The Dursley's Normal Camping Trip
It was, depending on one's sense of humor, either extraordinarily lucky or spectacularly unlucky that Dudley Dursley's birthday fell on the weekend of a rather peculiar date—the summer solstice. Now, any sensible person with even a passing respect for fairy tales would consider this a flashing neon sign reading "Do Not Enter the Enchanted Forest Unless You Enjoy Becoming Amphibian." Most people, if asked to go tromping into a dark wood on that night of all nights, would politely decline, lock their doors, and avoid anything that even smells like unsupervised magic.
But the Dursleys were not sensible people.
The Dursleys were normal, aggressively so, and therefore immune to common sense when it came wrapped in superstition. And Dudley—well, Dudley was a spoiled menace who had decided that almost-seven was the perfect age to start doing very adult things like camping and punching things that didn't punch back.
The solstice didn't cross their minds. Astrology, after all, was for "weirdos with dyed hair, suspicious earrings, and unresolved daddy issues." Definitely not for respectable, beige-loving, magic-hating citizens like the Dursleys.
And so, with all their loud hatred of the abnormal, they marched straight into the most magical night of the year.
You see, Dudley's latest obsession was a wilderness survival show where the hosts bravely fought off wild animals like tigers and bears—never mind that the most dangerous wildlife Dudley had ever encountered was a mildly aggressive goose at the park. The show was thrilling, and Dudley needed to experience it. Up close. Personally. Preferably with roaring sound effects.
The only snag was that his parents wanted nothing—nothing—to do with actual camping.
Petunia considered camping something only people without ovens did. Why sleep under the stars when she had a color-coordinated bedroom and a mattress she trusted? Vernon, on the other hand, had no interest in any activity that required sweat, physical effort, or being more than thirty steps away from a refrigerator. They reminded Dudley that camping had no television and no actual tigers or bears, and thus would be boring.
Dudley disagreed.
And what Dudley wanted, Dudley got.
Whether the universe liked it or not.
Which is how Harry found himself dragging boxes, blankets, and lumpy bags of supplies into their rented camper—because of course the Dursleys weren't actually camping like "peasants." The camper was a compromise: Dudley would sleep outside in his tent like a rugged adventurer, while Mr. and Mrs. Dursley would remain in the temperature-controlled safety of their glorified house-on-wheels.
Harry privately guessed Dudley would last about… oh, twenty minutes before crawling inside to sleep on the pull-out bed.
As for Harry himself, he didn't know what to feel. On one hand, he'd be doing all the actual work—collecting firewood, setting up both tents, and surviving on whatever scraps he could scavenge. On the other hand… he'd never been anywhere but Privet Drive and the dark, cramped cupboard under the stairs. The idea of sleeping beneath real stars—actual stars—felt almost exciting.
Almost.
They drove for hours. The endless rows of identical houses slowly melted away into towering trees and rolling hills. The campground they arrived at was bright and lively, dotted with tents, crackling campfires, and families laughing together. The air smelled like grilled meat and fresh sap—warm, wild, alive.
Harry was immediately ordered to set up the tent.
Inside the camper, the Dursleys dug into fast-food burgers while Harry wrestled metal poles, canvas, and his own growing frustration. By the time he finally got both tents upright—one respectable, one wobbling like a drunk giraffe—night had fallen.
Harry made his own "bed" outside by layering a few old jackets on the cold ground. Dudley, snoring loudly inside his brand-new tent, sounded like an industrial machine failing a safety inspection.
Harry's entire body itched—from bug bites, weird plants, and the general injustice of existence. He was exhausted, starving, and rapidly discovering that camping was a lot more fun when someone else did the work.
Still… despite everything, when he looked up, the sky stole his breath.
A sea of stars glittered above him—huge and bright and impossibly beautiful. Nothing like the tiny sliver of sky he saw from his cupboard. A cool breeze whispered through the trees, brushing his face with the gentlest touch he'd felt in years.
And then—a shooting star streaked across the sky, blazing like a spark of hope hurled straight from the heavens.
Harry closed his eyes.
And with every scrap of longing in his small, tired body, he wished—really wished—that he would never again have to sleep in that dark, suffocating cupboard under the stairs.
Not ever.