It was completely black for a couple moments, and then he began to notice specks of light, not unlike stars. The lights twinkled, like Dumbledore's eyes used to (you know, before his death), and they seemed to be getting brighter, closer.
He felt like he was flying, and after a second he realized it felt like he was floating, but he was moving, forward, at a fast pace. It was a strange feeling, as if he was staying in one place and moving at the exact same time. The feeling could have been compared to being on a roller coaster, but he'd never been on one.
The lights were growing larger, quickly.
It was almost like an out of body experience, he decided. As if he was a ghost floating through space. Hn, that'd be an idea, sending a ghost into space.
The light in the center began to grow larger, and soon covered the entire blackness so that it wasn't blackness anymore, and it grew brighter and brighter until it went out.
The entire experience had been completely silent, but now he could hear a loud rapping sound, almost like when a Prophet owl wanted in your window to deliver your paper, but more like an impatient person with hard knuckled hastily banging against a wooden door.
The rapping noise got louder and louder, and then it stopped too, leaving only silent blackness once more.
"Boy! Get up! Now!" He opened his eyes to his Aunt's voice, pondering if he'd finally cracked. He hadn't seen Petunia since he was seventeen, three years ago. And she'd long since stopped knocking on his door so ignorantly during the summer holidays. Moreover, he lived in Diagon Ally, one of the last places he'd ever think to find his Aunt Petunia.
He opened his eyes groggily as he heard more rapping against the door and looked to the ceiling. It was quite low, and—
He was in the cupboard under the stairs!
"Hm," he mused impartially. "What a strange dream." Though he'd taken a dreamless-sleep potion before bed, he wrote it off as a faulty brew. He'd probably be feeling that when he woke up.
Deciding to humour the pathetic dream, Harry Potter stood up and began his day doing the cooking, cleaning, and gardening for the Dursleys in his eleven-year-old body. It was just like any other day at the Dursley house had been, boring and uneventful, labouring and uncared for. He managed to figure out the date his dream was taking place in, and it was his tenth birthday. Ironic, because he went to bed on the eve of his twentieth, only to find himself dreaming of this.
And when he went to bed in his cupboard confident that when he woke up in the morning, he'd be waking up to Ginny.