As Harry stared upon the ruins of number 4 Privet Drive a sudden feeling of loss overcame him. He had always thought that he would be glad to see the back of his childhood prison, but now that it had actually been reduced to no more than ash, an unwelcome feeling of mourning had gathered in the pit of his stomach.
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He had never liked Privet Drive but it had been a major stepping stone in his life. And although he had not known it, number 4 Privet Drive had been the only place he was truly safe from Voldemort's reign of terror and now he no longer had to live with the Dursley's he could appreciate that (Well sort of…).
He knew he shouldn't be surprised that DeathEaters had burned the house to the ground. After all he Harry Potter, The boy who lived, The Chosen one had lived here. But this place, it had always seemed like magic wouldn't touch it, couldn't touch… could it? At least that's how he had always felt. Magic was forbidden here.
This place had always been separate from his world. Yet here was the only place he had been just Harry. Not Harry Potter The boy who lived, simply Harry that weird boy, who lived with the Dursley's. Sure it wasn't always great- scratch that it was never great but here the weight of the wizarding world didn't rest on his shoulders. Here before Hogwarts before the war he had been a boy who just didn't quite just fit in.
Sometimes when he was really down and generally pissed off at the Ministry, The Prophet and- well you get the idea, sometimes he wished he could go back to the days when Dudley was his biggest problem.
It felt silly really to miss the house when he had hated living there but part of him did. It was really very silly but he did…