The air inside Number 4, Privet Drive felt as thick as set concrete, clogging Harry Potter’s throat.
Three in the morning, and he was awake again.
That burst of green light was seared into his retinas like a brand, and Cedric’s blank, lifeless eyes seemed to sway in the shadows of the ceiling.
Harry sat bolt upright, cold sweat soaking through his T-shirt and clinging to his back like a layer of shed snakeskin he couldn’t shake off.
He didn’t scream.
He had learned to bite down on his tongue during the worst of his nightmares, because Uncle Vernon’s bellowing was far more immediate—and far more grating—than Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse.
Barefoot, Harry crossed the floor to the window.
Hedwig let out an irritable click from her cage, her own protest against this prison.
A small pile of parchment sat on the desk.
Letters from Ron and Hermione.
*Don’t do anything rash.* *Please stay put.* *Albus Dumbledore is doing this for your own good.* *We can’t say too much because the letters might be intercepted.* Staring at the parchment, Harry felt a sudden wave of nausea.
For his own good?
Locking him in a Muggle cupboard like a dangerous weapon, cutting him off from all news, leaving him alone to drown in the memories of that graveyard—was *that* “for his own good”?
He felt like a fish thrown onto dry land, gasping futilely for breath in the arid air.
The Order of the Phoenix had abandoned him; Dumbledore had shut him out.
Those adults honestly believed that by locking him away, he would revert to the docile little boy who simply waited around for the first of September to roll around each year.
Except he wasn’t that boy anymore.
He had already died once in that graveyard.
“I can’t stay here,” Harry muttered hoarsely to the moon beyond the glass.
“If I stay, I’ll go mad.” Run away?
Where?
The Burrow?
Mrs.
Weasley would smother him with hugs and keep him locked up just the same.
Sirius’s place?
He didn’t even know where it was.
Diagon Alley?
The moment he stepped past Privet Drive, Dumbledore’s people would haul him back like an escaped convict.
The entire British wizarding world was a net.
He needed a gap in the mesh—a blind spot no one would ever suspect, one with no ties to Dumbledore and none to Voldemort.
Harry’s gaze drifted aimlessly across the cluttered room before settling on an old photograph tucked beneath *A Guide to Broomstick Care*.
It was a clipping from the Triwizard Tournament.
In the corner of the frame was the back of a girl with long, silvery-blonde hair.
Fleur Delacour.
The French girl who always held her chin high and complained about the heavy Hogwarts food.
The older sister of Gabrielle, whom he had pulled from the depths of the Black Lake.
The witch who had kissed his cheeks when parting and said, *”If you ever come to France, you are always welcome.”* A wild, absurd, almost impossible thought exploded in Harry’s mind.
She wasn’t in the Order of the Phoenix.
She wasn’t under Dumbledore’s thumb.
She didn’t even like Britain.
Most importantly, she owed him a life—if you counted that foolish second task.
It was a desperate gamble, as reckless as diving for the Golden Snitch when down a hundred and sixty points in a Quidditch match.
But recklessness was all Harry had left.
He grabbed a fresh piece of parchment.
His quill shook, leaving ink splatters on the page.
He couldn’t write politely; he couldn’t write like an ordinary pen pal.
His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
*Dear Fleur,* *I know this is sudden.
I know we barely know each other.* *But I’m drowning.
The air here is choking me.* *You said I’d be welcome in France.
If that was just polite talk, ignore this letter.* *If you meant it…* *Save me.* *Take me away.
Anywhere.
Just not here.* *Harry* Even after he finished, Harry felt like an utter idiot.
She was the belle of Beauxbatons, freshly graduated, probably busy landing a glamorous position at the French Ministry of Magic or dating some handsome wizard.
Why would she care about a fifteen-year-old Savior burdened with trouble and watched around the clock?
“Hedwig.” Harry opened the cage.
The snowy owl hopped onto his shoulder, affectionately nibbling his ear.
“This might be our longest flight yet, girl.” Harry tied the parchment to her leg, his movements as delicate as handling spun glass, though his eyes burned with fierce resolve.
“Don’t let anyone intercept you.
No one gets this letter except Fleur Delacour.” “If she doesn’t write back…” Harry paused, staring into the pitch-black night.
“Don’t come back.
Find a place in the wild to live.
It’s too dangerous around me.” Hedwig gave a soft, indignant hoot, as if reprimanding his defeatist talk.
Spreading her wings, she glided silently into the night sky, vanishing in an instant between the uniform rooftops of Privet Drive.
The next three days were pure hell.
Harry barely ate.
He paced the room like a ghost, checking the window every ten minutes.
Every time a dark speck appeared against the sky, his heart hammered against his ribs, only to turn out to be a passing sparrow or a common owl.
What if Fleur handed the letter to Dumbledore?
What if she sold it to the Daily Prophet?
*Savior Suffers Mental Breakdown, Pleads for Help from Foreign Witch*?
What if she simply didn’t care?
On the fourth evening, the setting sun dyed Privet Drive a sickening, bloody crimson.
Downstairs, Uncle Vernon was roaring at the television.
Harry lay on his bed, despair slowly consuming him inch by inch.
*It was a stupid gamble,* he thought.
*I’m an idiot.
To think I actually counted on a girl I’ve only spoken to a few times—* *Tap, tap, tap.* A faint scratching sound.
Harry bolted upright and rushed to the window.
Hedwig was exhausted, her feathers disheveled, looking as though she had flown through a tempest.
But clutched in her talons was a long, narrow package wrapped in brown paper.
With trembling hands, Harry untied the parcel.
There was no letter—only a scrap torn from a perfume advertisement.
Written across it in elegant, looping script was a single line of English.
The ink was barely dry, giving off the faint, delicate fragrance of magnolias.
*”Tonight at ten.
Bite it.
Count to three.”* *— F.D.* Harry tore open the brown paper.
Inside was a French baguette, hard as a rock and probably three days old.
Staring at the loaf of bread, Harry burst out laughing.
The laughter grew louder and louder until it gave way to a violent coughing fit, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.
He gripped the baguette as if it were a lifeline, a key to his freedom.
He glanced at the wall clock.
9:58 PM.
Harry didn’t pack his trunk.
He shoved the Invisibility Cloak into his robes, grabbed his Firebolt, took the Marauder’s Map, and tucked his holly wand into his waistband.
Beyond that, he took nothing.
The textbooks, the cauldrons, everything that belonged to “Harry Potter, Hogwarts Student,” he left scattered across the floor.
10:00 PM on the dot.
Standing in the center of the empty bedroom, Harry bit down hard on the rock-solid baguette.
“One.” *Goodbye, Privet Drive.* “Two.” *Goodbye, Albus Dumbledore.* “Three.” A familiar, violent jerk pulled from behind his navel.
Number 4, Privet Drive twisted, spun, and vanished before his eyes.
This time, he didn’t look back.