The Three Brothers: The Cure

The Ford Anglia

31st July 1992

Technically his sixth birthday had been worse when Uncle Vernon had broken Harry's arm before shoving him inside the cupboard-under-the-stairs. But back then Harry hadn't had his hopes crushed. Back then he simply had no hope.

Since coming back from a wonderful year at Hogwarts, he had been crashed back into the reality that was life at Number 4, Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon had locked his trunk under the stairs the moment they had arrived (along with his wand, which was inside the trunk), and he had padlocked Hedwig's cage.

Now used to three full meals at Hogwarts, Harry was painfully reminded how little food he used to get here. Plus, the usual chores were there to fill his days. Cooking, cleaning and gardening.

The only good thing was that Dudley was now afraid of Harry using magic on him. The pig's tail that Hagrid had given him must have really scared Dudley. Muttering a few words like 'hocus pocus' were now sufficient to send his cousin scurrying away from him.

Still, Harry missed Hogwarts. It was the place that actually felt like home. He had hoped that he could stay over at Hogwarts in the summer, just like he had done for the Christmas and Easter breaks, but that was not allowed. Professor McGonagall had told him that no student was allowed to stay back for the summers, and no exceptions were ever made in that regard. So he had no choice but to return here.

Still, the past year had been wonderful. Except perhaps for the thing with Voldemort. After the Flamels had left to meet Mark, Professor Dumbledore had spoken to him about his parents and the man who had killed them.

When Voldemort had come to kill Harry, his mother had died to save him. And that sacrifice had protected him from Voldemort as a baby. That sacrifice had also protected him when Quirrell had tried to kill him in June.

That had weighed on Harry's mind. His mother had died to save him. That she sacrificed herself for him. That she had really loved him.

When Harry had asked Professor Dumbledore why Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was a baby, the answer he had gotten in reply was cryptic. Professor Dumbledore had said that he wasn't ready for the answer yet; that the truth was a dangerous thing, to be handled carefully. That he would tell Harry when he was ready.

All of this had weighed heavily on Harry's mind. Why did Professor Dumbledore think he was not old enough? Was it because of the Stone? Was Professor Dumbledore disappointed in him that he had failed to protect it, even though he had tried to assure Harry otherwise?

These thoughts had troubled him since he'd come back from Hogwarts. He had considered sharing them with Ron and Hermione but decided not to. Maybe he was looking too much into it. His friends didn't need to know about his stupid thoughts.

His friends. Harry scoffed internally as he thought about them. To say that he was a little upset at not receiving any correspondence from them all summer was an understatement. But he hadn't thought much about it. Obviously, they had better things to do. Ron was a notoriously bad correspondent, and Hermione didn't have an owl. So it was okay that they didn't write to him. After all, he wasn't writing them any letters either since Hedwig was now locked in her cage.

But when he hadn't received any letters today on his birthday, Harry had been devastated. Given that her birthday was in early September, they hadn't celebrated Hermione's last year. But they had held a small celebration for Ron's birthday in March. Surely, they would have remembered his?

As he found out later in the evening, they had, in fact, remembered. Not only that, but they had even written him numerous letters ever since the summer began.