Summer.

What an awful word. Though, it had a nice ring to it. Harry had to admit that at least. If it hadn’t been for this hideous neighbourhood: rows upon rows of little houses, everyone just the same. Probably was the only one appealing to some middle-aged housewives and childless couples out of some terrible catalogue for middle-aged housewives and childless couples. Perfect square gardens, no tall trees that would provide a little bit of shade in the blazing sun. All completed with some very jumpable picket fences, preferred colour: White. Of course. How predictable, he thought. From above it must look like some grandpas miniature wonderland. Maybe if Harry could fly high enough on his Firebolt he would see the greater pattern, the intentions some retired person simply must have had by putting together all this identical rubbish. Little plastic homes with finely coloured persons sticking their heads out of curtained windows just to see if their lawn would need another trim.

But well yeah, it was summer. And that was awful. Horrible. Gruesome even. It meant no magic and no Firebolts even if Harry would have been inclined to fly it. As it were, he just didn’t care. Hell yes, had even sworn never to ride a broom again. Well maybe not a broom but this broom? How could he when… When. When his Aunt yelled at him from just outside his bedroom door Harry was already wide-awake. He stopped his staring into the dust laden air, every grain of it reflecting the early white sunlight. No curtains meant an early morning each and every day of summer. Awful, horrible, gruesome summer.

Even if Harry would have been a calmer sleeper, would not have stirred at the tiniest noise, would not have confusedly blinked at the most petite poke of sun fingers into his room, would not have tossed about in his sheets, would not have dreamed, would not have had trouble falling asleep altogether there would have been this one, this very crucial factor.

The factor of the sheer Awfulness of Summer.

“Boy! Up! Now!”

And there it was. Certain like rain in Scotland, like sunshine in Spain, like sand in the Sahara. Though he hadn’t been to any of this locations except for the first. Maybe Ron and Hermione would tell him a bit of the latter two when they would see each other again. At the end of this awful, beastly long, horrendous-

“What are you doing in there? Up now or I’ll wake Vernon!”

He was definitely out of it. Where were these thoughts coming from? A miniature wonderland? Spain? The Sahara? What the heck was wrong with him? Except he knew perfectly well what was wrong but – He sat up in bed. If not to evade his aunt’s and uncle’s wrath then to escape his ever spiralling thoughts dragging him deep under.

A few minutes later found Harry Potter, supposed Saviour of Wizard and Witchkind, known also as Mr. Potter (to his teachers), Boy Who Lived (in general to all the other wand-wielding people out there), punching bag (to his cousin), boy (to his dear relatives) and just Harry (to his closest friends) in faded red shorts and a holey T-shirt whisking together some sweet batter in the perfectly gleaming kitchen.

Merlin, how he missed his friends. He couldn’t wait to spy some red hair at the platform in Kings Cross come September. Couldn’t wait to sputter helplessly as bushy brown hair would inadvertently make its way into his mouth in one of those crushing embraces Hermione bestowed upon him if only to ensure herself that he, Harry, just Harry had made it once again out of his own private summer hell.

To himself however he would always stay this somewhat scared little orphan, who grew up in a cupboard. To himself (and maybe two or three of his friends) he would always remain just Harry. Not some hero figure, made to bear all the unpleasant burdens this world had to offer. To himself he would always continue to be eleven years old, looking with wonder induced vivid green eyes up to a castle over a lake, blinking invitingly above the black water. Oh, how he wished to be eleven again. How he wished the vividness back into his eyes. So, to himself he would always stay just like the boy who came out of the cupboard all these years ago.

And to himself that wasn’t necessarily something bad. Alright, he wasn’t the tallest soon to be sixteen-year-old, but being short had its advantages. You didn’t need to eat as much (which was admittedly a very big advantage living with the Dursleys). You could get out of tight situations (literally) and you didn’t stand out as much. Although that hadn’t really worked out for him. He would always stand out in this hobbyist grandpa’s version of wonderland. Would always attract attention from the picket-fence-people.

The picket-fence-people don’t like me. The picket-fence-people are out to get me, Harry thought in a rare flash of good humour. The picket-fence-people were a creation of his Star Wars infested mind born out of respect for the Sand People. Just recently, there had been a Star Wars marathon on Channel 4, which Dudley naturally had to get induced in apart from several bags of crisps and a pack of coke. Harry had watched through doing the dishes, mopping the kitchen and dusting the living room, all chores he was especially glad to do that evening. Lightsabers were awesome. He couldn’t help but ponder the advantages of this particular weapon. He could walk right up to moldy Voldie with just the handle in hand, then activate the saber and make a clean cut right through the psychopath. He shuddered. Or maybe not.

As Harry flipped a pancake with practised ease, he looked out onto the sidewalk through the crocheted curtain. There, Mrs. Number Five walked her picket-fence-people-dog. Or was it Ms. Number Nine? He couldn’t really tell squinting through his glasses. His eyesight was never well before, but it had worsened over the last school year. Now it was nearly bad enough for him to abandon his eternal last row VIP-place in potions just to see Snape’s neat handwriting on the board better. Maybe then, he’d get higher marks for the practicals, he thought.

Not worth the trouble, he reasoned and put the golden baked pancake onto the ever-growing pile, thinking about evil Potions teachers and their overgrown noses. At this moment, his aunt bustled into the kitchen, hectically grabbing some milk and juice out of the fridge and balancing the pancake plate in her other hand. Heavy steps on the stairs announced Uncle Vernon as he came down for breakfast. Shortly calculating his chances Harry put the remaining batter into the still sizzling pan, glancing through to the living room every now and then.

Finished with baking the last pancake to perfect consistency, Harry quickly put some leftover marmalade on to it, rolled it up and as fast as he could vanished the whole thing into his mouth never to be seen again.

“Hop to the dishes, boy!” came the somewhat muffled shout of his uncle. When Harry entered the living room, the daily newspaper already covered his uncle head to table. They all knew they preferred it just like that. Merely another routine morning, another day started in the perfect summer-loop. The loop that would repeat itself just another 62 times. Today was the 30th of June. Only a week ago, the school year at Hogwarts had ended. Harry hadn’t really cared at this time that he would be returning to Privet Drive and his charming relatives, too preoccupied with-

No, don’t think about that!

Now, however, he cared immensely. He cared about all those mornings of the two months left before the Hogwarts Express. Cared about all the wake-up shouts from his aunt, all the muffled commands of his uncle, all those bloody pancakes he would be making. At the same time, he couldn’t really bring himself to care more about summer-loop than damning it with all the creative adjectives he could find.

What an awful, horrendous, appalling, terrible, dreadful, grisly summer indeed.