Work Text:
Homecoming
by nicky69
The Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was alive with sounds of children's excited voices. Beneath its charmed ceiling, where storm tossed clouds reflected the night sky, they laughed and joked with one another. The atmosphere was one of joviality and joy as the worries of the school year and exams were now behind them. Their faces shone with delight and happiness.
Tonight was the Leaving Feast, it signalled the end of the school term and all of pupils were eager to return to their homes the following day. Well, almost all of them, the lone exception being one Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.
One would think that being considered the saviour of the wizarding world would have afforded Harry some measure of comfort in his home life, but alas, that was not the case. There would be no joyous homecoming or familial embrace for him. All he had to look forward to were days of endless toil and the Dursley's mix of spiteful comments and considered neglect.
While Privet Drive was technically his home, it was not the haven that his fellow pupils took so much for granted. Instead, Harry viewed it as a kind of Purgatory; a place that had to be endured rather than enjoyed, and from which he would one day finally be free.
Beside him, Harry could hear Hermione talking to Ron, telling him about the holiday in France that her parents had planned for her. Her voice was filled with enthusiasm as she described all of the places that she planned to visit and all of the books that she intended to read over the break and my, how she couldn't wait to get started on her homework.
Beside her, Ron rolled his eyes in despair of Hermione ever just having fun, before launching into his own plans for the holidays. Plans which did not include studying or historical sites, but instead ran more along the lines of playing Quiddich, Quiddich and yet more Quiddich with some time out for a few pranks in between. If he was really lucky perhaps he could even find a way to wriggle out of de-gnomeing the back garden for his mum.
Harry hated them both.
When they eventually turned to him and asked his plans for the holidays, he made some vague comments about hanging out at home; he didn't even have to lie to them. They never questioned the lack of enthusiasm in his voice or his blank expression. They were too wrapped up in their own little worlds to spare a thought for what awaited him on his return to the Dursley's, even though they knew that his home situation was less than ideal.
Instead, they smiled and nodded their heads before turning back to their plates, Harry's pained demeanour unnoticed, and tucking into dessert. The conversation at the table flowed around Harry so he started to eat his dessert, his favourite treacle tart, but with each bite he was forced to swallow his hatred, and the food turned to bitter ashes in his mouth.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Platform 9¾ was always a trial for Harry. Seeing his friends, and even his enemies, reunited with their families only served to remind him of the life that should have been his.
Would his parents have waited for him on the platform, eyes and faces bright with love – love for him? Would his mum have cried the way Mrs. Weasley cried, tears of joy at being reunited with her children? Would his dad's face have been filled with mischief and pride at his son's homecoming? What would it have been like to know that no matter what happened in his life, there would always be someone there for him?
Harry's heart gave a little stutter in his chest and he forced away the thoughts of what his life could have been if his parents had lived. There was no point in speculating; he lived in the here now and right now he had to find his Uncle Vernon before the man found an excuse to simply leave him at the station for good.
Hurriedly, he wished his friends a good summer, promising to write as often as he could and then he struggled of into the crowd pushing the trunk that held his worldly possessions before him. Caught up in their own reunions with family, the others were oblivious, not one of them noticing the few tears that escaped his rigid control.
Uncle Vernon was waiting in the short term car park, his large face registering a look of disgust when he spotted Harry. He didn't bother to get out of the car, simply popped the boot from the driving seat and left Harry to struggle awkwardly as he stowed away his trunk. Needless to say, Harry was not allowed to ride up front with his uncle and so he slipped soundlessly into the back seat.
The trip to Privet Drive, not home; Harry couldn't bring himself to think of it that way, was executed in total silence. It was only once they were parked in their driveway that Vernon turned and addressed him
"Listen here you little freak, if you so much as look at my Dudders or Petunia sideways this summer I'll make you wish you'd never been born. Do you understand me, boy?"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon."
They had the same conversation, if you could call such a brief, unpleasant exchange a conversation, every year when Harry returned from Hogwarts for the summer holidays. Vernon threatened Harry and, in fear that disobedience would see him expelled from the Wizarding community and more importantly, Hogwarts, Harry reluctantly submitted to his Uncle.
Inside the house, Harry found that his room, previously Dudleys second bedroom, was as stark and uninviting as he remembered it. The walls were bare, devoid of any kind of decoration or warmth and the sparse furniture consisted entirely of Dudleys old cast-off's. There was not a single item inside that belonged to Harry, and the barren room certainly held no happy memories for him. Instead, with the bars once again adorning his window, it resembled nothing more that a prison cell.
Harry moved to sit on the edge of his bed, the mattress as lumpy and uncomfortable as he remembered it. From below he could hear the sounds of the TV blaring in the lounge and the voices of the Dursleys, high and shrill, as they laughed in amusement at whatever show they were watching.
Gradually the hours passed, the bright light of the summer's day fading into a sepia twilight before Harry stirred again. He moved to stand beside the window, his jaded eyes bearing witness to the dying of the day and into the silence of his lonely existence he whispered the words that he longed to hear but never would.
"Welcome home, Harry."
end