The roar downstairs was a thunderclap that shook even the dust on Harry's bedroom floor.
"Boy! Get down here!"
It was Vernon Dursley's distinctive tenor, which usually heralded one of two things: either the television was broken, or Harry had annoyed him by breathing too loudly.
Harry's heart instinctively clenched, muscle memory preparing him to curl into a ball.
But then the cool sensation beneath his fingertips reminded him-he was not wearing Dudley's old shirt now.
The sense of security that came from being wrapped in advanced magic made Harry straighten his back a little despite himself.
"Coming."
Harry raised an eyebrow at his reflection-the boy in the mirror wore a black tactical trench coat.
He actually looked a little like a young Auror, if you ignored his messy hair and glasses.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and hurried downstairs.
The atmosphere in the living room was stranger than he had expected.
There was none of the anticipated fury, nor any crying from Dudley as he tattled on him.
Uncle Vernon was pacing back and forth across the living room's rather small carpet with his hands behind his back, like a lion that had just swallowed an entire turkey.
His perpetually flushed, purplish-red face was now filled with a strange, almost twisted excitement.
Aunt Petunia sat rigidly on the floral fabric sofa, her hands tightly clasped on her knees, her knuckles white from the pressure.
Her neck was stretched long, her gaze darting between Vernon and a pile of documents on the coffee table, her expression as complicated as if she had just swallowed a fly, only to discover it was made of solid gold.
And Dudley, the usual little bully, was huddled in the darkest corner of an armchair.
He clutched the large, unfinished bag of