The next day, as expected, the television interview sparked fervent discussions.
A series of fresh reports popped out like toast from a toaster, eagerly waiting to be slathered with butter and jam and devoured by the public. Fred and George's private radio station once again proved invaluable, selecting some of the most interesting news from the morning's clippings to broadcast to those "still young at heart."
After reading a piece titled "Utopian Society: Progress or Regression?", Fred asked his listeners, "Can anyone tell me if 'utopia' is actually an insult? I couldn't figure it out after reading the whole article. This self-proclaimed anthropologist believes wizards are freaks participating in a large-scale social experiment aligned with their ideals, giving me the bizarre feeling of working for nothing. Listen to this: 'When material wealth abounds and individual survival skills are at their peak, human social structures will inevitably shift from rigid to loose, weakening the concept of the nation-state as individuals come together over shared ideals...'"
Naturally, no one responded. After George finished reading an exclusive ad for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Lee Jordan shared with the listeners what he learned about the world outside Britain from his foreign relatives.
"The situation is not optimistic," he said in the latest radio show. "My distant cousin scoffed at my hairstyle; his whole family judges people by their nostrils, which made me uneasy. People like them wouldn't seek refuge with poor relatives or stoop to living under someone else's roof unless absolutely necessary. And I have ample sources to confirm that the number of refugees—politely speaking, travelers—has been increasing."
"Here, I also remind our young listeners, if you happen to have strangers frequenting your home, but your parents insist you're related by blood, convince them to register at the Ministry of Magic and abide by local laws; violators will face hefty fines and an Azkaban experience package—given the number of Death Eaters there, now is not the time to show off your individuality and courage."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione's voices also occasionally appeared on the radio. Ron found joy in this, tirelessly enjoying the spread of his voice and forgetting the real reason he was supposed to return to The Burrow.
"Wedding, Ronald Weasley, your brother's wedding!" Mrs. Weasley glared at him fiercely. "I didn't call you back to laze around."
"Mom, I'm doing something important—they have the right to know," Ron protested loudly.
"Yes, but you also have the right to do household chores," Mrs. Weasley retorted sharply, "Now go clean up the gnomes in the garden; they're getting bolder by the day, soon they'll be climbing on the dining table demanding I change the radio station for them.""This just proves a point," Ron murmured, "you can get tired of listening to the same song over and over."
So, Harry and Ron bent over in the garden, searching the bushes for gnomes, which resembled mutated potatoes and inherited the intellect of their dirt-dwelling ancestors, making this task purely physical labor. Hermione was invited to join Ginny in choosing colors for gifts, ribbons, and flowers, though the flowers hadn't arrived yet. Mrs. Weasley had assigned Fred and George this task.
"You went back to the Dursleys' last night?" Ron asked in surprise in the garden, "Tell me everything!"
"Just to pick up some things," Harry said, his emotions complex. It was challenging to describe the scene when he met the Dursleys after the wizarding world was exposed; it was his first visit back since sending them a letter, and they clearly resented it.
Their resentment fermented over time and exploded upon his arrival. Uncle Vernon, bloated like a spring, yelled and questioned the purpose of the Ministry of Magic casting spells in his house, complaining about not sleeping well for a month. When Harry asked why he didn't clarify this while the Ministry workers were there, Uncle Vernon looked ready to attack.
"It's for your protection. With this measure, your neighbors might remember you have a nephew in boarding school—" Harry paused, expressionless, "but they'll subconsciously ignore my face and name. That's the reason. Virtually all Muggle-born students receive this protection."
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged a look, seemingly resolving a long-held question: why had Harry attended the Queen's tea party without neighborly harassment? They prayed their neighbors were dizzy—though unlikely, as they, like Aunt Petunia, had a keen sense for trending topics and willingly delved into details;
Or perhaps their attention was diverted by that wealthy wizard professor leading them? They had secretly rejoiced over this for some time.
"So...you've decided to come back now? How long will you stay?" Uncle Vernon asked gruffly.
"I'm not here to stay," Harry replied, "I came to
collect my things." Aunt Petunia's frying pan dropped, denting her favorite wooden floor. Dudley, on summer break, scowled, pondering why Harry would pack up as soon as he arrived.
Harry almost heard Dudley's rusty brain creaking. He tried not to look at him; if anyone in this family had shown him a hint of novelty over the years, it was Dudley's slight interest in magic.
Uncle Vernon suddenly leaped up, startling everyone. He paced the living room, occasionally scrutinizing Harry with a look that made one wonder if he'd mastered Legilimency.
"Anything else?" Harry asked impatiently, ready to leave.
"Don't rush off; I have questions!" Uncle Vernon said. Harry paused, but Uncle Vernon hesitated, his face changing colors, fascinating Harry. Finally, before suffocating himself, he blurted out, "Is there going to be a war?"
"Vernon—" Aunt Petunia shrieked.
"Shut up, Petunia," he barked. His face turned puce.
Harry stared at him, unable to comprehend Uncle Vernon's thought process despite their eleven years together and several shared summers.
"Why would you think that?"
"Why else would you suddenly decide to move?" Uncle Vernon said, his small eyes gleaming shrewdly, "You must have heard something in advance, right? Negotiations are going badly— it's all over the newspapers, I should have realized." He pounded his fist, his expression tormented.
"Kid, we're your relatives; you can't run off alone!"
"You're wrong; it's not for that reason," Harry stated stiffly.
"Then why?!"
"I'm of age," Harry said, feeling a weight lift off his chest, "I'm of age," he repeated, his voice rising slightly, "so I'm moving out. You won't have to worry about me showing up and causing talk. Just bear the occasional owl-delivered card on days like Christmas..."
An eerie silence fell over the room.
"Alright," Uncle Vernon muttered after a while, "if that's the reason—"
"Wait, you're not of age yet," Aunt Petunia interjected with the shrewdness of a seasoned bargainer, "you're still a few days short."
"It doesn't matter anymore," Harry said.
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