This summer, Harry found himself back at Number Four, Privet Drive.
It wasn't his choice. If he'd been allowed to pick, he wouldn't have come within a mile of the place. What he wanted was Grimmauld Place, a summer with his godfather, Sirius Black—something entirely different from what he'd had to endure before.
Sirius had refused.
"Until you're seventeen, you go back to Privet Drive," he'd said. "Professor Dumbledore asked it of us, over and over. We keep to it."
Harry still didn't see the point. Even if there was some protective magic bound up with the house, Voldemort had fled Britain months ago. Staying here meant more pointless weeks with his aunt and uncle.
Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley were the only blood relatives he had. Their attitude toward magic seemed stuck in the Middle Ages; their attitude toward him veered between fear and disgust.
There was one consolation. He only had to last about a month. On July thirty-first, he would turn seventeen, come of age, and be finished with all the Privet Drive business for good.
Night had settled over Little Whinging. Harry leaned his elbows on the sill and scanned the star-studded sky, searching for anything to keep his mind off this street and these walls.
A large gray owl beat in through the open window, wobbling. It was old. With a soft thump it landed on his bed and promptly keeled over, still. A letter was tied to its leg.
Harry knew that owl at once—Errol, the Weasleys' veteran courier. He crossed to the bed in two long steps, untied the string, took the bundle, and lifted Errol gently into Hedwig's cage. Errol cracked one misty eye, made a faint, grateful croak, and drank.
Owls and letters were most of what passed for entertainment on Privet Drive.
Harry sat on the mattress and tore the brown paper. Inside lay a letter and a newspaper clipping.
The photograph on the clipping moved. It had been cut from the Daily Prophet.
He smoothed it open and read:
Mr Arthur Weasley, Head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects at the Ministry of Magic, has recently won the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. In addition to a seven-hundred-Galleon award, the prize includes a complimentary one-month trip to Greece for up to five people. Mr Weasley and his family will be free to enjoy the magnificent scenery of the Balkan Peninsula.
"Mr Weasley's won again?" Harry blinked.
Four years ago, Mr Weasley had already hit the Grand Prize Galleon Draw. It turned out lightning did strike twice.
He couldn't think of anyone who deserved it more. They were decent people, the Weasleys, even if money was always tight.
He picked up the letter.
Dear Harry,
I can't believe it—Dad's won again, and this time there's a free month in Greece tacked on.
Only the timing's rotten. Bill and Charlie are both out of the country with Order of the Phoenix business, Percy never writes, and George and Fred have to stay in London to mind the shop… So, besides Mum and Dad, it's just me and Ginny who can go. I put your name down for the fifth spot.
"Greece? A trip?" Harry froze, the words bright in his head.
A month at Privet Drive had looked like a prison sentence. Greece sounded like a jailbreak.
But would Sirius let him go? He'd barely allowed Harry to step off the pavement this month, let alone leave Surrey.
Harry bent to the page again.
…Dad talked to the Order and your godfather. At first Sirius was dead set against you leaving your aunt and uncle's, but apparently Jon Hart talked him round. He agreed in the end—wasn't thrilled, but he agreed.
Also, after thinking it over, Sirius decided to pay his own way and come with us, said he ought to do the godfather thing properly. So our five becomes six.
The Prophet's set the trip to start on July second. Dad will come get you from your aunt and uncle's the day before and bring you to the Burrow. Pack ahead.
Ron Weasley
Harry shot to his feet, heart thudding.
July second. The day after tomorrow. A whole month away, ending on his seventeenth birthday.
Nothing could be better. He only had to make it through today and tomorrow, then he could say goodbye to this house for good.
…
At the same time, at Greengrass Manor.
Astoria Greengrass had a letter as well. She read it through carefully. By the end her cheeks were pink, and there was a bright, contained light in her eyes.
"What is it, Astoria?" Daphne asked, curious.
"Have a look," Astoria said, passing the envelope over.
Daphne lowered her gaze and read.
"Greece… a month-long trip," she murmured, blinking. "Sounds brilliant. Greece must be beautiful."
"It's rare Jon actually has the time. I should start packing…" Astoria stood, suddenly brisk. "It sounds like we leave in a couple of days."
"Astoria…" The words slipped out of Daphne before she could stop them. "What if I came with you?"
It landed wrong. She knew it the moment it was said. She gave a small, awkward laugh. "Never mind. I'm teasing. Just a joke."
Astoria studied her for a heartbeat, then nodded, serious. "We could ask."
"I'll write to Jon and see what he thinks."