HP Approaches the Magic World

Harry is bleeding.

He pinched his right hand with his left hand, cursed silently, and pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

There was a sudden crunch of broken porcelain under his feet: because he didn't see a cup of herbal tea lying on the ground outside his bedroom door, he stepped on it.

"how--?"

Harry looked around. There was no one on the landing.

This cup of tea was probably Dudley's own cleverness and he wanted to play a prank on him.

Harry raised his bleeding hand, picked up the pieces of the teacup with his other hand, and threw them into the already full trash can behind the bedroom door.

Then he crossed the room into the bathroom and ran his fingers under the faucet.

There are still four days left without magic. This is stupid, unreasonable and irritating...

But he had to admit that the deep wound on his finger would definitely make it difficult for him to do it well.

He had never learned how to repair wounds, and in retrospect—especially in light of his next steps—it seemed like a serious flaw in his magical education.

While he secretly decided to ask Hermione about this issue next time, he took a large wad of toilet paper and wiped off the tea stains on the floor as much as possible, then returned to the bedroom and closed the door heavily.

In the morning, Harry completely emptied his school trunk for the first time since he packed it six years ago.

In the past, every time school started, he would replace three-quarters of the items on the top of the box and update them, but there was always a layer of messy debris at the bottom of the box - old quills, dried beetle eyes, which had long since outgrown and were no longer suitable.

The right socks.

A few minutes ago, Harry put his hand into this layer of debris, and suddenly felt a sharp pain in the ring finger of his right hand. When he pulled it out, he saw that it was bleeding profusely.

His movements are more cautious now.

He knelt next to the box again, groped carefully at the bottom, and pulled out a worn badge, which alternately flashed faint words supporting Cedric Diggory and Potter's shit;

Then he took out an old and cracked looking glass and a gold locket, which contained a note signed R.A.B., and finally found the sharp blade that cut his finger.

He recognized it immediately. It was the fragment of the magic mirror given to him by Sirius. It was two inches long.

Harry put it aside and carefully searched for other fragments in the box, but there were only dots of glass fragments left of the godfather's last gift, stuck to the bottom of the box, like shiny coarse sand.

Harry straightened up and looked carefully at the fragment that had scratched his finger and had uneven edges. He could only see his own pair of bright green eyes in it.

He put the broken lens on the bed, the copy of the "Daily Prophet" that had just been delivered that morning and had not yet read it, and turned to deal with the remaining garbage in the box, hoping to contain the painful memories that suddenly came to his mind.

The heart-wrenching regret and longing caused by the broken lens.

It took him another hour to completely empty the box, throw away the useless things, and divide the rest into piles according to whether they were needed in the future.

The house robes, Quidditch robes, cauldrons, parchments, quills and most of the textbooks were piled in a corner and left at home.

I don't know what my aunt and uncle did with them. Maybe they burned them on a fire in the middle of the night, as if they were evidence of some heinous crime.

His Muggle clothes, invisibility cloak, potion-making equipment, a few books, the photo album Hagrid had given him before, a stack of letters and his wand were placed in an old backpack.

Stuffed in the front pocket of the backpack were the Marauder's Map and a gold locket containing a note signed by R.A.B.

The reason why the locket is placed in such an important position is not because of how precious it is - according to common sense, it is worthless - but because of the price paid to obtain it.

Or rather, because of Dumbledore.

He once thought he knew Dumbledore very well, but at the same time he had to admit that he knew almost nothing about Dumbledore.

He had never imagined Dumbledore's childhood and youth. It seemed that Dumbledore suddenly turned into the person Harry knew him to be, young and virtuous, with silver beard and hair.

Thinking of Dumbledore as a teenager always feels weird, like imagining a slow-witted Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.

He had never thought of asking about Dumbledore's past.

——It would seem a bit awkward or even presumptuous to do so, but Dumbledore participated in the legendary duel with Grindelwald. This is a fact that everyone knows, and Harry did not even think of asking Dumbledore about that time.

scene, and did not ask him about his other famous achievements.

They always talk about Harry's things, including Harry's past, Harry's future, Harry's plans...

And now Harry felt that although his future was indeed perilous and uncertain, the opportunity he had lost could never be recovered: he did not ask Dumbledore for more information about himself, and the only thing he asked the headmaster was

It was a personal question, but it was the only question he suspected Dumbledore didn't answer honestly:

"What did you see when you looked in the magic mirror?"

"I? I saw myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks."

Harry pondered for a few minutes, tore the obituary from the Daily Prophet, folded it carefully, and inserted it into the first volume of Practical Defense Magic and its Restraint against the Dark Arts.

He threw the remaining newspapers on the trash heap and turned to look at the room.

The room was much tidier. The only thing that was out of place was that day's copy of the Daily Prophet, which was still spread out on the bed with the broken lens on top.

Harry walked over, shook off the broken lenses from that day's Daily Prophet, and unfolded the newspaper.

In the morning, he received the rolled-up newspaper from the owl postman, glanced at the title hastily, found that there was no news about Voldemort, and threw it aside.

Harry believed that the Ministry of Magic put pressure on the Daily Prophet to suppress information about Voldemort.

Only then did he realize that he had missed something.

A new report.

Regarding Dumbledore's interview with Rita Skeeter, it is obviously a lot of fabricated content, but no one cares about this. Voldemort has brought too much pressure to everyone, and everyone wants to find opportunities.

relax for a moment.

Dumbledore's anecdotes may not be the best choice, but it is definitely a good choice.

It's just that Harry is in a bad mood, but no one cares what he thinks.

At this moment, he began to miss Dumbledore very much, because Dumbledore was always so kind and patient, and was much better than the people he faced now.

This was really a helpless thing. He looked at the lens inside in a trance, and suddenly heard a muffled sound.

The sound of the front door slamming shut was heard upstairs, and a man yelled, "Hey! You!"

Harry had been called like this for sixteen years. He knew who his uncle was calling, but he didn't answer immediately.

He was still staring at the broken lenses, and just for a moment, he vaguely saw Dumbledore's eyes inside.

It wasn't until his uncle roared "Boy!" that Harry slowly stood up and walked towards the bedroom door, stopping halfway to stuff the broken lenses into his backpack, which was already full of things he planned to take away.

"What are you waiting for?" Vernon Dursley saw Harry appearing at the top of the stairs and shouted angrily: "Come down quickly, I have something to say!"

Harry put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked slowly down the stairs.

He came to the living room and found that the three members of the Dursley family were there, all dressed as if they were going on a trip: Uncle Vernon was wearing a light tan zipper jacket, Aunt Petunia was wearing a simple light orange top, and Harry

The big, yellow-haired, muscular cousin Dudley was wearing a leather jacket.

"What's up?"

"Sit down!" Uncle Vernon ordered, making Harry raise his eyebrows.

"Please!" Uncle Vernon quickly added, frowning as the word seemed to cut into his throat.

Harry had basically guessed what was going on.

He had thought about it when his uncle began to pace up and down the room, and Aunt Petunia and Dudley followed him with their eyes, looking worried.

But he didn't speak, just waiting for the other party to speak.

Finally, Vernon stopped in front of Harry, his big purple face wrinkled, and he spoke.

"I changed my mind."

"What a surprise."

Harry controlled himself from rolling his eyes, but his tone was obviously not very good either.

"Don't use that tone—"

Aunt Petunia screamed, and Uncle Vernon waved her off.

"They are all lies," Uncle Vernon stared at Harry with a pair of pig eyes: "I have decided not to believe a word of it. We are not leaving, and we are not going anywhere."

Harry looked up at his uncle, feeling annoyed and amused.

For the past four weeks, Vernon Dursley had changed his mind every twenty-four hours, and every time he changed his mind he had to move his luggage into the car, out of the car, and back into the car again.

What Harry thought was the cutest thing was when Uncle Vernon tried to put the luggage into the trunk of the car again, but he didn't know that Dudley had put the dumbbells in the luggage this time. As a result, he was thrown to the ground, angry and painful, and cursed loudly.

"As you say," said Vernon Dursley now, pacing the living room again, "we are all in danger - Petunia, Dudley and I. The danger comes from - from -

—”

"Some people in 'our kind,' yes."

"Humph, I don't believe it," Uncle Vernon said again, stopping in front of Harry again: "I stayed up half the night last night, thinking about this matter. It must be a conspiracy to occupy the house."

"A house?" Harry asked, "What house?"

"This house!" Uncle Vernon screamed, and the veins on his forehead began to beat: "Our house! The house prices in this neighborhood have gone up so much!

You want to take us away and then play some tricks. Before we realize it, the name on the house deed will become yours——"

"Are you confused?" Harry asked. "Plotting to take over this house? Are you as stupid as you look?"

"how dare you--!"

Aunt Petunia screamed, and Vernon waved her off again, as if the insult to his appearance was nothing compared with the danger he saw through.

"I'm afraid you've forgotten," said Harry, "I already have a house, my godfather left it to me. What do I need this house for? For all those happy memories?"

silence.

Harry thought his words had calmed his uncle, so he did not continue.

"You claim," Uncle Vernon said, pacing again, "that this demon—"

"——Voldemort," Harry said impatiently: "We have discussed this matter a hundred times. It is not a claim, it is a fact. Dumbledore told you last year, Mr. Kingsley and Weasley -

—”

Vernon Dursley huffed his shoulders, and Harry guessed his uncle was trying to get rid of the memory.

At that time, just a few days after Harry's summer vacation, two adult wizards suddenly visited.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley appeared at the door, giving the Dursleys a most unpleasant shock.

Harry had to admit that Mr. Weasley had once reduced half of the living room to rubble, and his reappearance would certainly not make Uncle Vernon happy.

"——Kingsley and Mr. Weasley have also explained it," Harry continued unmoved: "As soon as I turn seventeen, the charm that protects me will be broken, and you and I will be exposed.

.

The Order of the Phoenix believes that Voldemort will target you, or torture you, and ask about my whereabouts, or think that I will rush to rescue you if you are held hostage."

Uncle Vernon's eyes met Harry's.

At this moment, Harry believed that the two of them had the same question in their minds.

Then, Uncle Vernon began to pace again, and Harry continued: "You must hide. The Order of the Phoenix is ​​willing to help and provide you with the best and strictest protection."

Uncle Vernon said nothing and continued to pace.

Outside, the sun hung low over the privet hedge, and the neighbor's lawnmower went out again.

"Isn't there a Ministry of Magic?"

"good."

"So why can't they protect us?

In my opinion, as innocent victims, we have not done any bad things except adopting a suspect, and we should be protected by the government!"

Harry laughed out loud.

He couldn't help but laugh. His uncle was like this, always placing his hopes on the powerful, even in a world he was hostile to and distrustful of.

"You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said," Harry replied: "We think the Ministry of Magic has some bad guys in it."

Uncle Vernon strode to the fireplace and back, breathing heavily, his thick black mustache undulating with it, and his big face still flushed purple.

"Okay," he stopped in front of Harry again: "Okay, let's put it this way, we accept this protection, but I still don't understand why we can't let the big man Kingsley protect us."

Harry endured it hard and didn't move his eyes, because this question had been asked six or seven times.

"I told you," Harry said through gritted teeth, "Kingsley is protecting Ma - I mean your Prime Minister."