Ice Cream

Stepping out onto the busy London street, the sounds of honking cars and chattering pedestrians rushed back at Harry like a tidal wave, dragging him back to reality.

His heart was still racing, his mind still reeling from everything he had seen, Diagon Alley, the hidden shops, the archway that had moved and fit together like a puzzle.

Magic was real.

Not just whispered hints in old books, not strange things that happened when he was upset.

It was alive.

And he had just walked through it.

But now, standing outside the Leaky Cauldron once more, the weight of the ordinary world pressed down on him again. He had to return to the Dursleys.

His stomach dropped.

The ice cream.

His supposed reason for stepping away.

Harry's fingers twitched uselessly at his sides as if he might still be holding the bag that should have been in his hands. But there was nothing.

A sinking dread settled in his chest.

He had been so completely mesmerized that he had forgotten everything else. He hadn't even thought about it until now.

Vernon was going to be furious.

Swallowing hard, Harry forced his legs to move, weaving back through the crowded streets towards where he left them. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, though whether it was lingering awe or growing anxiety, he wasn't sure.

The Dursleys were right where he left them, standing outside a shop window, Vernon checking his watch with an impatient glare. Dudley had his face pressed against the glass, drooling over some expensive new gadget.

Harry hesitated, already knowing how this would go.

He barely had time to step forward before Vernon's head snapped in his direction.

"About time, boy," he barked. "Where's the ice cream?"

Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Vernon's face darkened.

"Well?"

"I—" Harry hesitated. What could he say? That he'd stumbled into a magical world and forgotten all about it? That he'd found something that made everything else seem insignificant?

He could already picture Vernon's rage, his face turning that horrible shade of purple.

"I dropped it," Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.

The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Vernon's mustache twitched violently. "You dropped it?"

Petunia let out a scandalized noise, as though the very idea disgusted her.

"Wasteful boy," she muttered, shaking her head.

Harry braced himself.

"You dropped it?" Vernon repeated, his voice rising. "What were you doing, flapping about like some brainless fool?"

"I tripped," Harry lied quickly. "Someone bumped into me."

It was a weak excuse, but it was the best he could think of.

Vernon's lips pressed together, his jaw clenched so tightly that Harry could hear his teeth grind.

For a moment, Harry thought he might explode right there on the pavement, screaming and shouting, not caring who saw.

But then he glanced around, eyes flickering over the passing strangers, and Harry saw the briefest flicker of hesitation.

A public scene.

He wouldn't risk it.

Instead, Vernon's meaty fingers twitched, like he was imagining wrapping them around Harry's collar.

His voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

"You ungrateful little runt," he hissed. "One simple thing. That's all you had to do."

Harry knew better than to respond. He dropped his gaze to the pavement, letting Vernon's words roll over him like distant thunder.

Once, he might have flinched at every syllable, every clenched fist, every reminder of how unwanted he was.

But not anymore.

Because now he found a place where he belonged.

He had walked through a door and glimpsed something incredible, something vast and full of possibility.

Something the Dursleys had no power over.

They could rage and scold, lock him in his cupboard, and pretend he didn't exist, but it wouldn't change the truth.

Magic was real.

He belonged to a world far beyond them.

Vernon's rant faded into a meaningless drone, drowned out by the rush of thoughts swirling in Harry's head.

The shops filled with spellbooks and cauldrons. The flickering glow of lanterns. The scent of parchment and ink in the air.

Diagon Alley.

His fingers itched to return, to step back through that archway and drink in everything he hadn't had time to see.

He needed to go back.

And he would.

As soon as he could get away again and meet with Hermione, they would make a plan.

Petunia cleared her throat sharply, dragging him back to the moment. "Honestly, Vernon, people are staring."

"…you'll regret this when we get home," Vernon was muttering, his grip painfully tight. "I don't care where you went off to, but you're going to pay for it."

Harry only nodded. He had survived before and he would do it again.

The walk back was tense, with Petunia muttering about how "people were staring" and how she would have to make excuses for her "good-for-nothing nephew." Vernon simply grunted, still too furious to speak.

The drive home was worse. Dudley kept glancing at him with a smug grin as if he knew exactly what was coming.

Harry sat in silence, hands clenched in his lap. He wouldn't show any emotion or give them any satisfaction.

The car pulled into the driveway, and the moment the door slammed shut behind them, Vernon rounded on him.

"You worthless little freak," he spat, his voice dangerously low.

"I'm sorry," Harry said automatically, though they both knew it didn't matter.

"Sorry?" Vernon let out a short, ugly laugh. "You think 'sorry' makes up for making us wait like fools? For wasting my money?"

Harry barely had time to brace himself before Vernon's hand struck the side of his head. Not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to make his ears ring.

"That's for making us wait," Vernon growled.

Another blow, this time to his arm.

"That's for your attitude."

Harry knew better than to react. Any flinch, any sign of weakness, and Vernon would only be encouraged. He kept his breathing steady, even as his arm throbbed.

Petunia watched from the kitchen doorway, her lips pressed into a thin line. She never stopped Vernon. Not once.

Vernon glared down at him, chest heaving. "Get in the cupboard. And if I hear one sound, you'll regret it even more."

Harry turned without a word and stepped into the cramped, musty space that had been his bedroom for as long as he could remember.

The door slammed shut behind him, the familiar click of the lock sealing him in.

He let out a slow breath, ignoring the ache in his arm and the ringing in his ears.

Two days.

That was how long Vernon would keep him in here. That was how long he usually did when he was this angry.

Which meant...

Harry's stomach twisted. He was supposed to meet Hermione tomorrow.

He wouldn't be there.

He stared up at the tiny sliver of light that crept in through the cracks in the door, his mind racing. She would wait for him, just like she said she would. She would sit in that library, scanning through book after book, waiting for him to arrive.

And when he didn't, she would wonder.

Would she be angry? Hurt?

He didn't want to think about it.

Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember.

The shifting bricks. The towering buildings. The shop windows filled with books and robes and cauldrons. The weight of magic in the air.

The dream was real.

And no matter what the Dursleys did, no matter how many times they locked him away, they couldn't take that from him.