Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge

I

Anything but Ordinary


Harry Potter, having finally finished his final year of magical instruction at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, slowly eased the door to his small bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive open a crack and listened carefully for any sound coming from the Dursleys. He heard nothing and after a second dared to push the door open wide enough to slip out. Looking carefully up and down the hall before moving from the safety of the doorway, Harry was startled to see Dudley in the process of climbing out the window at the end of the hall.

Both Harry and Dudley froze, staring at one another uneasily, each unsure of what the other would do. Dudley's hands clenched into fists and he shook them at Harry menacingly. In response, Harry drew out the wand that was always at his side. Dudley's eyes widened. It was now only a matter of who would blink first. After a second, Harry started making his way quietly toward the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Dudley climb the rest of the way out the window and ease it down behind him. Harry was surprised that the garden trellis was strong enough to support Dudley's weight, but obviously enough it was.

Cautiously Harry continued down the dark stairs to the living room. "Lumos," he whispered quietly, holding his hand over the luminous tip of his wand to shield some of the light. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary and was about to go into the living room when he heard something that caused him to stop in his tracks.

"How much longer are we to be expected to keep that boy in our house?" Harry heard Uncle Vernon ask irritably.

"Nox," Harry hissed softly, putting out the light of his wand before his aunt and uncle noticed. But all the while, he was listening carefully for Aunt Petunia's answer. While he wasn't overly eager to stay at the Dursleys', he didn't exactly want to be kicked out on the street either, which was likely to happen if he were caught eavesdropping.

"Only a little longer, Vernon," was her soft answer.

"Honestly, Petunia," Uncle Vernon said, his voice already rising in volume, "now that he's finished at that school, there's nothing stopping him from blasting us into oblivion with that thing he's always carrying about with him. And now that that Voldything is dead, there is absolutely no reason for him to still be living under our roof." Then Uncle Vernon's voice rose threateningly. "Or have you forgotten everything he and his kind have done to us?"

In the slight pause before Aunt Petunia answered, Harry felt his temper rising. Uncle Vernon had no idea what disaster Harry and 'his kind' had avoided, not only for themselves, but also for Muggles. That Voldything would have gladly wiped the world of Uncle Vernon and his kind.

"He's Lily's son," Aunt Petunia answered, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Harry's jaw dropped. Where had that answer come from? Surely, it wasn't the Aunt Petunia that he knew.

"I WILL NOT HAVE THAT WOMAN'S NAME MENTIONED IN MY HOUSE!" Uncle Vernon roared instantly in reaction to Lily's name.

"That woman was my sister!" Aunt Petunia shrilled in response.

"Sister or no, I will not have that woman's name mentioned in this house," he bellowed back. "IT'S NOT NATURAL!"

"BE QUIET OR YOU'LL WAKE DUDLEY!" Aunt Petunia screamed, the volume of her voice matching that of her husband's. It was obvious she wasn't thinking about Dudley at all.

"Honestly, Petunia, that boy has been nothing but trouble since the day he was born, and to hear you talk it almost sounds like you want him here, like he was normal, like he were one of us." Uncle Vernon's voice was almost dripping with scorn. Harry released his stranglehold on his wand. He didn't want to accidentally curse his uncle without meaning to.

Aunt Petunia didn't answer and after a few seconds, Harry heard the springs on the chesterfield squeak as they were relieved of Uncle Vernon's immense bulk. Hurriedly Harry dashed up the stairs to his room. He did not want to be caught out of his room or he would find himself out on the street. Listening, Harry heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps move down the hall to his bedroom. Waiting until it was once again safe to venture out, Harry paced back and forth across his small bedroom anxiously.

Earlier, he had been working on a form from the Ministry of Magic and he had hastily shoved them into a book when Aunt Petunia had arrived back from the market earlier than he expected her. Now, he desperately needed the forms; he had to finish filling them out and return them first thing in the morning. If he didn't get them in, he would have to wait until next year to start training for a career.

When enough time had passed that Harry felt safe venturing out, he once again cracked open his door and crept down the hall, his wand lighting the way.

The light in the living room was off and Harry didn't see Aunt Petunia sitting on the chesterfield until it was too late. He had already made his way to the book he needed and had removed his papers when he turned around and saw her sitting there.

"I was just getting some papers," he explained lamely, the tip of his wand still glowing brightly. Aunt Petunia looked at him as though she hadn't seen him before. "I'm, um, going back up to bed now," Harry stammered.

She nodded briefly and Harry hurried to the stairs. But, behind him he heard Aunt Petunia whisper, "He's all that I have left of her."

Later that night, as Harry lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but wonder at Aunt Petunia. While Harry had always known that Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister, she had never shown that it was anything but a disgrace. Or, Harry reflected, at least she had never shown it to him. But, there had been something in the way that Uncle Vernon had reacted at the mention of his mother's name that made Harry wonder just why Aunt Petunia never mentioned her sister. What was it that Uncle Vernon had bellowed? 'I will not have that woman's name mentioned in my house!' That was it. But why?

Was Uncle Vernon responsible for the disdain towards wizards and magic? Or was it Aunt Petunia? Or, was it both, as Harry had always thought? As he tossed and turned, he tried to remember all of the arguments that had happened over the years they had had about magic. Maybe they would provide a clue to the strange argument that he had overheard that night.

As he drifted off to sleep, fragments of conversations came back to him, but nothing that made any sense. At least nothing when he remembered that she and Uncle Vernon had taken him in as a baby and knowingly kept him safe. Even after everything that had happened, they had kept him safe from Voldemort. And Harry had difficulty reconciling that thought with the attitudes that he had grown up with, just as he had since he had found out what his aunt and uncle had done for him. Maybe in relation to Aunt Petunia's behaviour tonight, it made a little more sense. But only a little more.


Harry awoke far too early the next morning to Aunt Petunia's sharp rapping on his door. "Get up, boy," she said harshly, no hint of last night's sentimentality remaining. "We need to take Dudley into London for his match and you're not staying here alone. There's no telling what little bits we'd find the house in when we returned."

Harry groaned softly. He had forgotten that Dudley was in a match up in London this afternoon. Harry had been up until nearly five trying to finish answering the seemingly endless questionnaires that the Ministry of Magic required before they could guarantee any career training. And they wanted to know everything from the most trivial (What is your favourite flavour of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans?) to the most relevant (Have you ever been charged with a criminal offence for which you have not been pardoned?) and everything in between. He honestly wondered if anyone even read the answers or if the Ministry had a quota for the amount of paper work that had to be filed each year and were a little short.

But between the hundreds of questions and his pondering over his aunt's strange behaviour Harry hadn't gotten more than an hour or two of sleep and he wasn't looking forward to going.

"Aunt Petunia," he asked groggily, "if I'm not staying here alone, am I going to London?" If he hadn't been half-asleep, he never would have asked that question.

"Take you into London?" she laughed. Then her beady eyes squinted down into slits. But a cruel, mocking edge remained in her voice. "Why? So that you can set another snake after someone? Or hijack another flying car? I don't think so. You're going to Mrs Figg's. And don't think about trying any funny business or you'll find yourself out on the street faster than you can say one of your nasty incantations."

Harry groaned again as Aunt Petunia swept out of the room and on down the hall. Not only did he not want to have to get out of his warm bed, he wasn't ready for the motherly attention that Mrs Figg, a Squib who knew everything that happened in the wizarding world, usually lavished on him when the Dursleys were far enough away that they couldn't see. And whenever he was cautioned that there was to be no funny business, that was the time that something out of the ordinary happened causing him to use magic.

At least this time he couldn't be charged for underage use of magic. And since Mrs Figg was a Squib, he wouldn't be doing magic in front of Muggles. Today should run smoothly without any Ministry interference. And, Harry reflected, he might even get the chance to stretch out on one of Mrs Figg's couches and, if he could ignore the overwhelming odour of cat, get a little more sleep.

Later Harry realised that his first mistake was likely thinking that everything would go fine and it would be a normal day. To assume that everything would run smoothly was like asking for something out of the ordinary to happen. And to Harry, out of the ordinary was becoming dangerously close to being normal.

However, he wasn't thinking of that as he got ready to be escorted to Mrs Figg's. He was trying to find a book to take with him that wasn't obviously magical to Uncle Vernon. He didn't know how long he would be over at Mrs Figg's but he wanted a polite excuse to avoid looking through albums containing picture of every cat she had ever owned.

"Hurry boy!" Uncle Vernon's bellow floated up the stairs, "There'll be no lie in for you!" Then came the stomping footsteps on the stairs.

Harry grabbed the first book he laid hands on and bolted for the stairs. Uncle Vernon would not be pleased if he had to mount all of the stairs in search of Harry. If he made them late for Dudley's bout against the public school heavyweight champion, there would be hell to pay.

If he could have been sure where Aunt Petunia and Dudley were, he would have Apparated downstairs and given Uncle Vernon no reason to yell at him. But if he accidentally picked the wrong room and appeared out of nowhere in front of them, it would almost be worth his life for the blatant display of his abnormality.

In his rush to meet Uncle Vernon before he made the top of the stairs, Harry heard his wand catch on his door and fall with a clatter to the floor. He was turning back to pick it up when Uncle Vernon caught sight of him. Out stretched the fat arm to capture him. "If you make us miss Dudley's match I'll rip you limb from limb," Uncle Vernon growled. Harry dashed back, trying to grab his wand before Uncle Vernon caught him, but it wasn't to be. His fingertips had just touched smooth wood when he felt himself being pulled backwards at an alarming rate. His wand slipped out of reach and Harry found himself wandless for the first time in nearly four years.

That was probably the second sign that it was going to be a day out of the ordinary had Harry been looking for signs. But he wasn't looking for signs. He was trying to stop Uncle Vernon from taking the book he had grabbed, the photograph album of his parents.

"What's that you're holding, boy?" Uncle Vernon had demanded harshly, keeping a firm grip on Harry's upper arm. He considerably less intimidated by Harry when Harry didn't have his wand.

"It's just something to read while I'm over at Mrs Figg's," Harry answered. Inwardly he was hoping that the cover of the book didn't have anything magical on it. At least it wasn't The Monster's Book of Monster's otherwise it would have taken a big bite out of Harry, and likely Uncle Vernon too.

"Well, let's see it, boy," Uncle Vernon said as he reached out to grab the book from Harry's hand. The plain leather cover had nothing out of the ordinary on it and Harry finally recognised which book he had happened upon. But if Uncle Vernon decided to open it, the moving photographs would set the book up for destruction.

Uncle Vernon appraised the plain exterior and flipped the edges of the pages. He was ready to open it and look through the album when Dudley spoke up.

"He's going to make us late. We're going to miss my match," he whimpered, glaring at Harry. Dudley apparently didn't seem to be suffering any ill effects for his little excursion last night.

Aunt Petunia went right over to him. "Don't worry Dudkins; we won't let nasty Harry make us late. We've got time to stop for a treat before your match too. We don't want you on an empty stomach."

Uncle Vernon slapped the book at Harry's chest and snarled, "Come along boy." Then he smiled up at Dudley and Aunt Petunia. "Why don't the two of you wait in the car? I'll just make sure that Harry gets there without blasting anyone." And with that, he proceeded to almost separate Harry's arm from his body as he yanked Harry out the door.

Harry allowed Uncle Vernon to drag him down Privet Drive to Mrs Figg's house. It was too early for any neighbours to be watching so Uncle Vernon could be as uncivilised as he wanted. Harry didn't complain because he knew that it would only make Uncle Vernon more annoyed and unpleasant, if that were possible.

Mrs Figg was awake and waiting for them. When Uncle Vernon was looking, her face was almost blank of expression, making her seem not quite all there. But when he back was turned, she was beaming over-enthusiastic smiles in Harry's direction. Harry wasn't sure which of the two looks he preferred. The smile was too cheerful for his half-awake state but the blank look reminded him of someone who had been petrified. And he didn't like to think about that if he could help it.

"Don't let him give you any trouble," Uncle Vernon growled. "And if he does, I want to know about it."

Mrs Figg nodded, a little too eagerly perhaps. "I'm sure he won't be a bit of trouble," she cooed, sounding as though Harry was still a young child. But it did serve to placate Uncle Vernon. Or at least, that was how it appeared to Harry until Uncle Vernon turned back to him.

"If you even so much as think about doing any of your funny business, I'll have you out on the street so fast it will make your head spin. And then I'll see to it that you spend the rest of your natural life, longer if I can help it, in gaol, where your lot belongs, rotting out of sight." Then, before Harry had time to blurt anything out in his fury, Uncle Vernon was gone, waddling across the street as fast as his podgy legs could carry him.

Harry and Mrs Figg waited on the front steps until the car had pulled out the Dursleys driveway and was continuing its safe way down Privet Drive. When the car had gone and Mrs Figg no longer had to worry about keeping up a pretence for Uncle Vernon, she broke out into that over-bright smile once more and herded him into her foyer.

Harry was familiar with the drill by now and immediately reached down to untie the laces on his trainers. He was mildly surprised to find that no cats were brushing his ankles, but he was too exhausted to really take much notice. Usually at least two had congregated around him by this time. That might have been another sign, but Harry still wasn't looking for them.

His shoes removed without incident, and interference from felines, Harry was shepherded along to the kitchen table where Mrs Figg had set out her usual fare of dry toast, weak tea, and stale cake. Harry had never quite figured out if that was what she usually served guests, if that was the fare she had been instructed to serve by Uncle Vernon, or she was still trying to keep up appearances.

Yawning widely and setting the photo album beneath his chair, Harry sat down for breakfast. Not once had Mrs Figg ever asked him if he wanted milk or sugar with his tea, and so he didn't expect it this time. Instead he just reached for his lukewarm cup. At least it would wake him up a little.

As Harry munched his way slowly through the unappetising fare, Mrs Figg darted around the kitchen, fussily preparing breakfast for her cats. Harry, when he had been younger, had once reflected that she probably spent more time preparing the food for her cats than she spent preparing his food. And it was probably true. But it was starting to seem a little odd that none of the cats had made an appearance. However, it wasn't odd enough that it triggered any alarms. Maybe it should have.

But there would be plenty of time for those reflections later, when all of the pieces had come together. But for now, Harry Potter, considered by many to either be developing into the most powerful wizard known for centuries or the luckiest wizard in centuries, was thinking only of how much better the toast would have tasted with a little marmalade.

He had actually stopped noticing Mrs Figg's movements until he heard a scraping sound behind him, one that he thought was her putting out the bowls of cat food. At least, he thought that until he looked up and saw her in front of him, staring at a spot somewhere above his head with a look of utter horror on her face.

Harry whipped around to face whatever was standing behind him and found himself face to face with a hooded figure. For a moment his mind flashed through the various possibilities. It couldn't be a Dementor; Harry could still feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face. It couldn't be Voldemort; Harry knew that for a fact. But it could be one of the Death Eaters who had escaped the wrath of the Ministry of Magic.

All Harry could think about was his wand, dropped carelessly on the floor of his bedroom. So here he was, alone with a Squib, no wand with which to defend himself, and an enemy before him. The hooded figure had its wand raised and its free hand reaching out for Harry.