Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J. K. Rowling [15]
“But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” said Hestia indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a waste of space!”
“Yeah, but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’ ” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.
“Are we going or not?” roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room door. “I thought we were on a tight schedule!”
“Yes — yes, we are,” said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanges with an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. “We really must be off. Harry —”
He tripped forward and wrung Harry’s hand with both of his own.
“— good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.”
“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Thanks.”
“Farewell, Harry,” said Hestia, also clasping his hand. “Our thoughts go with you.”
“I hope everything’s okay,” said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
“Oh, I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,” said Diggle brightly, waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.
Dudley gently released himself from his mother’s clutches and walked toward Harry, who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley held out his large, pink hand.
“Blimey, Dudley,” said Harry over Aunt Petunia’s renewed sobs, “did the dementors blow a different personality into you?”
“Dunno,” muttered Dudley. “See you, Harry.”
“Yeah …” said Harry, taking Dudley’s hand and shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”
Dudley nearly smiled, then lumbered from the room. Harry heard his heavy footfalls on the graveled drive, and then a car door slammed.
Aunt Petunia, whose face had been buried in her handkerchief, looked around at the sound. She did not seem to have expected to find herself alone with Harry. Hastily stowing her wet handkerchief into her pocket, she said, “Well — good-bye,” and marched toward the door without looking at him.
“Good-bye,” said Harry.
She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry had the strangest feeling that she wanted to say something to him: She gave him an odd, tremulous look and seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but then, with a little jerk of her head, she bustled out of the room after her husband and son.
The Seven Potters
Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in time to see the Dursleys’ car swinging out of the drive and off up the road. Dedalus’s top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone.
Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly now, the hall full of shadows in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare treat: Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley’s computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart’s content. It gave him an odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost.
“Don’t you want to take a last look at the place?” he asked Hedwig, who was still sulking with her head under her wing. “We’ll never be here again. Don’t you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories … Dudley puked on it after I saved him from the dementors. … Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? … And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door. …”
Harry lost the thread of his