Diagon Alley.
In front of Weasley & Green's Magic Joke Shop, people were coming and going. On the left side of the shop, Hermione's worry was written all over her face.
"Has Sean replied yet, Justin? What on earth happened to Harry?"
"Try not to panic, Hermione. Whatever's going on, we'll handle it—let's hear what Sean thinks first."
Justin tried to comfort her. "Have Ron and Neville arrived yet?"
Just as he finished speaking, Ron stumbled out of one of the fireplaces, covered in soot.
"What happened to Harry?! Merlin! Where's Sean?!"
Ron wiped at his face, but didn't see the person he was most anxious to find.
"Careful, Ron!"
Hermione cried, as Justin grabbed Ron by the arm and yanked him to his side.
Because Neville had just come tumbling out of the fireplace behind him.
He coughed twice as he landed, spitting a bit of chimney ash out of his mouth.
"Gran really didn't want to let me come," Neville managed, "until I mentioned Sean's name—"
That made everyone turn their eyes to the sky, as if waiting for something.
Far away, Whitewing was carrying a letter, cutting through layers of cloud.
Sean, who had just sent his reply, was deep in thought.
It looked like a free house-elf called Dobby had turned up.
He'd locked Harry in the house because Hogwarts would be even more dangerous this year—
Thinking that far, Sean couldn't help finding it a bit absurd.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall both said Hogwarts was the safest place in the world, but Harry came out of every year battered and bruised.
First year: a troll and Voldemort, face-to-face.
Second year: a basilisk.
Third year: the castle infiltrated by a supposed "escaped criminal"—
By the final books, Hogwarts literally became the final battlefield.
Maybe Hogwarts' "safety" was cursed—just like the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.
Sean pulled out a stack of blank sheets—the paper planes Professor Tayla had given him.
No matter when or where, they could deliver a message.
Word was, the paper planes the Ministry used were a weaker version of this.
His Quick-Quotes Quill scratched rapidly across the page:
[Harry, we noticed you don't seem to be receiving our letters. All of them have vanished for some reason.
But don't worry. Once you receive this, please use this sheet of paper to write me back.
This paper has special magic—it will bring your reply back to me. Tell me if anything is wrong.
—Sean Green.]
Watching the paper plane wobble through the wall and disappear, Sean got ready to go find Professor McGonagall.
Justin's second letter had just arrived; he needed to make a trip to Diagon Alley.
In the cottage sitting room, Professor McGonagall took a sip of steaming tea and saw the boy coming downstairs.
At this hour, he should still have been buried in Transfiguration—
She sensed something at once. When she saw him walk over, her heart gave a small, excited jolt, though she did her best to stay calm.
"Professor, I'd like to go to Diagon Alley."
the brooch said.
McGonagall nodded. Whatever it was, the child was finally willing to tell her something.
"Go, then, child. Shall I come with you?"
Sean shook his head, his gaze going distant.
Harry and the Dursleys—their relationship was painfully complicated.
One mistake chained to another, knotted into a tangle that could neither be untied nor cut away.
The carriage wheels kicked up dust as it rolled away from the farm and grew smaller and smaller.
"You ought to ask more questions. If it ends up like last time again—"
Back in the farmhouse, Marcus was silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
His face stayed calm, but his body had a faint tremor.
Far away at Hogwarts, a Dark wizard had tried to return—and the one who'd helped stop him had been this boy who still looked far too young.
"You know a lot of this is dangerous. Promise me—no matter what—keep an eye on him."
Marcus's last words were carried away on the wind; outside the house, the sound of the departing carriage faded too.
Number 4, Privet Drive.
Every day, Harry could only stare out the window like this.
As soon as he'd gotten home, Uncle Vernon had locked his spellbooks, wand, robes, cauldron, and his prized Nimbus 2000—his state-of-the-art broom—inside the tiny, dusty cupboard under the stairs.
…
Whether he'd be kicked off the house Quidditch team for not practicing all summer, the Dursleys couldn't care less.
His homework? Completely untouched. Whether he'd be in trouble at school, that wasn't their problem either.
Even Hedwig, his owl, was locked in her cage so she couldn't deliver letters to anyone in the wizarding world.
Looking at Hedwig in that cramped cage, Harry felt they were the same—both locked up in dark, damp spaces.
"Ha! Freak! Your freak friends haven't written you once—just admit it, no one cares about you!"
A fat boy with pale, flushed skin stood on the landing, wearing a disgusting smirk.
But when Harry stared at him for a few seconds, he got nervous and stammered:
"What—what are you looking at?"
"I was deciding which spell to use to set you on fire."
Harry said.
Dudley stumbled backwards, terror filling his fat face.
"Y–you can't—Dad said you're not allowed to do magic—he said he'll throw you out—you've got nowhere to go—no friends who'll take you—"
"Jiggery pokery!"
Harry snarled. "Hocus pocus—chiggly wiggly—"
"Muuum!"
Dudley shrieked, staggering into the house.
"Mum! Mum! He's doing it again!"
After scaring Dudley off, Harry didn't feel any better.
Dudley was right—no one had written to him.
Not Ron. Not Hermione. Not even Justin, who had insisted they must all keep in touch.
He could excuse Sean and Neville—not everyone was good at letter-writing—but Ron? Hermione? Justin?
Unless their "everyone" didn't include him.
He knew his friends wouldn't do that, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking it anyway.
And to make things worse, because he'd let Dudley bait him into that little performance, he now had Aunt Petunia's retaliation to look forward to.
Maybe window washing, car washing, mowing the lawn, weeding the flowerbeds, pruning and watering roses, repainting the garden bench—that sort of thing.
He didn't even care anymore.
While Aunt Petunia's shrieks echoed from downstairs, Harry felt so low that he barely registered anything—until a paper airplane came wobbling through the tree branches outside his window.
It jolted once, as if something were trying to stop it—but it stubbornly shook itself free and drifted right up to him.
Harry felt like a volcano had exploded in his chest. Of course he knew what this was!
In the Forbidden Forest, at their worst moment, Sean had used this exact sort of paper to contact them.
He hadn't been forgotten.
Sean had written.
Hands trembling, Harry unfolded the letter. His eyes grew misty almost at once:
[Harry, we noticed you don't seem to be receiving our letters. All of them have mysteriously vanished.
But don't worry. Once you receive this, please use this sheet of paper to write me back.
This paper has special magic—it will carry your reply back to me. If anything is wrong, tell me.
Sean Green.]
~~~
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