Everlasting (H.P x fem.reader) YEARS 1-4

Year Three: Chapter Two

3rd person POV: 

 Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present fo Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggly little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling, as he ate continually. 

 Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys made any signs that they had notice Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to it to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict: 

 "...The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately." 

 "No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!" 

 He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair has always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed. The reporter had reappeared. 

 "The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today—" 

 "Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You didn't tell us where the lunatic escaped from! What use it that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"

 Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out the window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would love to be the one to call the hotline number. She was the nosiest woman alive and spent most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding neighbors.

 "When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, "that hanging's is the only way to deal with these people?" 

 "Very true," said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into the next door's runner beams. 

 Uncle Vernon drained his tea cup, looked at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."

 Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump. 

 "Aunt Marge?" he blurted out. "Sh — She's not coming here, is she?" 

 Aunt Marge was a sister of Uncle Vernon. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), he had been forced to call her "Aunt" all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry's mind. 

 At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge has whacked Harry around the shins with her walking stick to stop Harry from beating him at musical statues. A few years later, she turned up at Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the year before Harry started Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until well past midnight.