A/N: A story materialises:
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Wizengamot Ratifies Educational Decree Six
Education for wizards and witches raised to seventeen.
By Rita Skeeter.
January 21st, 1982.
The Wizengamot voted to raise the minimum age for magical education from 11 to 17 last night with a majority of 57 in favour to 13 against. The educational decree implements a controversial measure to conserve magical education until wizards and witches have reached the age of majority.
The Wizengamot presided over the decision to enact the decree after the minister's quick use of both the Commons and Lords stamps in their capacity as a 'sober thought'.
The decree responds to public campaigning to return education to a mode more common before the Wizard's Council rose to power in the thirteenth century, when magical knowledge was entrusted to those who had already completed years of mundane studies.
Responding to questions that the quick decree stamping is a response to shore up her position in the face of increasing pressure from the ICW after the many statute breaches following last year's fall of You-Know-Who, Minister Bagnold said:
"I reassert our inalienable right to party. If the ICW wants to take my hat then they can eat it. This decree represents the collective will of British wizards and witches."
Asked about the ratification of the decree and the Chief Warlock's decision not to call for serendipity, after an opposing vote of thirteen, the minister continued,
"The wumps each gave a great accounting of themselves but ultimately proponent Malfoy was able to prove to his wizengamot colleagues that this was the mandate of the wizards and witches of this great country. It's been eighty years since we last saw a malignancy and it'll all turn out to be one big augurey call, mark my words."
When pressed for commentary Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore's junior aide, Ignatius Pratt, had this to say,
"Professor Dumbledore has no comment at this time. Why are you writing my name? Why are writing that? Stop that."
Speaking in the chamber after the Diaspora, victor Abraxas Malfoy humbly minimised his own role in the proceedings, setting out the reasons for his impassioned championing of the new decree.
"Today's verdict was a victory for British wizards and witches, and an argument of such importance that I had to get into the duelling circle myself. My opponent, Ben Drake, may have argued admirably but I . . ." Article cont'd pg. 4.
Wednesday 4th September, 1991.
JP was sat at the back of his form room, rocking back on two legs of a dirty, plastic chair. He was listening disinterestedly to the conversation between two of his oldest friends from St. Mary's primary school who were talking about their summer adventures.
He looked around at the filling classroom. There was a slightly uneven split of girls and boys at the moment which made JP tut. Although he wasn't particularly interested in girls yet, he liked that he was the only one brave enough to ask the pretty ones out. He got a lot of rep from his friends for the number of girlfriends he'd had.
Everyone was dressed in new Stonewall High uniforms, grey cotton jumpers and grey cotton trousers with a white shirt and navy blue tie. JP had never had to wear a tie before and found it quite uncomfortable - and looking at a number of the other boys rubbing their necks and tugging their ties he could tell he was not the only one who thought so.
The class of thirty was pretty much full now with only three or four chairs empty and it had been a couple of minutes since a kid had walked through the door. Looking toward the front of the class he could see his – no, Mr. Mottershead had noticed the same thing. He was shuffling the papers on his desk, something he only did when he was waiting to begin. For a second he caught JP's eye before looking away sharply.
"And it was really gruesome! There was blood everywhere!" said Tim. JP's head swivelled owlishly toward his friend Tim.
"What did?" He said.
"The guy who was cliff jumping. Yeah, it was really gruesome, they had to hair lift him out the sea because he was so hurt and then mum said we couldn't do it anymore which was a bit stupid if you ask me because me and Baz had already done it twice before and we were fine." said Tim.
"Wait, hair lift? Baz?" said JP.
"Yeah, it's where they lift you up by an air ambulance, they have to put this big red box around your hair first before they can pull you up. Yeah, and Baz, my friend from Butlins. Weren't you listening?" Tim frowned at him.
With avowals that he had, in fact, been listening JP turned back and made more effort to respond to Tim and Steve's conversation. As such, he didn't notice the new student that had walked in until a hush settled on the class as it quieted to watch the teacher tell off the late student.
"Harry, sir. Harry Potter," piped the boy in response to some unheard question. His voice was high and quite quiet and JP gave him a quick look over. Although it was obvious he was fairly small, his outfit made it difficult to be sure exactly.
He was wearing the most unusual grey jumper JP had ever seen, twice as wide as he was tall and folded like a rhino's skin. It looked as coarse as steel wool and was completely plain, lacking the Stonewall High badge or the stitching down the sides and extending down past his hips to mid-thigh. His trousers were almost as bad, the hem stuck under the heel of his shoe and caked in mud. They were the same scratchy grey, and he'd later observe that Harry had to tug them up at the waist with a free hand whenever he took more than a few steps. The jumper hid any sight of a tie, but in keeping with the rest of his outfit a large white collar extended up almost to his jaw.
A small head with messy black hair and horn-rimmed glasses completed the image and was currently looking timidly down at the ground while he was addressed by Mr. Mottershead.
"O.K. Harry, a pleasure to meet you. Now, again, why are you late?" he said.
"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't find the school bus stop so I had to get a public bus and erm, and it was, there was traffic and it got here late." said Harry.
"Harry, you realise that Stonewall High has a school uniform and rules regarding lateness, don't you? Do you think these rules don't apply to you?" Mr Mottershead stared down at Harry from behind his desk but Harry was resolutely focused on his shoes. "I'm expecting an answer, Harry." he said.
"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir, but -" said Harry.
"But what, exactly?" he said. JP was in the right position to see Harry glance furtively at the class, most of whom were watching the spectacle avidly. After a few moments Harry spoke slowly, as if the words were being dragged from him by force.
"My aunt says that my cousin's old clo-"
"Enough, Harry. Go and take the seat over here at the front, please" said Mr. Mottershead. Harry obliged, and the class resumed normal chatter. JP, however, was watching the teacher's face whose eyebrows were furrowed in that way they got when he was watching a murder mystery. He wondered what he was piecing together.
It wasn't long before Mr. Mottershead rose to stand in front of the white board. He clapped his hands a couple of times to get their attention before diving into his speech.
"Seven MH, welcome to Stonewall High. I am Mr. Mottershead and I am your form teacher, as I'm sure you remember from your taster day. Now. . ." He carried on, explaining the do's and don'ts and what they'd be doing in their first week at the school. When he was finished he invited them to go to assembly.
There was a clatter of chairs and a sudden swell in the volume of chatter as students forced their way out the door in a big press. JP was near the back of the line and he followed them out into the darkness of the block corridor. He'd just turned left to go down the stairs when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mr. Mottershead in the empty corridor.
"What's up, Dad?" asked JP.
"Jon-Paul, please. At school it's Mr. Mottershead. We've discussed this, I'm taking your set for English and we don't want other students thinking you get preferential treatment."
"Sorry, Dad. No, I'm just joking, I will. Don't worry. Is that everything, can I get going now? I'm losing everyone."
"No, that's not everything. I want you to do something for me Jon-Paul, did you see Harry Potter? The little boy in the big uniform?" said his Dad.
"Yeah, what about him?" said JP.
"I want you to try and include him, get to know him, see if he's someone you'd like."
"Awwww. Mr. Mottershead, he looks like someone who smells." He wrinkled his nose here before continuing "And you said how important it is for me to make friends in my first week here."
"Jon-Paul, you are one of the most cocksure, chatty year sevens I've ever known. That won't be a problem and I'll really appreciate you doing this. Maybe I could even convince your mother to cook something that doesn't involve pasta." He winked at his son who laughed.
"Fine, but why are you so interested anyway?" asked JP.
"I'll tell you at home, now come-on you're going to be late for your first assembly and I'd hate to disappoint the headmaster." he said. He took a step forward and then stopped again, "Oh, and Jon-Paul, the things your mother and I say about the headmaster at home, they're not to be repeated, okay?" JP nodded and they took another step on. "Ever." Mr. Mottershead said. John-Paul laughed and they walked quickly, off to assembly.
Monday 2nd August, 1993:
"Vernon!"
"Marge," Vernon grunted. Marge looked at her brother, his big purple face and impeccable moustache twitching as he blustered through a greeting. She offered him each cheek and he gave her a couple of perfunctory pecks.
"Take this and make yourself useful, Vernon," said Marge then shoved her suitcase into her brother's gut. Marjorie made a quick tutting sound and scooped up Ripper who'd been conducting his business against the wall of the station. They exchanged wet little kisses while Vernon hauled her luggage to the trunk of his grey saloon.
It took a quarter of an hour to drive from Staines to Little Whinging and most of the trip was spent in silence. Marge and Vernon had never been the closest of siblings. Marge had always thought that Vernon, as the second child, had been coddled by their parents and he for his part had never quite forgiven her for using their parent's estate to finance her bulldog breeding. That was the problem with Vernon, he lacked the sort of moral fortitude that you found in great men, like Colonel Fubster (Colonel Fubster dealt with things as they were! Not as he wished them to be. He was not the type to take something lying down, oh no!). Vernon was coddled, irresolute and pliant in the face of difficulty. Middle management sort through and through.
As they traveled down Magnolia Crescent and turned onto Privet Drive Marge raked her eyes over the orderly hedges and beige brick houses. Marge sniffed. Marge was vocal about the benefits of country life but if she were forced to live in urban squalor Little Whinging would be as close to her minimum standard as one was likely to find.
They pulled up on the drive and Marge allowed Vernon to open her door and fetch her luggage. She walked to the door and waited for Vernon, but before he could get there the door was pulled open by a scrawny boy with messy black hair.
"Where's my Dudders? Where's my neffy poo?" Cooed Marge. Dudley appeared from further down the hallway. He was dressed in a pale shirt with blue squares all over it and a small multicoloured dicky-bow. His wet hair had been combed to one side with a neat side parting. He smiled a small, shy smile up at her and Marge swooped down on him with a kiss. She stood and gave the little cherub a fresh note like usual, her brother and sister-in-law were entirely too miserly with their young son.
She stepped past her nephew and exchanged kisses with Petunia. She stood a head taller than Petunia and looked down on her straw coloured hair and floral blouse. Petunia had always been a presentable woman with unsavoury connections - her parents eccentric, her sister a hippy deadbeat. Marge had always been a smidge concerned that beneath the respectable veneer there lay some hereditary populist stain or baseness that would tarnish her brother and nephew. Petunia knew this, Marge had never been afraid to share her thoughts.
Vernon came in behind them and they went for tea and fruitcake. They spent a while discussing the farm and her bulldogs, Colonel Fubster and Grunnings. They were back to discussing Colonel Fubster when the fourth occupant of the house came sauntering in.
He was a small child still, but he'd grown noticeably in the three years since she'd last seen him. Messy, unkempt black hair and horn rimmed glasses were at odds with a relatively new royal blue jumper and matching jeans.
Marge was aware from holiday messages over the last few years that the boy had somehow drawn the social services into her brother's life. Monthly visits had done their bit to alter the dynamic in the house and the boy's smarmy face showed that he knew it.
"So!" she barked from her place at the table. "Still here, are you?" Ripper had begun growling at the boy as he sat, rudely ignoring that Vernon and Petunia were still standing.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Don't look at the table, boy, meet my eyes when I'm talking to you. (You mustn't let him throw his weight around, Vernon, it gives him ideas). It was damn good of Vernon and Petunia to take you in, boy. Wouldn't have done it myself, you'd have been gone long before you had a chance to start mongering malicious lies. It wouldn't kill you to express some gratitude."
The boy looked up into her eyes and his face twisted into a broad smirk that made Marge shoot upright in her chair, her bottom lip and chin twitching.
"Don't you smirk at me!" she boomed. "I can see you've hardly improved since I last saw you. I had hoped school would knock some manners into you. Where do you send him again, Vernon?" She took the opportunity to take a big mouthful of cake.
"Stonewall High," said Vernon. "It's the local comprehensive."
"I see," said Marge. She took a moment to glug down a mouthful of tea. "And do they use the cane at Stonewall High?"
"Erm, no, Aunt Marge. I think that's illegal now," said the boy.
"Such namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a good thrashing is what's needed. It's certainly what you'd deserve boy, if you go about speaking to your teachers and your betters in that tone. I imagine they're sub-par educators there. Of course, it's all wasted effort on you. Is he an under-achiever Vernon, did he fail his eleven-plus?" Marge turned, ignoring the boy completely.
"Well, Stonewall is hardly Smeltings, but that being said." Vernon paused and leaned back, almost bracing himself against the kitchen countertop. His tongue schlurped across his teeth and he let out a little hiss, like a kettle on the boil. "That being said, his performance there is not completely terrible. Hard working, aren't you, boy? We're just pleased he's not displaying the same . . . disorderliness his parents did, Marge."
The boy in question grimaced and failed to hide an angry frown from his uncle.
"Still, for all our hard work, he's an ungrateful, spiteful boy at times. We've enrolled him in the Air Cadets this summer, Marge, with hope they can instill some discipline in him." he said.
"Well, you've done what you can Vernon but with the best will in the world, bad blood will out. Only time will tell with this one. Personally, I think there's entirely too much Potter in him and not enough Evans," said Marge. Petunia let a sniff out at that and the boy turned his head away so that Marge couldn't see his face.
"May I be excused, Uncle Vernon. I've still got a lot of summer work to do," he said. Vernon grunted and the boy disappeared in a flash of black hair, the sounds of him stomping up the stairs coming through the roof. Petunia tutted and Marge harrumphed.
Vernon turned the topic to the escaped prisoner who'd dominated the news that morning and the family and Marge followed Dudley into the front room to spend the night discussing the merits of capital and corporal punishment.
Aunt Marge spent the next week making herself at home. She did what she could to make herself useful, directing Petunia around the household and offering an educated perspective to the work Vernon brought home with him.
She also did her best to spoil Dudley, to encourage him to enjoy his childhood while he could and found herself quite comfortable at the Dursleys, but for one exception: Harry Potter. Petunia's nephew was quite simply the most ignorant young child she had ever known. Squirrelled away in his bedroom 'doing homework' he attempted to avoid her at every opportunity.
Marge tried to provide him with some oversight, getting Ripper to chase him downstairs and out the house but as the week passed she found herself becoming more and more irritated by his snark and by the Dursley's inexplicable permissiveness.
Before long, it was Saturday and her final night with her brother's family. Petunia had thrown everything she had into a fancy dinner of soup, salmon and lemon meringues with a little cream.
Vernon prattled on discussing Grunnings and some timeshare he'd been turned onto in the orkneys ('Beautiful Scenery, Marge! Beautiful scenery!'). Marge nodded, and umpahed in the right parts but the otherwise pleasant ambience was marred, spoiled by the dark-haired boy sat on the far end of the table.
Head down, his dark, green eyes fluttered around the table as they spoke - judging them. His contempt and arrogance were increasingly apparent as they moved from coffee to brandy.
Petunia was still sipping her coffee and Dudley, the little cherub, was intent on a second helping of meringue.
"I do like to see a healthy sized boy, Petunia." said Marge, "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, a spot more, a little more. Thank you. What was I saying?" On the far end of the table Marge saw the boy smirking behind his hand, at herself or Dudley she didn't know. The fire that she had been tending this last week flared up with a burning intensity.
"Now this one -" spat Marge.
"Marge -" said Petunia, quietly.
"No, no. It needs to be said if he's to get any sense of his place, dear. I've seen it before on the farm. He's got a mean, runty look about it. It happens sometimes, bad blood will out.
"Now I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia dear-" She patted Petunia's hand a couple of times reassuringly, to ease her pinched expression, "but your sister was a bad egg. Happens in the best of families! Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result in front of us." The boy was staring intently at the patterned tablecloth, his jaw clenched. Marge felt a streak of satisfaction.
"This Potter," said Marge, pouring herself a little more brandy, "you never told me what he did?"
Vernon spluttered for a moment, obviously uncomfortable with the topic - the man had no presence, not like Colonel Fubster - and the rest of the table was tense waiting for an answer to the taboo question.
"He - didn't work," said Vernon.
"As I expected." Marge took a moment to savour her brandy. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who took his earnings from the charity and the pity of other, more sensible folk." The boy was shaking, white in the face and Marge swooped in for the kill.
"Go on, boy. Something to say? Proud of your parents are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash, drunk I expect, and leave you to be a burden on decent folk. Like father, like son! You are insolent! You are ungrateful! You are a little-!"
"MARJORIE!" Vernon smashed his hand down on the table, propelling himself to feet. "You are distressing my wife. You will stop this. Stop it! Harry, your room, go to your room now!" The boy was gone before Vernon had finished speaking, dodging Ripper who had joined the noise and was jumping at the patio door, barking madly.
The boy gone, Vernon sat and a tenseness settled on the room. Even Dudders was hunched and doing his best not to meet anyone's eyes. Petunia stood and started clearing the plates and Vernon stood to help her, while Ripper settled into a deep growl.
"What's Ripper doing, Aunt Marge?" asked Dudley in an attempt at diplomacy while his parents bustled around the kitchen silently.
"I imagine he's sensed a neighbour's dog. He never likes dogs that are bigger than him, the little fusspot," said Marge, brusquely.
"Our neighbours don't have any dogs," said Dudley.
Marge turned to look through the screen door and saw bright amber eyes fading into the hedge at the bottom of the garden. Unsettled, she swept Ripper up onto her lap and fussed him.
Marge left the next morning and didn't visit again for quite a long time.
Saturday June 15th, 1996:
"Book down, Harry. We're almost there. Tim. Tim! Wake up you big brick." Liam elbowed the large teen in his ribs but got little response. Tim was sound asleep, head bouncing on the rumbling carriage window. He looked back over toward Harry who was digging around his sports bag trying to fit the thick book back in. "Seriously, you'd think I'd accidentally gotten on an OAP tour bus, the way you two have been behaving. We're in Manchester, boys, it's about livin' it large! They don't even check for I.D here. Oh for f- Tim!"
"I am sorry, Liam. It's almost as if we're taking a jaunt to Manchester in the middle of our GCSEs, isn't it? Oh, wait," said Harry. He looked up at Liam sternly, but a smile took any sting out of his words.
"It's study leave, innit, you're into all that Forces bullshit. You should know what leave is. Anyway, it's hardly the middle, we've got what? D&T and English Lit? That's nothing." said Liam.
"Believe it or not Lee, I actually quite like English, I need to do well if Ms. Ridgeway's going to let me into her A-level class," said Harry.
"Eh, you'll be fine Harry, you're a smart bloke. And, when have I ever led you astray?"
"Well, there was time you said camping was the place to pull women, and it was all old couples and ramblers," said Tim.
"Ah, awake now are you? Great. Cheers. And it was obvious I meant festivals, I don't normally go camping with ramblers like a numpty," said Liam.
"How about the time you said you knew a guy who knew a guy who gave out box tickets for the gunners for cheap?" Asked Harry.
"Demand exceeded supply. Geez, let he who is without sin and all that." Tim and Harry laughed and Liam took the opportunity to look out the window as they travelled through the centre of Manchester. The majority of the buildings seemed red brick and industrial and the grey sky lent the whole place an atmosphere of abandonment. It was quite depressing.
Catching his reflection in the window, he looked at his blondey-brown hair and tried to push his fringe back up.
"Alright nobheads, I can see our platform, shall we go stand by the door?" Said Liam. Shouldering their bags the three of them worked their way down the aisle to the door, swaying and stumbling as the train came to a stop. Door opening, they stepped out into a swirling mass of people of all colours and shapes jostling and barging their way around them. Disorientated, and a bit lost under the enormity of the high vaulted station Liam pulled the others off a bit looking for a place where he could get his bearings.
"Tim! Tim, you lanky prick!" Came a faint voice. Over the top of various heads Liam saw a hand waggling back and forth furiously in the distance, beckoning them over. The trio made their way through the ticket barriers and their faces broke into broad smiles as they caught sight of their old friend.
"Mamma mia, it's the freakina pope-a," said Liam.
"That gets funnier every time you do it, Liam. Harry. Tim." Amid a round of back slapping and howdy doos Liam stood back to look at how his friend had changed over the last year. He'd gained a couple of inches over Liam but was still short of Tim's 6' 4" and the gain was most noticeable when he stood next to Harry, the smallest of their group.
The permatan of JP's Italian skin contrasted against Harry's paleness and his immaculate appearance against Harry's general scruffiness and wild hair, and it was with a bit of surprise Liam noticed that where once Harry had been skinny he now had the lean but relatively muscular body of a decent sprinter. When had Liam become the butters of the group?
Harry turned to Liam having noticed his looking and Liam turned away from the unsettling vividness of Harry's green eyes. They didn't look bloody real.
"What's up?" Asked Harry.
"Nothing, don't matter. JP what are we doing about food? I'm starving," said Liam.
"My Dad gave me fifty quid just for food this weekend, pretty generous, so I was thinking some KFC now and then maybe Marks & Sparks for some nice nosh tomorrow and the day after. Have you guys got a decent amount of money for this weekend? Harry, is your Uncle still a twat?" said JP.
"No he's been all right about this, he gave me a bit of money so I wouldn't be a burden on your Mum and Dad. I didn't tell him they weren't here this weekend." said Harry. He raised a hand to ruffle the back of his hair, uncomfortable. Even though they all knew about Harry's home life Liam knew that he didn't like the pity that came with talking about it. "My Uncle just follows my Aunt's lead and they've been getting better year on year. It's not as bad as it used to be."
Taking the hint Liam and the others turned the conversation to more pleasant topics – girls and cars and girls on top of cars as they made their way up the high street. They got some fried chicken and then continued up towards Mark's and Spencer's.
"So," said JP, awkwardly, "Where's Steve? I spoke to him on Tuesday and he said he was coming still."
"Yeah, I'm not sure, it's sad really," said Harry, "He's not been hanging out with us that much since you left, he mainly hangs around with Aidan and that lot. What's going on here?"
They had quite suddenly found themselves on the back end of a dense crowd and couldn't move any further. It filled the entire width of the high street and seemed to extend a way ahead of them.
"Tim, can you see what's going on?" Asked JP. Tim shook his head in reply. "Harry do you reckon you can squeeze up there and see what's going on?" Harry shrugged, but made his way forward into the crowd and was quickly lost to Liam's sight.
"Street performer, maybe?" Said Tim.
"No, probably not, they're lucky if they get two people. It'd have to be Oasis themselves to get a crowd like this," said JP.
They waited a few minutes before Liam could pick out Harry returning, shoving and leaping through gaps to make his way back. His green eyes were wide, and he was looking Liam dead in the eye mouthing something.
"What's he sayi- urgh"
The world suddenly slipped out of view, taking the crowd and the high street with it, as the sky jumped down to make a new horizon. The cobbled pavement joined in too, slipping out from beneath his feet to leap up viciously and strike Liam once, then twice in the face. All the air left him a great rush and then he realised a great pressure that had been squeezing every part of him was suddenly gone, and the echoes of a great roar were rebounding off the walls around him.
There was a moment of silence before the noise of voices, screams, children crying began. The volume was shocking against the pulsing in Liam's head, and he pushed himself up off the cobbles unsteadily. His ear was throbbing and his cheek was sore. He felt a wetness trickling down over his eyebrow and reached up to find hot, sticky blood.
He looked around and saw Tim lying on his back looking up at the sky, he blinked and it was obvious he was OK. JP was already stood up and looking around. Fully half the crowd was back on their feet now, but Liam couldn't spot Harry.
"Where's Harry?" he croaked, barely louder than a whisper. He swallowed and tried again. "Where's Harry?!" His voice came stronger now and he felt more steady on his feet.
"I'm behind you." said Harry, who then stepped quickly in front of him. "Is everyone OK?" Harry himself looked the most composed of all them. There was just a little blood down his top and at the bottom of his face.
"What happened?" Said JP.
"There was a bomb in a white van, but the police were dealing with it. I don't know what happened. I was facing the wrong way and went nose first into the cobbles," said Harry.
Looking toward where Harry was pointing Liam could see a plume of acrid black smoke rising into the sky. The faces of the shops immediately next to the blast were completely wrecked and even from here Liam could see fragments of glass and brick lining the street.
"What's the matter with Tim?" Harry pointed out. Liam turned back to see Tim was still on his back but had now begun to shiver as if very cold.
"Oh shit. Liam, JP give me your jackets," said Harry. Both of them followed his orders and watched as Harry raised Tim's legs onto his knee and wrapped them in their jackets.
Paramedics and Police flooded in before too long, and eventually Tim and the other three were taken to a nearby hospital to be checked over. It took a number of hours before they were seen to and by then Liam was quite bored of the entire thing. He was the last of the group to be taken into a booth and was tired and grumpy.
The doctor, a tall man with glasses and a little bald on top, instructed him to jump up on a bed. He introduced himself as Kevin Mackway-Jones, and began with a few standard questions before Liam interrupted him.
"I don't understand, doctor. The paramedics checked me for concussion and said I was fine. And I feel fine, can you not just sign me off?" The doctor protested otherwise, citing pressure waves and pleura and other inscrutable things. He assured Liam it wouldn't take very long at all. An hour later, he was free to leave with a clean bill of health.
Outside the door Harry was leaning against a wall, waiting for him.
"Everything O.K with you?"
"Yeah, I've got to go into my local A&E if I feel dizzy or anything, but I should be fine. You?" Asked Liam.
"They said I had a 'remarkable constitution or incredible luck' as, apart from my nose, I was completely fine. Tim's parents have taken him home, they were a bit worried. JP is just meeting his folks because they're pulling in now but he said he won't leave till we're gone and there was a phone call from your dad to say he's almost here."
"What are you doing, Harry?"
"I was going catch a train, but your dad asked me the same thing and said he'd take me back. He was quite insistent," said Harry.
"Good. Good," said Liam.
They went and sat down in the waiting area. After a little while JP and his parents came and joined them and they made polite conversation on and off until just after midnight, Mr. Mottershead interested to know how his two former students were getting along. When Liam's dad arrived he was enthusiastically thankful to everyone involved and fussed over his son, which embarrassed him quite a lot. However, it didn't last long as they had to get off back down to Surrey.
Liam's dad mostly drove in silence and Liam spent a lot of the trip staring out at the motorway lights, watching the shadows through the window as they shrunk, diminished then flicked back with each light. On the other side of the car Harry was doing something similar, staring darkly into the shadows of his footwell.
As they entered Surrey, Liam's dad spoke,
"Almost home safe now, boys. All this IRA business is awful. Terrorism, boys. You can't fight fear," he said.
"I disagree," said Harry, quietly.
"What was that?" His Dad quizzed. Harry continued to stare at something only he could see, and Liam said nothing.
Saturday July 19th, 1997.
Harry opened his eyes and saw the flaky white ceiling of his bedroom. He looked at his chirping alarm clock. He pressed snooze.
Harry opened his eyes and saw the ugly green paint of his bedroom wall. He looked at his chirping alarm clock. He pressed snooze.
Harry opened his eyes and saw his pillow. His face was nestled deep and as he groaned and pulled his head out he became aware of the stickiness of drool, clinging to his cheek. He turned and sat up against his headboard. Switching off the alarm clock he yawned then yawned again before glaring fuzzily at the cupboard opposite his bed, daring it to try something. He stretched and shook each leg, flexed his left shoulder, then his right and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Existential check complete, he slid out of bed and made his way to the toilet. Considering the hour, his aim wasn't too bad and he got it in on the second try. The window above the cistern was ajar and through it Harry heard the sound of lawn mowers and smelled cut grass and something he couldn't identify. The sun found its way inside as well and its rays warmed his face as he turned to greet it. Harry smiled at the quintessential little slice of suburban England. Through the wall to his right he heard Dudley let rip a cracking fart and the illusion was broken.
He washed his hands, wiped his foot then made his way downstairs. Harry's Aunt Petunia was already up, enjoying the short amount of peace she'd have before her husband and son woke. She was sat on her spindly wooden chair at the dining room table and she pursed her lips at him as he passed. He mumbled something civil and headed to the fridge to root around.
Harry was investigating the firmness of a cherry tomato when there came the distinctive clank of the letter box and he leapt straight.
"I'll get it!" He shouted. He walked briskly, eagerly, down the corridor to get the mail before Petunia. Back in the kitchen he sorted through the seven letters, placing them down on the kitchen counter-top as he classified them. "Bill. Bill. Bill. Biii-junk. Bill." He paused at the next letter.
It was a curious envelope, in many ways. It was weighty and seemed to be made from something thicker and coarser than normal paper, in the top right corner was a strange crest of arms of a shield split into four quarters, one quarter bearing a lion, another a snake, another a badger and the last an eagle.
The address looked handwritten in an emerald green ink, and he was named as the recipient. He flipped it over and ripped through the top of the envelope with a finger.
Dear Mr. H. Potter,
You are cordially invited to attend Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, situ -
Harry crumpled the letter into a ball and dropped it into the bin. "Junk. Ohh, hello." He had in his hand a much more conventional envelope that was franked by the Ministry of Defence. Again he ripped it open and quickly read the contents. "Exceptional results. . . satisfactory medical assessment . . . assess leadership qualities . . . pursuant to a minimum requirement of pass graded A-levels. Petunia! Petunia! I'm in, I'm going to be a pilot!"
Petunia put down her tea and Harry could see her sour face was torn on to how to react, and when she was feeling conflicted Harry knew how she'd default.
"Well, that'll show Mrs. Jones at number 8. She thinks she can act all snooty because her son's studying engineering. Well, we have an hOfficer, oooh I'll tell her at the next neighbourhood watch meeting and everyone will see her big head deflate. Oh, Harry, before long you could outstrip Marge's colonel and she'd have to admit she could learn something about good raising from Vernon, for once. And about time I should say so, too. Oh, Harry, Be quiet. Carrying on like that. You'll wake your cousin."
Harry did his best to ignore her before running up to his room to secret away his acceptance letter whilst in the darkness of the bin a sorrily wrinkled envelope did its best to straighten itself and its contents.
"Bit rude, I'd say," it said, addressing the rubbish around it. It waited a moment expectantly but on receiving no reply settled down to wait.
A/N: Let me know what you think.
I finally named this Malignancy. Hogwarts University seemed too gauche.