Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey, was a house of rules, routines, and well-manicured hedges. Its inhabitants—the Dursley family—prided themselves on being utterly, gloriously normal.
Vernon Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He had a large mustache, a booming voice, and very strong opinions about neckties and lawn care. His wife, Petunia, was thin and blonde, with a neck long enough to peer over fences and into other people's lives with remarkable efficiency. Their son Dudley was a round-faced boy with an appetite that could terrify buffets.
And then there was Harry Potter.
They never spoke of him.
Not to neighbors. Not to family. Not to anyone.
When pressed, Petunia would tighten her jaw and say, "He's just staying with us for a while," before changing the subject to the rising cost of garden mulch. Vernon, on the other hand, would mutter about "delinquent boarding schools" and "family obligations," always careful never to say the boy's name aloud.
Harry lived in the smallest bedroom upstairs—the cupboard under the stairs had been his previous domain, but as he got older and grew longer than a mop handle, they reluctantly moved him. Still, he was not considered one of them. He did not eat at the same time. He did not speak unless spoken to. And most importantly: he was never, ever, to do anything strange.
There was, however, a problem.
A very peculiar, very inconvenient problem.
It was the weather.
Privet Drive was known for its neat lawns, its good fences, and its mostly identical houses. But in recent years, it had gained a reputation for something else—something the Dursleys refused to discuss: unnatural weather patterns.
Strange bursts of thunder in the middle of summer. Sudden lightning strikes that scorched garden gnomes. Sudden downpours followed by intense sunlight. It wasn't just odd—it was chaotic. Like a climate that couldn't make up its mind.
And it had all started when Harry Potter came to live with them.
Though the Dursleys would never admit it publicly, they knew—deep down—that the boy had something to do with it.
Petunia had once nearly dropped a tray of teacups when the kitchen lights flickered after Harry sneezed. Vernon had nearly driven off the road when a lightning bolt struck the tree nearest their car—right after he shouted at the boy for forgetting to water the plants.
Worst of all, the neighbors had begun to notice.
"Oh, it's just one of those weather anomalies," Mrs. Figg from across the street had said once, squinting up at the turbulent sky. "But it's strange, isn't it? Ever since your nephew came to live with you, it's been nothing but thunder and hail."
Petunia had laughed nervously and promptly closed the door.
In truth, the weather wasn't just a nuisance—it was a threat. Because while Harry Potter never spoke of what he was, and the Dursleys never spoke of what they knew, there was an unspoken fear that one day, someone in the neighborhood would connect the dots.
And if they did… it would be the end of the Dursleys' carefully cultivated normality.
One rainy afternoon in early July, Vernon was on the phone with a client when a lightning strike shook the roof.
"WHAT IN BLAZES—!" he shouted, dropping the phone.
Harry, who was sitting silently in the corner of the kitchen peeling potatoes, didn't even flinch.
Petunia peeked out the window and turned pale. "It hit the garden gnome. Again."
"That's the third this year!" Vernon barked.
"It's not my fault," Harry muttered under his breath, knowing better than to speak louder.
Petunia whirled on him. "Don't talk back!"
"I wasn't," Harry said, looking back at the potato.
The truth was—Harry knew something was off. He'd always felt it, even if he didn't understand it. The way the wind stirred when he was angry. The electric tingle in the air when he was afraid. Sometimes, the thunder sounded like it was speaking his name.
But every time he asked about his parents, or where he came from, the Dursleys would either shout him into silence or punish him with chores.
Still… something inside Harry was building.
Something that felt like more than just the strange magic that flickered around him when he was scared.
There was power in his bones.
And the sky?
It seemed to know.
The morning was gray, the air thick with the scent of fresh rain and ozone. Thin sunlight filtered through the curtains of the smallest bedroom at Number Four, casting shifting shadows across the worn floorboards and peeling wallpaper.
Harry Potter stood in front of the cracked mirror perched above a chipped dresser, adjusting the collar of a shirt that had once belonged to his cousin Dudley.
It hung loosely on him, sleeves far too wide, shoulders sagging, and the hem nearly down to his knees—but Harry no longer cared. Once upon a time, he might've felt the sting of shame when Petunia handed him yet another hand-me-down that smelled faintly of spoiled milk and sugar grease. But now?
Now he just saw it as temporary.
One day, he thought, I'll earn my own money. Buy my own clothes. Live far away from this house. Far away from Dudley and his tantrums and Petunia's bitter glances.
He picked up an old plastic comb and ran it through his hair with a practiced motion, trying in vain to tame the wild black locks that refused to obey. Most of the time, he didn't bother. But today, he pushed the fringe up deliberately—revealing the scar that sliced like a bolt of lightning across his forehead.
A grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
The scar didn't hurt. It never had. But it looked like it should. Sharp. Striking. It made him look like someone from a comic book—someone mysterious. Cool.
He liked that.
And then there were his eyes.
He stared at his reflection and blinked. They were an electric shade of blue—bright, unnatural, and intense. Not icy, not pale. They pulsed like bottled lightning, full of some invisible current that made people pause when they looked at him.
Sometimes, if he stared long enough, he swore he could see flickers of static across his pupils. Little arcs of power dancing just beneath the surface. He knew it was probably his imagination.
Probably.
He touched the corner of his eye lightly, then lowered his hand.
A few years ago, Aunt Petunia had accidentally told him something he'd never forgotten. She'd had too much wine at a neighborhood gathering and was muttering as she folded laundry later that evening, not realizing he was behind her.
"Your father had hazel eyes," she'd said flatly. "And Lily's were green. No idea where your… unnatural blue eyes came from."
Then she paused, folding a shirt tighter than necessary.
"If you didn't look exactly like James Potter—spitting image—I'd have thought Lily was sneaking around."
The next morning, when Harry had cautiously asked about it, she acted like it had never happened. Her face went pale, her lips thin.
"I never said anything like that," she snapped. "Mind your own business."
Harry had dropped it. But he never forgot it.
His eyes were the one thing about him that no one could explain.
And that, perhaps, was why he liked them.
At school, teachers often stared longer than necessary when calling roll. Some classmates whispered about how strange and cool his eyes looked in the light. He didn't mind. Any attention that wasn't ridicule was welcome.
The Dursleys, of course, hated it.
Vernon had once muttered that his eyes looked "radioactive." Petunia, more than once, suggested they take him to an optometrist and have him fitted for "corrective lenses"—not because he needed them, but because they believed glasses would make his eyes less noticeable.
Harry refused.
His vision was perfect, and he wasn't going to hide the only part of himself that felt like it belonged to something… more.
He picked up his school bag, slinging it over one shoulder. The weight was familiar, grounding.
With one last glance in the mirror, Harry tousled his hair back down over the scar, sighed, and opened the door to face another day in the Dursley house.
The moment he stepped into the hallway, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance—despite the forecast calling for clear skies.
Harry didn't even blink.
The Dursleys had always made one thing very clear: Harry was not one of them.
Every morning, Vernon and Petunia would squeeze themselves into their new company car—a polished sedan too good for the likes of Harry—and drive Dudley to school like he was royalty. Petunia packed him lunches, fixed his collar, and kissed his forehead while Vernon barked about success and reputation.
Harry, meanwhile, was expected to walk.
It wasn't a long walk. A couple of miles. But through cold, through heat, through storms and fog—Harry went on foot, carrying his battered schoolbag and dodging puddles.
He had learned not to complain.
In fact, he stopped seeing it as punishment. He began to run. At first for warmth, then for speed, and eventually—because it felt good.
His feet pounded the pavement in rhythm, his breath steady, his body light. He could sprint for ten, fifteen minutes straight and never feel winded. The burn in his legs felt like fuel, not strain. With every passing week, it became easier. Stronger.
Faster.
At first, it startled him. No one else in his class could keep up—not even the older kids. But now he accepted it. He liked it. The way his body moved, how it worked, felt like something special. Something that didn't belong in a cupboard.
And that power—the raw strength of it—translated onto the field.
Harry had become the school's youngest football star. He played with the older year groups, held his own against boys half a foot taller, and led the team to win regional games. Fast, agile, focused. Everyone noticed.
At school, he was known not as "the weird boy with the Dursleys," but Harry the runner. Harry the striker. Harry with the blue eyes like stormlight.
His grades were average—just enough to stay out of trouble. He wasn't top of the class in anything, but he paid attention. He tried. He was smart in the ways that mattered.
But sport?
Sport was where he lived.
Halfway through his usual route to school that morning, he heard the sharp whistle from the far sidewalk.
"Oi! Potter!"
He looked up to see Ravi, one of the senior team's midfielders, waving him over. Behind him, Mark and Craig were already jogging in place, schoolbags slung lazily over their shoulders.
Harry grinned and crossed the street to join them.
"You late or just dramatic?" Ravi teased.
"Neither," Harry said. "Was waiting for you slowpokes."
That earned a few laughs. Without another word, the group broke into a run.
They often used the last mile to school as a warm-up. And today, like most days, Harry kept pace effortlessly. He even pulled ahead near the gates, feet light, heart steady.
"You ever get tired, Potter?" Craig panted, hands on his knees.
Harry shrugged, not even breathing hard. "Not really."
Ravi narrowed his eyes. "I swear, you're not human."
Harry only laughed.
He wasn't sure what he was, exactly. But normal didn't seem to fit anymore.
When they reached the corner shop across from the schoolyard, Mark peeled off and returned with a warm sausage roll and a carton of juice, handing them to Harry without ceremony.
"You skipped breakfast again, didn't you?" Mark asked.
"Wasn't hungry," Harry replied, but took the food with a nod of thanks. "Appreciate it."
Even though his appetite had never been big, he still ate—out of politeness more than hunger. His friends had long stopped asking why.
And then, as they reached the school gates, it happened again.
The sky, which had been clouded all morning, began to part. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced through the gray, bathing the courtyard in warmth. A gentle breeze danced through the trees, and the entire atmosphere seemed to sigh in relief.
It always happened when Harry felt like this.
Happy.
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