fake estate tries to add their own quirky little sense of individuality, like robots trying to break their programming; a little clay gnome here, a few egg-shells in the soil there to turn their hydrangeas a different colour to Mrs Next-Door's, a fake plastic weathervane or an innovative new idea for the front garden using coloured stones, which is instantly imitated by at least three other people down the road.

Oh, estate life. Perfect, pristine, bricked-up suburban heaven. Fitted cream carpets and eggshell-white walls.

I don't mind it at night. At night it's not too bad. The smell of mown grass and petrol fumes and heavy dust lingers in the air, close and still and summery. The noise of cars speeding along the nearest dual carriageway could almost be mistaken for the sound of waves sloshing up a distant seashore. The streets are peppered with golden lights and the orange of the streetlamps. Everything is quiet, except for the sound of my own trainers thudding softly on tarmac. If I look hard enough, past the glare of the streetlamps, I can almost see stars, and think of faraway places - America and Australia and the Artic Wastes - and wonder at how tiny I must be, standing in this mass of tarmac and brick in a small county of a small country. If you look up long enough you start to think that anything is possible.

But then my neck starts to ache and I snap back to reality. I walk past the blue hydrangeas of number 10, past the pink hydrangeas of number 8 (a daring take on plant-life), past the blue-stoned artistic feature of number 6's front garden that is suspiciously like what Mr Number 9 has just had done next-door-but-one-and-opposite. I get brushed by the pampas grass and mentally curse it into the next compost heap. I take the key from under the upturned clay plant pot (it claims boldly in blue-glazed writing: 'I'm a pot from Jersey') and wonder why nobody has ever thought to burgle number 4 when the key is right there in the most blatant of places.

The house is silent when I walk in; silent and dark, just how I like it. Well, not quite silent. The fridge-freezer hums faintly from the kitchen and several clocks tick. Not quite dark, either. There is a faint orange glow from the streetlamp outside the living room and a little red light where someone (Dudley) has left the television on standby. I scuff my trainers off with my heels and pad over thick carpet (just the right shade of cream) to turn the set off properly, before taking a glass of water up to bed.

My room is just how I like it: a haven of disorder in a too well-ordered world. I have a tendency of flinging books and clothes to the floor from wherever I happen to be standing. Now I add to my pile of crumpled garments by stripping by the door. I set my glass of water down on my bedside table, which I have marked with numerous tea-rings throughout the years, just to annoy my aunt. I lie back on my bed and practise my flinging technique by kicking my socks off with my toes. One lands on top of the wardrobe and dangles there for a second, white in the half-darkness, before slipping off into my waste-paper bin. I dig my wand out from beneath the loose floorboard, and sit it on my bedside table. The digital clock bathes it in bright green light. I stare at it for a little while, comforted, remembering that it's not all red-brick.

I open the window a fraction and let the night in.

When I fall asleep I dream of Sirius. He is standing in a field, behind a wooden fence. I am on one side, and he is on the other.

"Oi," he calls to me, beaming. I smirk at him.

"Hello Sirius."

"How are you doing, mate?"

I think for a minute. "Not too bad."

We stand for a minute in silence, remembering each other.

"I'm sorry, Sirius."

"For what?"

I shrug my shoulders. "For this. All the shit."

He smiles at me casually, dipping his head down slightly.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry."

I sit in soft grass and rest my chin on my hand, gloomily.

"Feels like it was," I say.

"I don't blame you." He leans on the fence, trying to get close.

I sigh, heavily. I know all this. I always knew what he'd say to me if he could.

"I just miss you, that's all."

"Yeah. I know."

Abruptly, I open my eyes and I am back in my room. The clock on my bedside table says that it's three in the morning, but I feel wide awake. I turn my light on and look absently at the old photo of my parents that I've stuck to the side of my bedside table with old bits of blu-tak, and wonder why I've never had any dreams like that of them. Probably because I never really knew them. I wonder what they could possibly want to tell me anyway, and then smile as I realise that the words 'tidy' and 'room' would most probably come into play. I think I'd listen to them over Petunia. I'd probably even wipe off the tea-marks if my mum asked me to. I put the tip of my finger to the picture of my mother's face and stare into her eyes, trying to find something in them. There's nothing there, though. Just the flash from the camera reflected. Sometimes I sort of feel like I've missed out somewhere.

And then I remember that I'm not supposed to be morose. I got this letter from Dumbledore a week or so ago, telling me all this stuff about what happened with Sirius and everything All this stuff about pain being the 'breaking of a shell that encloses your understanding' - like I really understood that - and staying strong through the trials and goodness knows what else. I didn't really get it but it sounded very deep, and it worried me that he might be worried about me. The way he wrote it, it sounded like he thought I'd go out and kill myself or something. I mean, it's shitty - it's really, really shitty, but it's not as bad as that. I just miss him. And I feel so guilty it's almost unbearable. I've heard about guilt being described as a weight in your stomach that drags you down, and that's exactly what it's like - a heavy, sickening ball of guilt. I just wish things could have been different. But then I remember what Sirius would tell me, and I remember who the bigger arsehole is, and I just go back to missing my godfather.

I lie awake in bed, bored. I don't think I want to go back to sleep any more. I don't like the thought of Sirius being on the other side of that fence. I hang over the side of my bed and feel around on the floor for a book to read until morning. My fingers catch on the raised edge of the loose floorboard and I scrabble it open.

Before she died my mum wrote me a letter. I don't know why. She must have known what was going to happen, or maybe wrote it just in case. I don't know what it says beyond the first paragraph. She wrote it for when I turn eighteen. Dumbledore must have left it with me when I was a baby, because I found it one day when I was seven, stuffed behind the pipes in the cupbord under the kitchen sink, of all places. It had been dripped on in parts, and I stole it away and dried it out on the top shelf in my cupboard. It fascinated me then, because it was written on parchment, and I remember thinking that whoever wrote it must have lived a very long time ago. I decided it was a treasure map, and since it had my name on the front the treasure must be meant for me. I thought it was magic. Late at night with my torch dangling from a hook in the top of my cupboard, I made to open it. I ripped it just a little bit before I noticed the words on the back: "not to be opened until your eighteenth birthday". I was so tempted to open it anyway, but somehow I refrained. I decided that if it really was magic it might have the power to curse me if I didn't do as it told me. It took a few years before I realised who it was from. I know it was my mum because the handwriting is a lot like Hermione's, and I can't imagine my dad having handwriting like that. Mine's terrible. Anyway, now it sits under the loose floorboard, and my fingers brush over it, tempted.

I started to open it at the beginning of the summer. That little tear was just too enticing, and I was feeling reckless. I read the first paragraph and then decided I shouldn't read any more. It said:

Dear Harry

It feels strange to write this to you, to talk to you like an adult, when you are lying asleep so tiny in your cot next to me. And I hope you never have to read it. But if you are reading this, then you are already a man, and you will hardly know me. Let me start by saying that that's not how your father or I wanted things to be.

Her writing's so neat, and so perfect. I've re-read that same paragraph over and over again, every night, and I read it again now, letting my fingers drift across the old ink. But I think I will wait for the rest of it until I'm eighteen. I feel a bit guilty for having opened it too soon. Carefully, I fold the letter away, put it back under the floorboard and take out my Quidditch Through The Ages book instead, to look over the pictures until dawn.

By the time the sun is due to rise I am already by the window. It's not much of a sunrise this morning. It's grey and cloudy, and the sky just gets light undramatically. There's a fine drizzle outside and it spits onto the window. I press my forehead against the cool double glazing and am bored already.

I am in the middle of picking some clothes up off the floor to wear when I hear a tiny tapping at my window. It's Ron's owl, Pig, and he's soaking, weighed down by wet feathers. I let him in quickly and let him dry off on my bed. Hedwig clicks her beak. She's not too fond of Pig. I can see what she means. I take the letter from the soggy little owl and open it up, shaking off droplets of water as I do so.

Hi Harry, says Ron's water-blurred handwriting,

Haven't heard from you in a while, how's things? I hope the Muggles are behaving themselves. If not, you know what to do.

Things are ok round here. Bit boring, I've asked Mum when you can come over but she won't say anything. Sorry about that, mate. I'll keep trying, you know.

I think Hermione's ok, she's actually spending some time with her parents for a change. They've gone to Cornwall, of all places, and I haven't heard from her since they went. They obviously don't have owls down there. Haven't even had a postcard off her. I mean, I'm not complaining, but it's just the considerate thing to do, isn't it? Bet she's sent Vicky a sodding postcard. There's more to this mini tirade but a big splodge of spilled ink has obscured it, much to my relief.

Sorry about that mate, I just coughed and the whole bottle went over.

Anyway. Write to me! I'm bored as anything here. Fred and George are spending every day in the shop, so there's only Ginny really, and she's off in her room all the time mooning over bloody Dean Thomas. I'm thinking of coming and spending the rest of the summer at yours, if you can't come over here. I could hide in your wardrobe, no one would know. It'd be more fun than here.

Oh, got to go, Mum wants help with the apple crumble. See what I have to put up with?

Write back, Harry. Save me! Get your uncle angry or something, then you'll have to come round mine.

Hope everything's alright. You know.

Ron.

Smiling to myself, I give Hedwig and Pig some food to share and then run downstairs for breakfast.

Petunia sits at the table in the kitchen with a face like a chewed orange. I dread to think what's the matter with her. Probably some dog poo in the hydrangeas. I ignore her and make the toast, mentally composing a letter to Ron. Vernon thunders down the stairs five minutes later and strides into the kitchen.

"BOY!"

"I'm right here, you don't have to shout," I mutter, earning a grimace from Petunia. She might be a bit prettier if she smiled occasionally.

"There's some sort of animal twittering around your room." I momentarily forgot Pig.

"It's Pig," I say, and my uncle's face crumples.

"It had better not be a bloody pig! I don't let you have that room rent-free so that you can turn it into a farmyard." He's back on the rent thing again, the latest addition to the summer's arguments. I wonder absently how much money he thinks I have.

"No, I mean -" I begin, and then stop. I can't be bothered. "Yes, Uncle Vernon. I'll get rid of it now."

"Too right you will," he starts, but I take my toast and run upstairs before he can finish.

I burst into my room and see my uncle's point. Pig seems to have dried off and is now zooming around the room, screeching.

"Shut up," I hiss, and jump up onto my bed to catch him. I close my fingers round him in a matter of seconds, like a fluffy snitch. I stuff him in Hedwig's cage and she shoots me a dirty look. She has so much personality, I often wonder if she's a human trapped in an owl's body.

I grab a sheet of parchment and a biro (that ought to confuse Ron), and lie on my floor to write a quick letter to him.

Dear Ron,

Thanks for the letter. Your owl's driving my uncle mad. Nice one! I don't think it's enough to get me sent to yours though. Keep on at your Mum, will you? Believe me, mate, you don't know boredom until you've lived on Privet Drive. September can't come quick enough.

If it's any consolation, Hermione hasn't written to me from Cornwall either. Don't worry. I'm sure Viktor's getting the same treatment. She'll be back soon.

Apart from the incessant boredom, I'm not too bad. Just a bit frustrated about being away from everything. For all I know, Voldemort could have shown up somewhere again and - well. Listen, just tell me if there's anything going on, won't you? Anything at all, I'm going mad without news here.

I'll ask the aunt if we can spare the cupboard space for you.

Take care,

Harry

I grab hold of Pig with some difficulty and send him off into the drizzle. I wish I could fly off like that.

It's true, what I said to Ron. I feel so cut off out here in my brick prison. It's hard to believe in magic in a place like Privet Drive. I should send off for the Daily Prophet again. I never stop thinking about what Voldemort could be doing, but I seem so far away from him that bizarrely, it's hard even to believe in him, even after everything that happened.

I find some trainers and go downstairs again, to grab my coat and wander around outside for an hour or two.

x

I dream of Sirius again. But it's different this time: he's not behind the fence, or slipping through the veil as he does in my dreams usually. It's like, he's there, but he's not there. I can sense him standing behind me, but when I turn to see him he turns with me, so that he's standing behind me again.

"Stop it," I yell at him after four or five times of trying to see his face. He's so close to me, I know he is, but I can't see him, and I can't touch him, and he's just a shadow behind me.

He's just a shadow.

When I wake up I realise in horror that I can't remember what his face looked like. I try; I strain my memory to catch any glimpse of his face - I imagine him at Grimmauld Place, in the cave by Hogwarts, in the Shrieking Shack - but the image of him eludes me, like water slipping away through my fingers. All I see in my mind's eye is a man with dark hair. I can't see his face, and it hits me then that he's really gone, because I know I can never see him again to memorise that face in all its detail. It hits me hard and it scares me.

I don't remember what he looked like.

I feel tears stinging hot behind my eyes and search for my photo album, and flip through to my parents' wedding. I heave a sigh of relief as I see him there, laughing as always. He was alive, I tell myself, feeling stupid that I have to. He was here, and there is the proof. I remember his face now, of course I do: I remember the laughter lines around dark eyes, the thick black hair, those weird teeth. I remember now, and as I do I start to remember other things, small insignificant details that I thought I'd forgotten: the smell of him cooking bacon in Grimmauld Place's musty kitchen; what it felt like to sit on the cold, hard floor in that cave he hid in; listening to the low rumble of his voice; getting all his letters delivered by exotic birds; the smell of his shirts when he hugged me; the feel of him, the look of him, the smell.

But what if he disappears again? I shut the photo album and find it hard to imagine him. I am forgetting things. I am starting to forget even what he sounded like.

He disappeared behind that veil, disappeared from my life. Now he's disappearing from my dreams, too.

What if he knows how to disappear completely?