Nothing is set in (philosopher's)stone

Sunday, July 6, 1991

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the savior of the wizarding world. All shiny titles to embrace one golden child, THE golden child, who gave them the peace everyone had been so desperate to regain since the war had started. The child who ensured everyone's safety, at the risk of his own. The one who killed Voldemort and ended the war, the child everyone wanted to be.

Not that he'd agreed with it. Harry James Potter had been a little over a year old when Voldemort found out about the prophecy and went after him. If he hadn't, the prophecy would've canceled itself out and Harry would still have his parents. Instead, the idiot came after him and set it all in motion. How ridiculous. It wasn't even Harry who had vanquished him, at least not directly. It had been his mother who had used blood magic to protect him. How did Harry know all of this? Alas, the raven-haired boy was one of the few who remembers everything from the moment he opened his eyes as a baby. Well- not everything in detail, he doesn't have an eidetic memory. No, he simply didn't have infantile amnesia, so he remembers the day his house got attacked like any other painful memory one could have at the age of 10.

Harry puts down his cup of English breakfast tea, without the milk. While normally he'd take some with it, he wanted something a little stronger on this drowsy afternoon. 

"What a load of shit- can you believe this? I haven't even received my Hogwarts letter for a day and already they're speculating I'm going shopping on the 31st of July!"

"Language Harry." Petunia gives him a pointed look as she puts down her almost empty cup. She snares at the bottom and picks up the teapot, rotating it around a bit to feel how much is left in it. "I'll look at the paper if you'd please put on the kettle for a refill? Dudley dear, don't eat all the biscuits at once. I know it's a Sunday but space yourself out, you know today is Harry's day to cook and how much you pout every time because you've stuffed yourself with biscuits and can't eat more dinner." 

The slightly plump boy ducks his head a little bit, giving her a guilty grin but listens to her. Apparently Harry's cooking really did surpass his desire to eat more of the digestive, as he closes the package of the goodies and pushes them to the middle of the small round coffee table. It's not a chore or anything they make him do. But at a young age, while helping his aunt cut veggies or bake cookies, they realized just how good he was at cooking and baking. Really, really good. On top of that the boy seemed to have a passion for it. At first, they let him cook with absolute supervision as his guardians watched over him nervously. And while he does cook once a week during holiday breaks only so he doesn't get behind on school, they still remain near the kitchen whenever he does, just to be sure they're there if something were to go wrong.

Harry folds the magical newspaper neatly before passing it to his aunt. No need to tell her the page. It was right up the front one! Uncle Vernon puts down his normal newspaper and looks at Harry who already made his way to the kitchen and is filling the kettle with more water. "What does it say then boy? Don't keep me waiting-" Don't understand this the wrong way. Uncle Vernon is a good guardian, while he does try to understand the world Harry comes from, the Daily Prophet just gives the man a major headache to look at. No. Uncle Vernon prefers neat and organized things, things he understands. Magic isn't one of them, but he loves his nephew, so he makes an effort whenever he can. The magical newspaper is far from organized and no matter how many times he tries, he never quite grasps where to start reading. In his defense, he also has a hard time reading normal muggle gossip magazines because of the way everything seems to be everywhere. 

"It talks about how I'll graciously be strutting about with a crown on my head on my birthday in Diagon Alley! I'd rather spend my time here with you guys than have to be surrounded and suffocated by a mass of people who don't even know me." The raven-haired boy huffs, clearly frustrated by the unwanted fame that comes with his name. The plus-sized man smiles with a peculiar glint in his eyes. Mischief. 

"What's the problem then? They've just announced they're going to have the press on that day swarming the area, so it's likely people will book hotel rooms up to two weeks in advance just in case you try to go earlier to avoid them."

Harry gasps softly, his calculating eyes hovering over the adult. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" The man just answers with a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling with intent. "Yes Harry, we'll be going tomorrow instead." His green eyes fill with complete joy and mischief as he catches on. "That'd be a little less than a month of their predicted time- the crowd will go crazy trying to grab every single little thing that might belong to me-" The man smirks knowingly as his wife catches onto the conversation, having finished the news article.

"It'll cause a stampede!" She looks at her husband as if he had said something to offend her but the family knew better. After all, Aunt Petunia was a theatre kid. After a dramatic pause, she reaches over for her purse, standing behind her on a low cupboard where they keep the board games. She has two wallets, a simple brown leather one and a black leather one with flower designs on it. To Harry's knowledge, those are lilies. She takes out the black one and takes out a golden coin, giving it to Dudley. "Here, to resubscribe our monthly newspaper. We can't miss what's happening in the world after all." Her features grace a matching mischievous grin to her husband. "Drama~" Was whispered by none other than her son who also caught on. They all wanted to see the paparazzi get trampled and read about their failure in the news. To some, it might seem mean, evil maybe, but this family knows all the stuff that's been published in those newspapers without their consent. Without even having seen Harry, just made up stories as they went. Right then the kettle light clicks off as the water is boiling. Quickly making the tea, Harry refills everyone's tea cups and for those who prefer bigger amounts, mugs. Everyone hunches over the table, putting in the preferred amount of sugar cubes and milk. 

Dudley raises his mug. "To an interesting summer yet." The boy smirks making Harry chuckle. Everyone raises their cups 'here here' and the rest of the afternoon is soon filled with chatter, teasing, and cooking. Until the lights in 4 Privet Drive died down one by one. Harry stares at the crescent moon through the window, his mind filled with excitement for the upcoming morning. 

"An interesting summer indeed...." 

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*infantile amnesia: the inability of adults to recollect early episodic memories, is associated with the rapid forgetting that occurs in childhood.