Chapter Text
Harry had lost count of how many times he’d thought it that week:
“Thank Merlin I’m not at the Dursleys.”
The Burrow was loud and cluttered and chaotic in the best possible way. Pots clattered on their own in the sink, gnomes rustled in the garden hedges, and the Weasleys filled every corner with warmth that was entirely unlike Privet Drive.
Harry loved it.
He loved waking up to Molly’s voice drifting up the stairs, loved the smell of frying sausages, loved Fred and George arguing over some new invention, loved the constant, humming comfort of simply being wanted.
And after another year at Hogwarts—after dementors, escaped prisoners, and all the rest—being wanted felt like a luxury.
He sat outside that afternoon under the crooked old apple tree, enjoying the rare peace. Ron was throwing apples at the garden gnomes (who threw them back), and Ginny was scribbling something in a notebook that she snapped shut whenever anyone came close.
Hermione sat beside Harry in the shade, her nose in a thick, battered book whose spine read:
Temporal Oddities and Theories of Magical Chronology
Harry blinked. “Time travel?”
She almost dropped the book.
“What—oh! No. Not really. It’s more of a…fictional analysis. Hypothetical stuff. Nothing practical.” She shut it quickly and tucked it into her bag. “Just something to pass the time.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, but Hermione’s expression was pointedly innocent.
“Right,” he said, deciding not to press. “Just reading for fun.”
“Exactly.”
She changed the subject very quickly after that.
Unexpected Visitor
The sun had only just started to dip when the back gate creaked open.
Albus Dumbledore stepped into the garden as naturally as though he visited every afternoon. His robes were a deep midnight blue, his expression kind—but something thoughtful lingered behind his half-moon glasses.
Molly hurried out of the kitchen. “Headmaster! We weren’t expecting you—would you like tea? Lemon biscuits?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Dumbledore said. His eyes settled gently on Harry. “I’m afraid I am here on a matter concerning him.”
Harry’s stomach sank.
Ron muttered, “This can’t be good.”
Dumbledore motioned for Harry to join him near the garden fence, away from the others.
“I’m afraid,” he said softly, “that it is time for you to return to your aunt and uncle.”
The words hit like a Bludger.
“What? Why? I thought—I thought I could stay here the whole summer.”
Dumbledore’s regret was plain.
“I know it is not the place you would choose. But the blood wards protecting you—your mother’s final gift—must be renewed by your presence. A short stay, merely long enough to ensure they remain strong.”
Harry swallowed hard.
“How long?”
“A fortnight should suffice.”
Dumbledore rested a hand on his shoulder. “You will not be there longer than needed, Harry. And you will not be without support.”
Harry didn’t argue further. The headmaster’s tone left little room for it.
Molly looked ready to adopt him permanently when she heard the news, but she hugged him fiercely instead and pressed leftover treacle tart into his hands “for the journey.”
Back to Privet Drive
That night, Dumbledore escorted Harry to the edge of the quiet street where Privet Drive lay in its usual, suffocating stillness.
“Remember,” Dumbledore said, “this is only temporary.”
Harry nodded, though his chest felt tight.
He walked up the path alone, treacle tart in hand, and knocked.
The door swung open. Vernon stood there, moustache quivering, face already purpling.
“So,” Vernon growled, “you finally decided to come back, did you?”
Harry blinked. “Dumbledore said—”
“Oh, I don’t care what that crackpot old fool said!” Vernon hissed. “Your aunt has had to do your chores for days, boy. Days! While you were off gallivanting with your kind!”
That last word spat like something foul on his tongue.
Harry straightened. He’d faced worse than Vernon Dursley.
“I didn’t ask—”
“Don’t you talk back to me!” Vernon barked. “You’ll make up the work you missed. Every bit of it.”
Petunia hovered behind him, thin-lipped and silent.
Dudley peeked from the hallway, smirking.
Harry clenched his jaw.
“Fine.”
He dragged his trunk upstairs, ignoring Vernon’s muttering about “ungrateful freaks.”
When he finally shut his bedroom door, the house fell back into its familiar, suffocating quiet. His room felt smaller than ever.
He lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the Burrow’s warmth still clinging stubbornly to him.
“Just two weeks,” he whispered into the dark.
“Just two.”
And with that bitter comfort, Harry’s first night back with the Dursleys began.