Someone at the door
The pain in his shoulder hadn’t gone away.
He had woken up several times during the night, sweaty and stiff, and every little movement made it throb. He tried gritting his teeth, ignoring the sharp pain that shot down his arm every time he tried to shift positions, but the body didn’t forget, nor did the mind.
In the morning, he found himself curled on his uninjured side, staring at the cracked wall beside the bed. A spider was slowly moving through the plaster cracks, silent, more alive than him.
He got out of bed without making a sound. Vernon was still asleep, his heavy snoring filling the other room. Petunia was probably already tidying up the kitchen. Dudley… Dudley was an unknown. In recent days, he had become quieter, almost evasive. He no longer looked at Harry with his usual arrogance, but with a kind of mute fear.
Harry wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything, to be honest.
He descended the stairs, avoiding the third step as always, and moved through the kitchen like a shadow. He grabbed a slice of bread left in the pantry—stale, but still edible—and slipped it into his pocket. The sound of the toaster would have drawn unwanted eyes. Better this way.
He retreated to the garden.
The sun barely filtered through the thick clouds. The air was cold for July, but Harry preferred it that way. The chill was real. Tangible. Not like the emptiness inside him, which widened without a sound.
He sat on the sidewalk, behind the hedge, hidden from the view of the neighbors. He nibbled on the bread with little appetite. The taste stuck to his throat, dry, but he didn’t stop. He had to eat. At least a little. His body demanded it, even though his mind just wanted to shut down.
He had been there for just over half an hour when something changed in the air.
A sound. No, an absence of sound.
The wind had stopped. The leaves were no longer rustling. It was as if time itself had held its breath.
Then came the owl.
Not one of the usual ones. Not the brown one that carried Hermione’s letters, or the snowy one—Hedwig—that was no longer there. This one was black as pitch, its eyes like deep wells.
It dropped a letter at his feet, then flew off without a sound.
Harry didn’t pick it up immediately. He just stared at it. His name was written in ink so dark it seemed carved into the parchment.
Harry James Potter
Just that. No sender. No extra words.
He touched it with two fingers. Cold.
When he opened it, the handwriting inside was familiar, but not welcoming. It was neat, harsh. Thin as a blade.
6:00 PM. No later. Be at the entrance. Don’t make me come get you.
– S. Snape
Harry felt his heart slow for a moment.
Snape.
Why him?
There was no trace of kindness in those words, no hint of concern. But neither was there any threat, not openly. It was as if Snape was summoning him. Not asking. Ordering.
Why now? Why him?
Harry crumpled the letter and shoved it into his pocket. He’d go back inside. He’d avoid his uncle. He’d think. Maybe. Or maybe he’d let this one slide, like everything else.
But as soon as he stepped into the living room, the front door slammed open.
“You!”
Vernon was furious. In his pajamas, his face flushed. In his hand, he was holding something—Harry’s wand. His wand.
“What is this trash?!” he yelled, waving the object like it was a snake. “You still have this crap in my house?! After all we’ve been through?!”
Harry took a step back. Just one. Not out of fear, not really. But out of instinct.
“Put it down,” he said quietly. His throat burned.
“You’ve ruined my life!” Vernon shouted. “You’ve brought trouble, creatures, explosions! Your aunt was awake for two nights after the last appearance of those damned birds! And now? What are you up to now, eh?! Are you in contact with that filth?!”
Harry didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Vernon raised the wand. And broke it.
A sharp, clean crack. The sound seemed to fill the entire room.
Harry didn’t move. He didn’t scream. He did nothing.
His heart simply dropped into his stomach.
It was his wand. The last thing that was truly his. The one he had chosen. The one that had chosen him. Ollivander had said it was unique. That it was… alive.
And now it was gone.
Petunia appeared from the kitchen. She saw him with the lost look, his hands empty. She turned to her husband, then to her nephew. She said nothing. As always.
“Out,” Vernon said. “Out of my house. Now.”
Harry slowly went upstairs. He grabbed the old backpack, stuffed in the book he was reading (or rather, flipping through), a worn-out sweater of Dudley’s, and the photo of him and Sirius—ripped in half, but still visible.
At 6:00 PM, he was at the gate.
The sky was overcast. The air smelled of rain and iron.
Snape was there.
The black cloak stirred by the wind, his gaze sharper than any words. He didn’t look older. He looked tired. But the weariness in Snape was different: it was venomous. Silent.
Harry stared at him, motionless.
“I thought you’d have the good sense to spare me this little drama,” the man said.
Harry didn’t speak.
Snape stepped forward. He studied him closely, in silence. His eyes lingered on the stiff shoulder, the dark circles under his eyes, the cracked lips. And for one brief second—a tiny moment—something changed in his look.
“They do a better job than the Death Eaters,” he muttered. It wasn’t sarcasm. It was an observation.
Harry lowered his gaze.
“Did you break your wand?” Snape asked, his voice rough.
Harry shook his head. “They broke it.”
Silence.
Then Snape turned. “Follow me.”
Harry stayed still. “Where are we going?”
Snape stopped, without looking at him. “Somewhere else.”
And for the first time, the word somewhere else seemed to mean something.