Harry Potter ~ Just a Dream

Just a Dream

And he touched his scar. It hadn't hurt in years. All was well.

Harry Potter woke up to a rapping knock on his small, dark cupboard. Dust rained down from the slanted ceiling. Why was he in his cupboard? He hadn't awoken there since... first year. Harry flicked a spider off his shoulder and suppressed a shudder. Once, he hadn't minded their presence, but after his many poor encounters with Aragog's oversized minions, he had discovered a dislike for them he hadn't possessed before.

"Get up boy, go tend the bacon! Make sure it doesn't burn on Dudley's special day!" Vernon commanded though the grate in the door. Harry stood up, crouching low to the floor so he wouldn't bump his head on the ceiling that may have been about the height of 11-year-old Harry- but certainly it was too short for his 36-year-old self. Looking up, there was too much room between Harry's head and the ceiling. He stood up, hair barely brushing the ceiling. That was strange. Either the cupboard had grown... or Harry had shrunk. Why would either occur. This must be some twisted dream. Harry couldn't be with the Dursleys. No one knew of their whereabouts. How else could Harry have ended up on Number 4, Privet Drive once more in any other way than a dream?

Harry groaned. He supposed that, even if this was a dream (a very realistic one), he had better obey Uncle Vernon or there could be consequences. He opened the door with a creeeak and ducked under the doorway. Harry trudged to the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, hoping the bacon would be there.

Unfortunately, Aunt Petunia chose that inopportune moment to stroll in, hair still in curlers. Her horse-like face twisted in disapproval.

"Stupid boy, the bacon is in the refrigerator!"

Harry could have banged his head against the shining white marble counter. He was stupid. Only twenty-odd years in the Wizarding World and he had forgotten that bacon spoiled!
Harry slouched over to the fridge and retrieved the fatty meat. He laid out each piece carefully on the shiny black skillet. He watched the grease bubble and pop. The aroma washed over him; his mouth watered. That's strange, Harry thought, I can never smell while I dream.

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. What were the chances that, maybe, this wasn't a dream? What if his whole life after yesterday had been nothing but a fantastical dream created by his longing to be special, to have friends, to be better than Dudley at something.

The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. No one's life could be that special. There was no such thing as magic. There was no loyal Ron, no brilliant Hermione, no loving Ginny. His kids had never existed. No James, Albus, or Lily. No Hogwarts.
The bacon sizzled impatiently. Harry was brought back to his senses, flipping the bacon just before it burned.
Just moments later, Harry moved the bacon onto a large platter and carried it to the table, along with the massive stacks of pancakes for Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon. Harry got one burnt pancake. He had gotten used to Hogwarts' and Ginny's food. He'd forgotten how horrid food here was. Harry's heart ached. He felt like he was an adult in a child's body.
Dudley stomped down the stairs, eyes alight at the gargantuan pile of gifts. The beefy boy was followed by his beefy father and horsey mother. They sat down at the dining table. Harry was honestly surprised that the chair didn't need to be reinforced with steel. Dudley was counting his presents when it happened.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Vernon started. "WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND CALLS AT THIS UNHOLY HOUR?" The hour, in fact, was not 'unholy'. It was 11:30.
"Go get it, boy!" Harry groaned and stalked to the door.

He opened it, a storm cloud practically flashing with distaste above his head. When the door was open, Harry dropped the fork he was still holding. What was she doing here?

In front of him, clear as day, was a woman he had known for many years. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun. She wore an emerald green robe. In her hand was a familiar white letter addressed to Harry. In scrawling green handwriting, the letter read:
Mr. Harry Potter
Number 4 Privet Drive
The Cupboard Under the Stairs, exactly as it had in Harry's dream, what seemed to be years ago.

"Hello?" Harry asked, feigning confusion. The woman at the door knew who I was already. I wasn't surprised. I looked just like my father, James, as I had been told many times.

"Harry Potter." The woman acknowledged. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. You have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The End