Any Given Morning

Life is idly watched by casual observers everywhere. People such as these often walk by people they don't know and observe their physical appearance, or manner, or even catch a snitch of conversation that really is none of their business. From these casual observations, people tend to cruelly and critically hypothesize about the person, scene, or event that they casually observed. Unfortunately, the world is full of casual observers. Even more unfortunately, there are a even few people like Petunia Dursley.

Petunia was one of a brand of people that knew everything about everyone that was worth knowing. To these people, windows were exploited, and doors were obstacles. These type of people lived for gossip, and also tended to look elsewhere to avoid looking at what was right in front of them. The state of the neighbor's lawn, for instance, was a worthwhile subject of surveillance, while nasty orphans in the smallest upstairs bedroom is a topic that is apt to get a more negative reaction.

Who was the orphan in Petunia Dursley's smallest upstairs bedroom? A boy, about sixteen, with untidy black hair and stunning green eyes. If a casual observer somehow happened into that tiny room at six o' clock on a summer morning -which isn't a casual time to be in somebody's bedroom at all, but that's not the point-they might notice how tidy the room was. They would see the clear spaces on the floor, the dusted shelves, and they might even forgive him having a white owl in a cage because the cage would be clean and odorless. They would see a room of a tidy boy with an odd pet.

If people such as Mrs. Dursley examined the room, their eyes would focus, not on what's not there, but what is. They would spot the three or four sheets of parchment on the boy's bedside table, covered either in a hurried, untidy scrawl or astoundingly neat handwriting. They would notice the robes and broomstick placed carefully in a trunk in the middle of the room. People such as Petunia Dursley might even detect the one picture in the room, stuck up on the mirror on the inside of the open dresser door; a bride and her husband, accompanied by another man-probably the best man. They all smiled, waved, and laughed merrily from the confines of their portrait-moving as if the fact that they were in a picture was irrelevant.

And the boy himself? A casual observer might note his slimness, and might also note the lightning shaped scar slashed across his forehead-almost everyone did. Of course, the casual observer would have no idea why that scar was there, what it meant, or what it had done to the boy's life...but then again, very few people knew all of those things.

Then there are the Petunias of the world. If they looked at this poor boy, all alone in the world, they might notice thin scars across the back of his left hand spelling out the words 'I must not tell lies.' Of course, they probably wouldn't recognize these scars for what they were, and if they would convince themselves that it was some sort of ritual to gain entrance to a gang-of course, they would be wrong, but their appetite for gossip might momentarily be satiated.

Sadly, no human can easily see a persons emotions, memories, or fears. Skilled as they are at seeing the big picture or the minute details that surround them, casual observers and Petunia Dursleys have no idea who this boy is, no matter what they might tell themselves to the contrary. They wouldn't know that this boy was not normal-or a gang member-at all. They wouldn't know the he was a wizard. They wouldn't know he had recently suffered the loss of a loved one, the only parent he had ever known. They wouldn't know that he was destined to either murder an evil wizard to save all humanity or die at the hands of that same evil being-although, in all fairness, not even the boy's best friends knew that.

Harry Potter awoke with a start, running his fingers over the scar on his forehead, which was stinging slightly. It wasn't that the scar had awoken him, though-it always stung now. Almost as constant was the dull weight in his gut. But Harry had a strong, uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. He sat up in bed, hand still habitually pressuring his forehead, and looked warily around. As his green eyes skimmed the room, and then flicked to the street outside, which was already being illuminated by the early morning sun, his breathing slowed again. Satisfied that nobody was there, and slightly embarrassed about his moment of panic, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, and unfolded the newspaper an owl had delivered him an hour before.

Perhaps it wasn't so strange that he thought he was being watched. So many people had admitted to watching him vigilantly, Harry thought sullenly. The headmaster of Hogwarts, a renowned wizarding school, had confessed to spying on Harry for fifteen years. Voldemort preferred spying on Harry from inside Harry's head. And, of course, Rita Skeeter was now free to watch Harry all she wanted while in the form of a beetle. Harry sighed and buried himself deeper in the paper, resigned to the fact that he was simply going to be observed all of his life-however long or short it may be.

The reason for his being ever-watched was not that he was highly entertaining, clever, or witty-though I do have my moments, thought Harry sardonically-but because of a prophesy made before his birth. A prophesy that he had heard less than a month ago, right after Sirius had died (Harry clenched his teeth in anguish at the still raw memory of his godfather's murder, but tried to ignore the biting sorrow) and Harry had confronted Voldemort for the fifth time in his life, enlightened him about his past and his future with painful precision. The prophesy that marked him before he was born; the prophesy that led Voldemort to murder his parents when he was just one year old; the prophesy that prompted Voldemort's many attacks on the teenage boy. The three weeks of vacation that had inched by were filled with pondering the prophecy.

'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord'...that's what made Harry so special. Harry didn't even know what that power was. It could've been someone else, anyone else. It could've been Neville, Neville Longbottom, that would have had to cope with the strain of all humanity weighing on his shoulders, but no, Harry's lightning bolt scar had marked Harry as the one; an inescapable, binding contract that only ever brought Harry remorse.

The injustice of it all rose up from Harry's gut and filled his mouth with a vile taste. He tossed the paper aside and flopped over on his stomach on the bed. Harry sighed as he looked out the window to the brightening street below.

All being the chosen one had ever really gotten him was dead parents, a dead godparent, witnessing a murder, being tortured relentlessly, and rancid media publicity. He would give anything to just be normal.

As he gazed out of the window onto the pavement outside, he recognized the leaden feeling in his stomach to be loneliness. To be normal would mean that he could leave his oppressive aunt and uncle's house and visit Ron. He could talk to other people who were his friends. And...to be normal would include having parents.

Harry restlessly rolled onto his back, glancing at his clock as he did so. It was not yet seven o'clock, so he couldn't get up and begin his day yet without bothering the Dursleys. Because of Dudley's behavior, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were convinced that all teenaged boys woke up no earlier than twelve-thirty, and anyone who got up earlier was up to no good in the wee hours of about nine or ten in the morning.

Growing impatient, bored, and altogether sick of feeling miserable, Harry made to stand up. Halfway through the action, he realized he had nowhere to go and froze in the attitude of a springboard diver. He lowered himself a half an inch, though better of it, and finally decided to stand up fully. A crimson flush rose in his pale cheeks as he trekked over to his dresser. He couldn't even decide whether he wanted to stand or sit, how on earth would he defeat Voldemort?

Harry glanced briefly at the photograph of his parents and Sirius at their wedding-ignoring the twinge of heartache-before carelessly looking at himself in the mirror. The reflection looking back at him looked the same as it had for years, albeit a little bit taller. Harry guessed that now he was about average height, but he knew that everyone else he knew would always see him next to Ron, whose lanky frame dwarfed Harry, and consequently he would always look a bit undersized.

Gazing in the mirror, Harry wished desperately that he didn't look like such a skinny weakling. He wasn't, and he knew he wasn't, but it wouldn't hurt to look powerful. Harry sighed, rolling his blazing green eyes, and turned away from the mirror.

A trail was worn in a circle around the room on Harry's carpet. He paced it restlessly many times, and began to again. He now knew why he had to stay at the Dursley's, so he refrained from complaining too much, but it was still painfully boring. He desperately missed all of the Weasleys, Hermione, and even Neville and Luna.

Harry glanced over at his bedside table, where numerous letters from all five of them carpeted the worn-out wood. Luna excitedly described a Snorkack she swore she saw in Sweden, and Neville eagerly told him about the new wand he got-his old one broke in the Department of Mysteries. Neville's grandmother only got him a new one for 'bringing honor back to the family name when you fought Voldemort's strongest supporters and came away with nothing more than an enlarged nose. Your parents would be extremely proud.'-Neville had transcribed his grandmother's speech in letters to the five of them. Ginny explained how she was training as a chaser for the next Quidditch season, as well as informed Harry of the success of the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. Ron and Hermione each sent more letters than any of the others combined, showering Harry with support, advice, anecdotes, and random conversation.

A strange camaraderie had been formed between Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville after the Department of Mysteries adventure. Similarly to how defeating a troll had forged a friendship with Hermione, the escapade had produced a bond between all six of them that none of them could identify or explain-it was just there. Harry still considered Ron and Hermione his best friends, but the other three were still very important to him and he began to miss them almost as much as his two other friends while on summer break.

Harry absently picked up one of the letters on his table. It was one from Ginny, detailing her and Ron's jobs at Fred and George's store. He read it casually, since he'd read it at least twice before.

Hi Harry!

Me and Ron just got back from our first day at work-seven Galleons richer and none better for the experience. We figured they would put us in sales or maybe advertising, but no. To quote George "Fred and I are the only ones who are versed enough in the product, and Lee, being able to perform magic AND much better looking than either of you, is the best one to stand outside and gain others' attention." So...we became test subjects.

Three products were tested today: I did Reverse Rings and Ron did Backward Bubblegum and Shower Shoes (Fred and George are big fans of alliteration, apparently).

Reverse Rings are pretty little rings that you put on and it causes you to say the reverse of what you intended. After some failed trial runs, in which my fingers shrunk, burned, or began speaking French on their own accord, I finally got one that worked. I put it on, and upon noticing that my fingers were intact, I cried out "Brilliant! My fingers aren't hurt!" Apparently, I actually said "F*#&! My fingers hurt like h*ll!" I think Fred and George purposely made the effect a bit vulgar.

Backward Bubblegum is amazing. It had been previously tested a bit, so Ron's second sample worked perfectly. He chewed the gum, went to go blow a bubble, but instead inflated his head and floated up three feet off the ground like balloon! He was up there for about five minutes before air blew out of his ears and his head deflated. Shower Shoes are hilarious, too. You put them on, and immediately believe that you are in the shower and then you get an intense urge to sing. The spell on the shoes we tested today was a bit strong, though, and Ron is still randomly bursting out in song...I'm writing this with earplugs in.

All in all, we had a relatively eventful day. I thought you might enjoy reading about it, considering how bored you always say you are in your letters. I can't wait for you to come to the burrow-we can play Quidditch and work at the shop and talk and...not be bored! Until then, though, keep your chin up, nose clean, and eyes out. Write soon!

Ginny

Harry set down the letter, still pacing, still trying to shake the feeling of being ever-watched. He longed desperately to go to the Burrow and escape the home he was bound to. As he pulled on clean clothes and prepared to set about his day, Harry wished he could've been there to see Ron sing, oblivious to all else around him. Working at the shop would be so enjoyable, and existing at the Dursley's was so boring. Harry sighed with resentment and primed to open the door leading to the hall.

Before he had reached the door, though, Aunt Petunia threw it open with a bang.

"Take it!" she hissed as she flung a smoking red envelope at him. She flung the door shut and Harry heard her storm down the hall towards the kitchen. Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation, and opened the letter apprehensively.

"YOU SICK MUGGLE-LOVER! YOU PUT MY HUSBAND IN AZKABAN AND I WILL CURSE YOU INTO A THOUSAND PIECES AND SEND YOU TO YOUR MUDBLOOD MOTHER ONCE AND FOR ALL! YOU HAVEN'T HEARD THE LAST OF ME! YOU CAN'T DISHONOR MY FAMILY NAME AND LIVE TO BASK IN THE GLORY THAT SHOULD BELONG TO US! FILTHY HALF-BLOOD!"

The letter crumbled and fell to a smoking pile of ash. Harry had been receiving bundles of hate mail from the family and friends of the Death Eaters he had helped incarcerate, and this was his fifth Howler so far. After the first one had arrived and caused the neighbors to phone the police in terror, Moody had shown up and placed a permanent Silencing Charm around the room. Harry sighed and trekked downstairs. He didn't really care about what the letters said because he knew what kind of people the letters were coming from, but they were aggravating, and because of them his relations with the Dursley's were at an all-time low.

Dudley avoided Harry at all costs now, and Uncle Vernon hadn't acknowledged Harry's existence since the welcoming party that had received him at the train station three weeks before. Petunia never did anything but put Harry to work and hiss instructions and insults to him. Harry swept up the Howler's ashes and threw back his soldiers, striding grimly to join the family in which he was so unwanted.