It was Tuesday.
In fact it was a hot and sunny Tuesday, a day that most would prefer to spend in the shelter of home, drinking iced tee and catching up with family.
Well, Not for Harry. Not that he had any family in the first place, but still... It was Tuesday, the only day out of week that he only had out door chores, that turned out to be the hottest day of the summer, and Harry weeding in the backyard with nothing but a threadbare over sized shirt and no snacks.
Harry had attempted to drink from the hose, but the water itself was lukewarm, so he didn't even try, his shirt was clinging to him, dampened with sweat, and his head felt heavy and achy, and Harry wished he could just take a hot and long shower.
He couldn't do that, after weeding he still had to re_paint the fence, make dinner and he still had homework to do, Mrs. Smith was ruthless when it came to him. Dudley's freaky cousin.
Harry frowned darkly, brushing his wet hair out f his clammy face, lip trembling as he heard his stomach growl, he hadn't eaten anything in two days. And it was starting to get to him by making him dizzy and nauseous under the blazing sun.
For the eight year old Harry, that was normal; working out in the yard on a hot day, starving and dehydrated, clammy and so gross that he couldn't even look at himself anymore. He couldn't believe that he had to go to school with these clothes tomorrow. His other clothes were still in the laundry. And since he didn't have laundry on his chores today, and aunt Petunia was not going to do the laundry because of her manicure, Harry had to go the school smelly and sweaty, with a double sized t-shirt that hung off him like a rag.
Harry closed his eyes, red lights burning behind his eyelids, Harry breathed out, listening to Dudley's mad snorting as Petunia cooed all over him with ice cream and lollies.
Harry never had an ice cream, but from Dudley's boasting he could tell that they were delicious, and so were the lollies. Harry continued weeding while sulking.
The sun was in the center of the sky, and it was noon, Harry was really starting to feel light-headed by then and colors were all jumbled in his vision, his skin was red and felt hot on touch and he was pretty sure that he had no internal organ named stomach by now, maybe he should drink from the hose?
Harry was so occupied in his own misery that he didn't notice an old man making his way to their porch before making his way to him. Harry was sitting cross legged on the ground, covered in mud from head to toe, and feeling like the dirtiest boy alive.
" Hey there lad, are you okay? " the man asked and Harry jumped, yelping. He turned like a doe caught on light.
" I..I'm sorry? "
" I said are you alright? You seem hungry. " Harry had no idea how the man knew, he was pretty sure that his stomach wasn't protesting that loudly for a neighbor to hear.
He looked at the man and he instantly recognized him. It was Mr. Lightwood, the blind old man that lived next door, aunt Petunia hated him with a passion because he always seemed to know everything despite being blind. Harry had heard her calling him the freaky creep next door as she described him to Uncle Vernon some time ago.
" Sir? Do you need any help? " maybe the man was hungry? He was blind so maybe he couldn't cook himself, otherwise what was he doing in their porch? Harry thought to himself, pitying the man.
Mr. Lightwood laughed brightly, his kind grandfatherly face lining in mirth.
" Help? Do you need any help young man? You are too young to be weeding outdoors. " he gave him a toothless smile, his hand rampaging in his pocket for something.
" I'm... I'm grounded. " it was his practiced lie and everyone seemed to bought it this long, no one saw why not since he was a trouble maker anyway, a mentally disturbed trouble maker. Harry frowned.
" A good lad like you? I think not, I think your cousin should be the grounded one, here you go. " the man said, handing him a wrapped chocolate. Harry stared at it in awe. He never had nay chocolate before! And this looked really delicious, but then again aunt Petunia said not to take anything from strangers.
" what do..I do with it? " he asked hesitantly, maybe the man wanted him to unwrap it for him?
Who would want to give you a treat? His mind sneered at him, you're just s stupid freak.
Lightwood frowned. " what do you do with it? What kind of question is that? " he exclaimed, handing Harry another treat. The young boy hung his head in shame, thinking over what aunt Petunia had told him about strangers.
He's not a stranger, he's a neighbor, besides you're hungry. Harry worried his lip for a few moments but extended his hand, taking the chocolate from the man's wrinkled hand.
Lightwood grabbed Harry's hand in shock. " Holy cricket boy! How long have you stayed under the sun?! "
Harry tried to detach his hand from the man, but the cold cool hand felt heavenly on his skin, and he felt himself yearning for the man's touch on his forehead so it would cool off.
" I'm fine. " he said unconvincingly, not noticing the man frowning in disprove.
" stay here. " the man said, before turning and walking to the door, making sure to make sounds as if tripping on every obstacle on his way. Harry felt his eyes widen, what the was man doing?!
" No! Wait! Sir please. " his pleas went unheard, Harry bite down on his fingers out of habit, his teeth sinking into his hot burning flesh.
He really hoped that he didn't tell aunt Petunia anything, he couldn't eat for weeks! Or worse, he'll be locked in the cupboard again.
Harry gulped, leaping out of the porch and once again in the yard, making a beeline to the shed to get some paint. Uncle Vernon was always less mad if he saw him work. He hastily dampened the brush with paint and ran out of the shed with the bucket of pain in his hands, panting for breath as he hoped aunt Petunia would ignore the knocking.
" yes? " her shrill voice rang in his ears, Harry cringed.
" Hello there Petunia, hot day isn't it? " Harry couldn't help but pick up the subtle rage in the man's voice.
" It really is George, what brings you here? " her tone was cold and so fake at the same time, her stiff smile splitting her horse like face in two.
Harry hastily turned back to his chore, hoping the man would shut up.
" Well, I couldn't help but notice your nephew doing outdoor chores here... What a strong young man he is! Already doing manual labor at eight! Anyways, do you mind if I borrow him for a few hours? My attic needs a little dusting and I'm afraid with my eyes being... Well... " He trailed off, sighing sadly. Harry gaped. What?
That wasn't true, was it? Mr. Lightwood didn't say anything about his attic when he was talking to Harry, he even gave him chocolate, was he bribing him?
The change in Petunia's demeanor was astonishing, her eyes gleamed with what could only be assumed as triumph a sense of superior smugness, and her chin held up higher than usual, showing off her long lanky neck.
" of course he can George, Harry will be / delighted / to help you out. " she reassured the old man, smirking giddily.
She then turned to Harry, an ugly and disgusted expression on her face.
" Didn't you hear Mr. Lightwood? Get a move on boy! "
The child obeyed meekly, muttering a quick. " yes aunt Petunia. " Before putting the paint brush back in the bucket.
He followed the old man out of the porch, fully aware of his aunt glaring at them both while sneering. Harry's fingers traced the wrapped chocolates sorrowfully, tucked away safely in his pocket.
He should have known, who would want to give him a treat, give him anything without asking for something in return? Who would love a freak like him?
Mr. Lightwood's house was pretty much like number four, the only difference was a few small gnomes adorning the garden, Harry followed the old man into the porch mutely, silently surprised at how the man knew how to find his way around the place. In fact, he seemed to have no difficulties at all.
" well get in lad... " he held the door open for the child, nodding his head at the house. The raven-haired boy hesitated at the door.
" I'm dirty. "
"And I'm blind, we all have something, don't we? " he gave a wrinkly smile , opening the door wider. He then put his wrinkly hand on Harry's scrawny shoulder, pushing him in against his will.
" But Mr. Light..."
"Call me George kid. " the man let go of his shoulder, straightening his back from the fake hunched position, he walked into the kitchen, throwing his keys on the table.
"Um..." should he go after him? Or should he just go and find the attic? Maybe he left to get me some rags. Harry waited by the door patiently, trying to keep the mud off Mr. Lightwood's furniture as much as he could.
" Come on in! Weren't you hungry? " the man said, the sound of pots and pans clanking muffled his voice.
Harry opened his mouth to reply but closed it with a soft thud. Was he supposed to cook for the man now? Harry worried his lip and crouched, trying to untie his shoes. No point in getting the mud everywhere.
" Harry, isn't it? Come on, come on! " Harry picked up his mud covered shoes and winced at the trail he had left behind, with a guilty conscious, he prayed that Mr. Lightwood wouldn't notice.
The kitchen was a mess. It might have been rude to mention it out loud, but it was the only word Harry could describe it as. It was not dirty or anything like that, and it smelled like cookies. But... There were pans and plates and even a radio all over the kitchen, every surface was covered with something. The curtains were done in a horribly bright yellow that would make aunt Petunia faint and the sink looked like it needed a good wash.
" Mr. Light... Mr. George? What are you doing? " he asked the man, who was fumbling with the microwave's buttons, humming under his breath.
"Oh you're finally here! Well then, that certainly makes things easy. You know how to work with this darn microwave? I ain't know how to work with this thing, damn thing only has buttons. What are we blind people supposed to do? " he shook his head, managing to manoeuvre his way between the stacks of books just lying there on the ground, some half opened and some still open with spoons as their bookmarks.
Mr. Lightwood, hummed under his breath, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, taking out a clean plate and a fork, fitting them on in front of Harry by pushing some of the books off the table.
Harry stood there for a moment, still bewildered at the man's behavior. He was starting to think Mr. Lightwood was really mad. But he was feeding him apparently, so who was Harry to complain?
Harry set the microwave's timer and moved his way carefully around the knick knacks scattered on the ground.
"So... Why were you out weeding? It'll must be eighty degrees out there. " he said casually, placing a glass of cool milk on the table, tucked near the books.
" I'm grounded. " he rather doubted that the man would buy it, but uncle Vernon had threatened to beat him black and blue if he said anything more or anything less.
George hummed disbelievingly, his fingers set on the radio, he snorted. "Grounded? Are you sure? What you've done to make them ground you like this? Weeding all day without a snack or a glass of water? "
Harry's eyes bulged comically behind his round glasses. " what? "
"Darn it kid, didn't you hear me? You're turning me into a broken record. "
George waved him off. "Don't be. Now are you gonna tell me or what? "
Harry squirmed in his seat, sighing in relief when he heard the microwave beep. He shot out of his seat.
"Hey there kiddo, slow down... The food's not gonna run you know. " George mistook his eagerness to run away with hunger.
"Sorry Mr.... George. " he took the steaming plate and carefully set it on the table. He then sat, devouring the food with a burning mouth.
" So, you didn't answer my question ? " Harry blushed, putting his fork down before taking a sip of his fresh cold milk.
"I.... I hit Dudley." he stammered, almost hitting himself for not cooking up a better lie.
George raised his bushy eyebrows, snorting in disbelief. "You? You hit that kid? How?!"
Harry shrugged even though them an couldn't see him. " I got in a fight with him, and.... I hit him. "
George shook his head. "So you're telling me, that you managed to hit your obese cousin, who is also double your size without getting a scratch? I might be blind but I ain't daft kid." the old man sighed, poking at his own half eaten plate.
Harry remained mute, feeling oddly frustrated as the man drummed his fingers on the table rhythmically.
"Did your cousin get punished too?"
Harry squirmed. "He... He lost his computer privileges." which was a complete lie, aunt Petunia even bought him a new one after she made Harry apologize on his knees.
"And you were out weeding without getting a rest?" the man asked critically, sounding more angry /on/ his behalf than /at/ him.
"How did you know I didn't get any rest? " there was no point in hiding it, besides Harry was curious.
George shrugged. " I pay attention. " he gave up on the radio and stood, walking out of the kitchen purposefully. Harry considered going after him, but didn't, he was still hungry. The boy turned back to his lasagna, trying to eat with more decorum but failing miserably, it's been three days since he had a full meal, and even then Harry only got a little piece of everything. Not enough to satisfy a bird, much less a growing boy.
A sudden sound startled him, the tune rang through the house sharply, but at the same time the music was soft and flowing, kind of dark at the same time. But...loud. Very loud in fact that it hurt Harry's ears. He knew it was piano, Mrs. Smith had shown them one and had even played some tracks for them. He didn't recognize the music though, but it sounded beautiful. Harry hummed along the tune, even though he had no idea what the song was, feeling ups and down of the soft flow. He put his fork down and turned his head slightly over the music.
Harry had long forgotten his meal, and instead had closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, letting the flow sway him to his sides. He had never heard something like this before, so full of emotion, so alive... Harry was completely intrigued, his head held up high to hear the sound better even though it was blasting through the walls. It was magnificent. Harry thought, he could almost imagine the pianist's fingers flowing on the keys, pausing and playing and starting over again.
"That good eh? "
Harry didn't open his eyes, just hummed, swaying his body with the rhythm.
"Once upon a December. One of my favorites." the song ended eventually, another track playing right after that, Harry finished his meal, side glancing at the old man flexing his fingers as if he was the one playing.
"Um... Did you play?" Harry shifted on his feet, slowly setting the plate in the sink. George paused for a second before humming thoughtfully.
"You want to see something kiddo?"
"Aren't I supposed to clean the attic?"
"Bah! Forget about the attic! Come on, follow me Harry."
Harry followed the old man up the stairs. Maybe we're going to the attic after all, he thought sadly. Not that he was complaining about the work, no, he just wanted to listen to that music. All day if it was possible. Harry noticed, for the first time after looking around the house that the house was decorated in lighter colors, it was much more open and cozier than Aunt Petunia's abnormally normal house. George ushered him to the end of the hall and through a ajar door.
Harry gasped, his eyes rounding behind his glasses as he the room. Instruments, of all kinds were everywhere, some hanged on the walls, some leaning against the wall, or some just standing in the middle. But what caught Harry's eyes, was a big majestic piano, sitting in the middle of the room proudly, looking polished but a little worn, He was so engrossed with drooling over the room that he didn't notice Mr. Lightwood crossing over to the piano.
Everything looked clean, no dust was in sight, and the walls were done in a light plum, with No curtains, giving the blazing sun free access to the whole room. Violins, of all kinds and colors, lined with Guitars and flutes were all on the wall, the ground was covered with other instruments that Harry didn't even know the name of.
He gaped at the man, who sat across the piano and cracked his fingers.
"This... This is yours?" he looked around in ill disguised wonder, although careful to not damage anything. George laughed good heartedly.
"Well, this is my house." Harry blushed at the answer, sitting timidly on the Bay window's seat, feeling the intense sun burning on the back of his head.
He thought that the man just wanted to show off the room, and hadn't expected him to actually start playing. He gasped as he saw the blind man playing a familiar rhythm, he couldn't place it, but he felt like he should know it. The man played so fluently and rhythmically that for a second there Harry thought the man had lied about being blind. No blind man could play such a thing, so beautifully. Harry felt like the tune was flowing out of the man's fingers instead of the other way around.
He closed his eyes, still dumbstruck, he let the music take control once again, swaying to his sides, whisking him away to its own colorful world, where he shouldn't worry about anything, no chores, no harsh words and no cupboard. Just him and the tune.
"A little rusty there. I should practice more often." the old man said, straightening his stiff back. Harry opened his wide eyes, pointing at the man.
"But....But y...you're blind!" how could he even play without seeing the keys? Or the notes? Or anything really? George smiled softly, patting the leather cushion next to him. Harry was dubious about sitting next to the man, but his curiosity won anyway. He walked to the seat, sinking down next to the man.
"I am blind. But I'm not deaf. You see him?" he pointed at a poster hanged on the wall. Harry didn't know the man, he had wild grey hairs, similar to his own messy back hair, with sharp blue eyes, staring coldly in the painting.
"He's Beethoven." George continued. "He was a deaf pianist. He wasn't deaf at first mind you, but he didn't give up. He was deaf and he played piano. I'm blind, so why can't I do the same?"
Harry admired the poster, unable to take his emerald eyes off the man's stoic face.
"Were you blind since you were a child?" he finally turned back to the man, who was caressing the keys lovingly. The man smiled in nostalgia.
"No lad. I grew up in a war." he replied pleasantly, humming under his breath.
Harry stiffened. In a war?
"Sir... I meant... Mr. George, what war are you talking about?" for some odd reason he didn't feel like prying, the man said it so openly that Harry felt like the man was hinting at him to ask the same question.
George sighed, his hands leaving the keys. "It's a long story. Maybe when you're older. So what do you think?" he gestured around the room, Harry bitted his fingers again.
"It was beautiful Mr. Lightwood." he answered timidly, not quite sure what the man was asking.
George clasped his wrinkly hand on Harry's shoulder again. "I know it's beautiful. What I meant was that do you want to be a part of it?" he asked patiently, pausing at every word as if talking to a small child. Harry's mouth fell open, what was the man suggesting? Had he heard him right? Didn't he know what kind of a freak he was? Didn't he know that Harry didn't deserve these privileges?
"Don't over think it lad." he scolded softly, turning to play another track, it was the one he had heard downstairs. Once upon a December.
"But, I don't have any money sir." he said miserably, hanging his head low. George snorted.
"Do I look like I need money kiddo?" he said lightly.
Harry shook his head. "Then why..."
George stopped playing and grabbed his hand, his wrinkled fingers tracing his own. "You see these hands? Your long fingers and the strong structure? This is a musician's hands Harry not a slave's . In my opinion, you would be a natural in this. Someone needs to keep my legacy." Harry hesitated, but did not protest, as the man put his fingers on the piano keys, slowly guiding his fingers apart to play a single note.
Harry felt something tingle in him, a few butterflies fluttering in his chest. What was this warm feeling, he wondered. As he let the old man play with his fingers on the keys, feeling oddly calm as his hands traced the keys, some pushed down and some traveled farther, sometimes at the same time or just one at a time with the help of George. The blind man instructed him softly, patiently explaining each note and key, showing him how to put his fingers on the piano, how to seat behind the instrument properly.
"What about the Dursleys?" Harry wondered, after some time, it was late in the afternoon, probably already six. George titled his head.
"We could always tell them that you're doing chores for me."
"What if they don't allow me to come here?" This was his main concern, the the Dursleys found out. They would take him away, take everything away just so he wouldn't be able to learn anything.
George seemed to think on this one, his wrinkled face scrunched in a frown.
"I can pay you to do my chores, that way they have no choice but accept." Harry stammered again.
"But... But Mr. George, that's too much! I'm not even doing chores for you! You're just teaching me without expecting something in return and now..." Harry shook his head. That was too much, too much for him. He was a freak, freaks don't deserve these things. So much kindness.
"Don't worry about anything. Alright? Everything is with me here, I'll provide the meals, your lessons and maybe even help you with the Dursleys..."
Harry shook his head again, frantically trying to stand. "I'm sorry, I can't. That's too much, I can't just ask this of you. I'm sorry that I bothered you sir. I must be..."
"And... I want something in return." Harry stood still by the door, not turning to look at the man.
"What is it?" maybe it's chores or something? He could certainly help around the house. He felt excitement shot up in his system, making him shift on his feet.
"You have to learn properly, no slacking off. I do not tolerate tardiness." he said firmly, standing up himself and heading to the door with Harry.
"Sir.." George hushed him, slowly leading him downstairs and back in the kitchen . Harry followed mutely trailing behind the man.
George rampaged the kitchen, going through the scattered books and papers.
"Look for a blue notebook Harry." he instructed the boy after a few moments. Harry looked around the kitchen, and then crouched down to check under the table. He knew that he should probably leave knowing that he would be late to make dinner for Dudley and aunt Petunia would kill him if he stayed over for another hour.
He found the notebook lying on the microwave innocently, he picked it up and walked to Mr. Lightwood.
"I found it." he handed the book to the man. George smiled widely and headed to the fridge.
He picked up a wrapped package and put it on the notebook.
"Here you go kiddo. Can you sneak them both under your shirt?" Harry frowned in confusion.
Harry grabbed the said items and stuffed them under his over grown shirt experimentally, fortunately nothing seemed visible. He said so to the old man.
George nodded. "Good, I talk to your aunt, be here tomorrow morning and study that notebook in your room eh?" he then ushered Harry out before the boy could protest.
"Shh... Try to look tired and miserable, and don't forget the notes." He then basically threw him out of his house, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
"I forgot my shoes." Harry said, behind the door, hoping that the man would hear him.
The door opened after a few seconds and a muddy pair of shoes were thrown after him. The door slammed again. Harry stood there bewildered, still blinking owlishly.
Mr. Lightwood is odd alright, he thought. Then smiled. He kind of liked it.
Ever since that Tuesday, Harry went to the Lightwood house everyday without a hitch, even if he was supposed to stay with Mrs. Figg, Harry would sneak out and meet the man in his house. Even if he was supposed to go home straight fro school he wheeled to George's house, or even if it was raining and cold and he was supposed to clean out the garage, he would always find a way to jog to the old man's residence.
And George was always there, ready with a warm meal whenever Harry came, kind and warm in nature, but strict and firm whenever it came to teaching Harry. In a year Harry could beautifully play the pieces he was taught with his eyes closed, literally. After the first five months George blindfolded him, telling him that he had to play with his feelings and not with his eyes. Telling him that music was magic.
By the time Harry was ten, he was already playing two single instruments, and working his way to the third. No one knew of course, he couldn't join the school's band, or play for anyone aside from George, the Dursleys would kill him if he did, specially Vernon.
A week before his birthday he and George were in the kitchen, eating pasta when the old man said that he had a surprise for him on his birthday. After prodding and pressing the man, he gave away that he had planned to enter Harry in a piano competition, Harry had felt his eyes bulge.
"Are you kidding? But what about the Dursleys?!" George waved him off.
"Already made a plan, they're supposed to take their boy to an amusement park."
Harry, still feeling dubious and asked several times, only to be waved off firmly.
"What do I play?" George smiled and shooed him up the stairs.
"I know it's a little soon lad. But I've been thinking if you could write your own piece, with my help of course. You are very ahead of others your age."
It was the night before his birthday, when George stopped him from exiting the room.
Harry paused his hands on the piano and looked at the smoking man patiently, waiting for him to talk.
"Listen, Harry... I think we need to have an important talk." the man exhaled the smoke, his grey blond eyes gazing at him under the flickering light of the night.
"There is something I need to tell you lad. Something important, it's about your..." the man stopped abruptly, straining his ears. George threw his cigarette in his ashtray and quickly ushered Harry out of the room and down the stairs.
"George?" Harry was starting to get worried, the old man had been acting paranoid, more so than usual.
The old man led him to the back door and held him by the shoulders.
"We need to talk lad, alright? Tomorrow, after we got home. Please don't ask, but it's important."
"George you're being weird. Is everything alright?" he felt the man's wariness, the deep fear radiating even though his eyes held no emotion.
"If anything happened, anything at all, you have to keep the flute with you, alright? Keep it in your shirt." the man thrust the black instrument in his hands. Harry felt his heart beat in his throat, and his chest felt tight.
"Go home Harry, I'll pick you up tomorrow from Figg's. Goodnight."
He was thrown out of the house unceremoniously, the flute in his shirt sending shivers up his navel. He sulked a little but went back to NO. 4 as stealthily as he could manage.
George did not pick him up tomorrow, or the day after that.
Harry had woken to the sound of sirens flaring loudly in the street, basically near his ears, he had bolted from his bed and opened the window, watching the ambulance and the crowd surrendering the Lightwood residence. His stomach dropped, sooner than he thought possible, Harry Potter dressed and hurried down the stairs, joining the rest of the Dursleys who were snooping around other neighbors.
"They say it was murder Kate. Is that true?" upon hearing the neighbors Harry gasped and looked over the house, as the stretcher was pushed out of the porch by the two paramedics. Harry's legs were jellies and his lung felt like they were filed with sand. There was a white cloth draped over the body lying on the stretcher, including the face. And Harry knew.
George was dead. He didn't dare go over and see it for himself, he just knew, the man's odd behavior the night before, and the neighbors... Could it be? Was it murder? He should've felt angry, sad, devastated, but instead he felt the same paranoia George often felt. He couldn't stop the tears from rolling down, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched.
With stealth and solely acting on automatic pilot, Harry slipped in the crowd and made his way into the house, setting his mind, only on one thing. To get to the music room.
Halfway up the stairs, he snapped out of his shock and realized that the flute was with him, in his room, that George had handed it to him last night, even though his mind screamed at him to get out, Harry ventured into the room, silently crying.
The room looked exactly the way it did last night, even the heavy odder of smoke was still hanging in the air, the only thing Harry instantly noticed in the bright room was the ashtray's disappearance.
The rest of his memory was hazy, and he couldn't recall what exactly happened next, but he remembered getting a good cuff in his head after Uncle Vernon found him lurking in the house and the paramedics pulled his sobbing figure out of the room.
No one took a second look at him, or batted an eye when they saw his extreme reaction to the man's sudden death. Half of the neighbors and even the Dursleys thought, it was the sight of blood.
Harry tried to tell them that he didn't remember seeing any blood but kept his mouth shut in fear of the Dursleys punishing him.
He picked up his flute to play, for the first time in weeks, when he felt that it was stuffed, and no sound came out. Curious, he grabbed a pen and pocked the flute, the rustle of a paper could be heard. With wide eyes, Harry dragged the pen down, and the paper followed down out of the flute.
It was an envelope. Harry picked it up the wrinkled envelope cautiously, tears streaming down his face. He smoothed it out on the floor, his heart beating wildly.
Mr. H Potter
The second bedroom
4 privet drive
Harry cocked his head and broke the red seal, his back to the door. He reread the letter again, and again, and another time. Was this a joke? Or a prank maybe? George was a very light hearted man, but then again....
Was this what he wanted to tell him that night? That he was accepted in what? Hogwarts school of wizardry and witchcraft? George was not senile, or mad. Harry knew that, the man was a genius, a prodigy, not an insane old man. So this letter must be true?
"Music is magic Harry." the man's voice rang in his ears and Harry mused over the sentence.
Magic. Could it be? It did not seem plausible.
Why are you even thinking about it? He thought savagely, it wasn't like he could go anyway, it way too late to send a reply via... Owl? And the Dursleys rather die than let him go to a freaky school like this one.
He sighed, and picked up his flute, he played solemnly, grieving for his deceased friend finally after weeks.
Oh, how things were about to change after that faithful day. Harry never would've known.