Harry Potter: The Making of a Dark Lord

July 31st, 1995 – Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry Potter paced his room irritably, brooding over the package and letter he had just received from Hermione. She had returned from France two days ago and gone immediately to the Burrow to spend time with the Weasleys.

Harry had expected to be free of his captivity by now, but Dumbledore had sent him a message via Fawkes two days ago insisting that it was still too dangerous to move him elsewhere. The wards at the Burrow, he had written, weren't strong enough to resist a sustained attack, and surely Harry didn't want to put his friends at risk, did he? And so Harry had resigned himself to yet another miserable birthday spent at the Dursley home.

Tonight, in the late evening of his 15th birthday, he had received another package of homemade sweets from Mrs. Weasley and a letter wishing him well. Ten minutes later an unfamiliar owl had flown through his window with another small package and a letter from Hermione. Well, it was signed by Ron too, but it was clear that Hermione had written it. The package contained a small selection of Honeydukes Original Chocolates, and Harry had set it aside to eat later.

It was the letter that had really irritated him.

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday! I'm back in England and staying with the Weasleys at the Burrow. France was wonderful. My mum and I visited museums every day while my dad played golf. Did you know their version of Diagon Alley—La Rue de Sorcellerie—is almost twice as large as ours? I'll tell you all about it when I see you.

I'm sorry we can't be with you on your birthday, but Professor Dumbledore says it's not safe. He said you were a little annoyed with him, but you have to trust him, Harry! He knows what's best. Please don't do anything rash; he's just trying to protect you the best way he knows how. You should be using this time to do your summer homework anyway. Don't forget this is our OWL year! I'm so excited; I brought back several textbooks from France, and I can't wait to see how they compare to ours.

Well, enjoy your chocolates from Honeydukes. They're from both me and Ron. I'll write again when the Professor says it's okay.

Love from,

Hermione (and Ron)

Ron's signature was scrawled illegibly next to Hermione's; Harry supposed he was too lazy to write his own letter so he had just signed his name to Hermione's.

What a git, thought Harry.

Harry stopped his pacing and balled up the letter from Hermione. He tossed it into the corner of his room, accidentally bouncing it off Hedwig's perch, from which she hooted indignantly.

"Sorry, girl," Harry muttered. "It's not you I'm mad at."

I'm preparing to fight for my life and she's worried about summer homework, Harry thought bitterly. She can go wherever she bloody wants and she has the nerve to tell me to make the most of this hellhole. Harry briefly contemplated sending Dobby to the Burrow to yell at her for him, but then everyone would discover Dobby's connection to Harry. And he definitely didn't want Dumbledore getting his hands on Dobby.

Harry thought if he heard one more person praise Dumbledore he was going to get lose it. The old man might know how to protect him, but he certainly didn't know how to treat him with respect. If he was forced to stay in this godforsaken room for the rest of the summer, they were not going to like the consequences.

Sighing, Harry sat on his bed and fingered the thick woolen socks that Dobby had given him for his birthday. Really, they were the best present of the lot. One was bright gold and the other deep scarlet, Gryffindor colors, and if they hadn't been a gift from Dobby he would have tried to bribe Dumbledore with them in exchange for his freedom. It looked like he was going to be stuck here for the indefinite future.

While Harry was pacing restlessly around his room, many miles to the north in a house full of sleeping redheads, a bushy-haired young witch lay on a bed in a darkened room, hugging herself and weeping softly into the pillow.

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