𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒-ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕪 ℙ𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣❥

𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐗

Emily had imagined the summer would be spent at the cottage, the one with the wide, sun-dappled gardens and the gentle hum of life around them. Instead, they were stuck in Grimmauld Place.

Outside, the world was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Cars stood abandoned in dusty drives, their paint dulled beneath a thin coat of grime. The lawns, once green and proud, had withered to brittle, yellow straw under the relentless sun, the use of hosepipes banned entirely due to the ongoing drought. Without the usual rituals of washing cars or tending grass, the neighborhood seemed deserted. Everyone else had retreated into the shadows of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the faint hope of a breeze that never came.

The only figures left outdoors were unusual: two wanted prisoners, a werewolf, and two siblings. All four were gathered around Emily, supervising her as she practiced controlling her powers. The garden was small, cramped even, but big enough for the drills they had devised.

Emily had grown stronger over the weeks, her abilities sharper, more precise. Yet there was one thing she could not master—her dreams. Night after night, she was forced to relive that horrific night in the graveyard. No amount of training or whispered encouragement from Sirius or Lupin seemed to help. They had tried everything—having her sleep in their rooms, adjusting the hours, even distracting her before bed—but nothing could anchor her mind, nothing could stop the images from returning.

And each morning, she woke exhausted, shoulders tight with tension, heart still pounding from the echoes of a terror she could neither forget nor control.

Back over at the Dursley's Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbours, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and looked straight down into the flowerbed below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch television with his aunt and uncle.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, suddenly spoke.

'Glad to see the boy's stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?' 'I don't know,' said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. 'Not in the house.' Uncle Vernon grunted.

'Watching the news ...' he said scathingly. 'I'd like to know what he's really up to. As if a normal boy cares what's on the news - Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on; doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on our news -'

'Vernon, shh!' said Aunt Petunia. 'The window's open!'
'Oh - yes - sorry, dear.'
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit 'n' Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the bush, as Mrs Figg had recently taken to asking him round for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's voice floated out of the window again.

'Dudders out for tea?'
'At the Polkisses',' said Aunt Petunia fondly. 'He's got so many little friends, he's so popular ...'
Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley. They had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea any- where; he and his gang spent every evening vandalising the play park, smoking on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.