H.P:the Difference Between Brothers?

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The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old cinecamera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over next door's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favourite programme had been cancelled; there was a large bird-cage which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air-rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. In fact, the only person that had ever touched them was Harry, not that anyone knew that.

Sometimes, like when Mrs. Bradley, his Year 3 teacher, made a report, he was moved to Dudley's spare room for a week or two. Then, when a social worker came by they saw nothing but what the Dursley's wanted them to see. Little orphan boy taken in by his kind relatives when his drug addict parents got themselves killed. Poor Harry was in the car, who knows what kind of damage they did. He's so very difficult, but we do our best. This was at least the fifth time he'd been sent up here.

In a week or two, when either whoever sent the letter showed up or failed to contact them again, he'd be right back to his cupboard.

Harry sighed and stretched out on the rickety old bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting's stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof and he still didn't know what was in the letter or why he'd been thrown out. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the post arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smeltings stick all the way down the hall. He came back without a letter for Harry.

Uncle Vernon gave him a maliciously satisfied smile. "Seem's whoever it was realized their mistake," he said.

It took everything Harry had not to roll his eyes. We're they expecting him to get another letter today? It would be a while before anyone even realized he hadn't replied, if it was even a letter that needed to be replied to in the first place.

Harry leaned against the counter, eating his sole piece of toast, as the Dursley's laughed.

A knock at the door a few moments later shut them up, and Aunt Petunia when as white as a ghost.

"Stay here," she snapped, fixing the most hateful glare she'd ever had on him. The kitchen door closed sharply behind her as she answered the door.

There were voices from the hall, a man and Aunt Petunia's. They seemed to be arguing, and the longer she was out there, the angrier Uncle Vernon became. He was turning an ugly shade of purple when Aunt Petunia yelled through the closed door.

"Harry dear, could you come here for a moment," she called in the nicest voice she had ever used. It was even nicer than when the one she used with the social workers.

Heart pounding in trepidation, Harry slowly went to her. Standing just inside the door was a man. He had the same face and tawny skin as Harry's though he was much older and had a healthy sun kissed glow about him. It was like looking into a mirror that showed what he'd look like in twenty years, if he hadn't spent most of his life starving. The only difference, other than height, that Harry could see were the eyes. His own were a bright emerald green, that Dudley often called creepy, while the man's were a soft hazel. They did, however, both wear the same round glasses. Of course, the man's weren't held together with sellotape and looked new.

He was smiling at Harry and his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.

"Hello," he all but whispered.

"Um, hello?" Harry said unsurely back.

"Harry, meet your father," Aunt Petunia said.

Father. The word echoed through his head. His dead father. The useless layabout and drunk that got him and his mother killed. And landed Harry in the hell that he lived in. Father. Who was standing in front of him, dressed oddly sure, but looking much to healthy for a dead man. Or a drug addict. Father.

His father. Who was alive. His father, who looked far too healthy to be a drunk or a drug addict. His father, who stood in front of him, looking happy and relieved.

Harry shoved past Aunt Petunia, making her stumble into the wall, and rushed up the stairs. They lied. All of them. His father, James, whose name he didn't even know until he started school, had abandoned him. The bedroom door slammed closed behind him.

He snatched his rucksack up and began shoving things in it. A few books, his box of keepsakes, his other set of clothes. The three notebooks he owned, and a couple of pens were also shoved haphazardly in there. Thanking every god he'd ever heard of the snakes hadn't gone outside yet, he woke them with a hurried plea and helped them into the bag.

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If you want to read ahead by 10 chapters from her you can visit my Patre-on.

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