The Dursley’s were a perfectly normal family, thank you very much. They are another face in the crowd; another straight couple who denied they settled for one another. They are normal. There are two months of every year, the summer hols, that this facade proves just that; a mask. The criminal boy of Number Four-- Petunia encourages the neighbors to ignore him and this proves easy, those ten months a year that he’s away.

It’s the middle of the school year. Normal is the norm; their little secret locked away like the criminal boy under the stairs.

It’s just their luck, just to be expected, then, that the owl arrivies. During a dinner party-- it’s chaos. Her perfect, perfectly normal is evening by an owl post. Petunia is angry hours after all the guests had scurried home; too angry to read the letter that had ruined her evening. But eventually she does succumb to the curiosity and opens it with a little more force than necessary.

It’s from a ‘Draco Malfoy’ (although Petunia seriously doubts so; the writing is far too developed to be written by a mere fourteen year old) informing the Dursley’s of their new relationship. And, of course, their nephew’s sexuailty.

It’s barely more than worthless to Petunia-- her nephew’s affairs were none of her concern and as long as he brings none of the freakishness home, she could not care less. But the issue lies in the fact that Harry HAD brought the freakishness home-- his boyfriend had, at any rate. It’d ruined a dinner party. She’s not happy.

Petunia has always been a vengeful, petty woman, and let it be assured that she did not let this transgression go as easily as one might have.

She had heard how to make a Howler before-- Lily had brought her freakishness home when they were kids, too; it runs in the blood-- and, although Petunia denounced magic, she gave no hesitance in making one. She filled it with yells of slurs, unacceptance, disappointment. The tension leaves her body as she does so-- it’s not a decision she regrets (not at first.)

The owl that ruined the party had been locked up in Harry's cupboard and now Petunia freed it, tied the letter to it’s leg, and set it on it’s way. She went about the rest of her day with a head full of cotton; clouded with anger and heavy with pride in what she’d done. It’ll teach him, she thinks. (It won’t.)

In the morning, in a world far away from the perfectly normal house of Little Surrly, a letter arrives to a boy with crooked glasses and a lightning bolt scar. He’s received letters from his Aunt before (not that they had substance worth much, anyway) but he’d never think to receive a Howler.

He opens it with shaking hands. Words of loathing cloud the room and he hopes his trembling was not too noticeable (it was.) It goes on minutes long (too long, far too long) and the Great Hall sits in stunned silence afterwards. It’s unexpected (“the spoiled boy who lived isn’t so spoiled after all--”) and awkward shame rises in Harry’s throat.

He’s wished few people dead before, but Aunt Petunia had not yet joined the list. She’s getting dangerously close to changing that. It’s in a fit of rage and parity repressed sadness while pacing the Gryffindor common room that he voices this. Unbeknown to him, there is a girl of red hair and red thoughts (red as blood) that takes this to heart.

There was simply too much happening-- the First Task was within the week and he’d recently been cursed and Petunia just screamed obscenities at him in front of the entire Great Hall. He’s trying to cope the most healthily he can but he’s never been very good at that.

On the positive side; he’d figured out what the First Task was to hold. He’d not expected dragons (though he’s not sure what exactly he HAD expected, but still.) It had arrived in an anonymous note detailing the four dragons-- one of which he’d have to face. Harry hadn’t an idea who’d sent it (Draco suggested a secret admirer, sounding just a tad possessive) but he was grateful nonetheless.

Draco and Hermione, who had begrudgingly tolerating one another for his sake, had been a huge help in researching methods to fight it. He’d prefected the fire protective charm as well as a shield one. His plan needed a bit more tweaking but he was grateful to have a plan. Ron wasn’t helping because Ron was a dick, and an idiot, and was still convinced Harry had entered his name in the Tournament.

Ron was surprisingly the smallest problem of the bunch.

Ginny was being kind enough, unlike her brother-- he appreciated her, too, even if she seemed a bit jealous of he and Draco’s relationship. He sensed she had malicious intent toward Draco but repressed it for Harry’s sake. Which was, of course, not ideal but better than nothing. He’d take what he could get.

With dreams filled with resentful relatives, dragons, and anonymous cursers, Harry slept (although not soundly.)

∆¶∆

“Ginny?”

“Oh-- er, hi Ron. Didn’t expect to see you out in the common room so late.”

“Why were you out? It’s way past curfew-- jeez, that’s a shit ton of mud.”

“I went on a walk.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Mayhaps.”

“Wait-- Merlin that stinks, that’s not mud, it can’t be--”

“No, it’s not--”

“No, that’s definitely dung. Why’re you covered in it?”

“Tripped.”

“In what? A Dragon pit?”

“Er--”

“Did you visit Hagrid?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What new animal does he have this time?”

“I, uh, wasn’t paying attention. I just went with it to avoid detention.”

“Fair enough.”

“Just knows that it shits a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get to bed, Ginny.”

“You, too, Ron.”

“I’ll do as I please.”

“Which I would hope would be going to bed.”

“You hope too much, dear sister.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”