Harry

Harry Potter was seventeen years old and, for as long as he could remember, he had lived with the Dursleys; he had never really belonged.

His aunt Marge and uncle Vernon treated him more like a servant than a member of their family. Meanwhile, their son Dudley was pampered and spoiled all day long. Everything he wanted was given to him without him having to ask.

You were also their daughter. Unlike Harry, your parents at least paid you some attention, even if it was very different from the affection they had for Dudley.

That morning, Harry was sitting under the stairs, in the small room that served as his bedroom. The silence was pleasant, until your uncle's booming voice echoed throughout the house.

— Hey, Potter! Come here!

Harry sighed quietly before getting up.

— Yes, Uncle Vernon.

He went into the living room where Vernon was waiting for him, arms crossed and looking stern. Marge, comfortably settled in her armchair, nodded towards the family's shoes.

— Go wash the shoes.

Harry did not protest. He knew perfectly well what would happen when he dared to answer back.

— Yes, Aunt Marge.

He picked up the shoes one by one and went outside. For several long minutes, he scrubbed them until they were perfectly clean, while the Dursleys calmly went about their day without even paying him any attention.