The Boy Who Lived (1)

Author: George Weasley's Girlfriend

Title: The Boy Who Lived

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers: The characters and settings in J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series belong to her and not me. All other characters and creatures belong to me. Don't use them without my permission. Otherwise, I might get a little wand-happy and being HP-obsessed, I know some pretty good spells.

Author's Notes: See end of chapter.

The Boy Who Lived (1)

"… Harry Potter wasn't a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as it is possible to be." -Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Part One: The Countdown

Five more days. The fifteen-year-old sighed as he remembered how much longer he had to stay at home until the school term started. It was five long days before he would return to Diagon Alley, a small strip of stores in London, to get his school things. And then he had yet another two days before he would board a train and start off for school. Whereas most kids would be morose near the end of the summer holidays, this particular boy couldn't wait. Then again there was something rather peculiar about the boy who sat at the edge of his bed, sighing as he read the calendar. Though by looking at him, you couldn't tell that Harry James Potter was unlike most other boys, there was one thing that made him very different.

He was a wizard.

He was a wizard like any other who concocted potions, cast spells, and learned how to turn a match stick into a needle. Movies and television often depicted wizards and witches as sorcerer-type beings who were always evil; but then, Muggles (non-wizarding folk) didn't see what was right under their nose.

The Muggles couldn't raise their wand and hail the Knight Bus, which cost a mere fifteen Sickles for a ride anywhere and a mug of hot chocolate. They couldn't go into the Leaky Cauldron, tap on a brick and open a gateway into Diagon Alley, where witches and wizards could buy anything from a Firebolt broom to use when playing the most popular wizard sport, Quidditch, to parchment and quills for homework assignments. They had no idea how to spend Galleons or Sickles or Knuts.

And worst of all, Harry Potter lived with the worst Muggles the wizarding world could have ever laid their eyes on. Petunia and Vernon Dursley brought up Harry alongside their own son, Harry's cousin Dudley. Until he was eleven, Harry lived in a small cupboard under the stairs and had since been moved into Dudley's second bedroom, which was filled with broken toys. Since entering Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Dursleys rarely spoke to him and usually pretended any area he occupied was indeed empty space. Even before his placement in the magical school, they criticized him severely for things he couldn't possibly help, like his untidy black hair or thinness,

Sighing, Harry stood from his bed and picked up a half-cracked mirror from one of Dudley's toys. He looked into it and saw reflected what he always saw: bright green eyes framed with round glasses and a head topped with dark hair sticking in all directions. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to picture his father doing the same, as everyone in the wizarding world - his world - told him how much he looked like his father. That is, except for his striking green eyes, which undoubtedly came from his mother.

Harry's mother and father, James and Lily Potter, had died when Harry was just fifteen months old. Lord Voldemort, a very powerful Dark wizard, had burst into their small cottage in Godric's Hollow and murdered Harry's parents. However, when Voldemort turned his wand on young Harry, the curse rebounded upon him, weakening him greatly and causing him to go into hiding for ten years. The only thing Harry had to show for all of it was a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

Harry ran his fingers over the thin scar lightly and set the mirror down. He felt the familiar pang of missing his parents. For years Harry had been told by his aunt and uncle that they'd died in the car accident that had given him his scar, but now, he knew better. He knew that his father had died trying to protect his mother and his mother had died standing up desperately against Lord Voldemort, begging for him to take her life instead of her only son's. They would have been horrified at the way Harry had been treated in the Muggle world. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he went back to his bed and slid under the covers of his bed.

Five days.

* * *

"Get up! Up now!" A nasal voice called through the door to Harry's bedroom. "Are you up yet, boy?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbled as he pulled the pillow from atop his head. He heard footsteps stomp away from the door and go down the stairs. Only then did he yawn and swing his legs over the side of the bed, stretching. Scratching one ear, he looked over at Hedwig, his owl, who was fast asleep in her cage. The snowy owl, which was responsible for delivering letters to other wizards, had her face buried under her wing. Harry walked over to the cage and moved to close the small door when Hedwig pulled her head out and blinked sleepily up at him.

"Sorry, Hedwig," Harry said as he closed the door. "But if Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia come up here and see that your cage is open, they'll probably never let me let you out at night." Hedwig hopped closer on her small perch and nipped his finger affectionately. Harry smiled as she buried her face in her wing again and he closed the small door.

After changing into his Muggle clothes (he didn't dare parade around Four Privet Drive in his school robes), he left his room and descended into the kitchen.

Dudley was sitting on one side of the table, (not that anyone could have fit next to him, mind you) his pudgy hand constantly lifting up spoonfuls of oatmeal into his mouth. If there was one physical activity that Dudley engaged in, it was eating. And as he'd finally lost enough weight to fit into the outfit for his own school, Smeltings, he'd gotten a basket of sweets as congratulations from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Uncle Vernon was sitting on the opposite side of the table, his usually red face with a large handlebar mustache hiding behind a newspaper. Aunt Petunia, bony with large horse-like teeth and a pinched expression, was busying herself at the stove by making Dudley an entire package of bacon. None of them acknowledged Harry's presence.

It's just as well, he thought as he sat at the table, finding himself surprisingly not hungry. He stood up and cleared his throat. Uncle Vernon peered at him over the edge of his newspaper.

"I'm going out for a walk," Harry announced. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon both looked sharply at him. Aunt Petunia shot a quick look at her husband and then back to her cooking.

"You're staying inside," Uncle Vernon said shortly, looking back down at his newspaper.

"Why can't I leave the house?" Harry asked furiously. They wanted to keep his caged up like some sort of animal, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. To the outside world, Harry hardly existed and the Dursley preferred it that way, wanting no one to know that they housed such an strange child.

"We don't want to show the world your abnormality," Uncle Vernon said. Dudley actually stopped eating and beamed, thoroughly enjoying Harry's aggravation. "It's bad enough we have to feed and clothe your ungrateful self," he sneered, looking back down at his newspaper. Aunt Petunia completely ignored the entire conversation and remained standing at the stove, cooking breakfast.

"You can't keep me cooped up like a prisoner!" Harry protested, feeling the heat of anger rise within him. He forced himself to take a deep breath. The last time he'd gotten this furious around Muggles, it had been his Aunt Marge, who was insulting his parents. She's swollen up like a big ruddy balloon and floated up to the ceiling. "I'm going outside." Long since had the days passed that he took orders from the Dursleys. Living and learning at Hogwarts had not only taught him magic, but independence. He turned and started down the hallway. What was the worst they could do?

"Stop right there, boy!" Aunt Petunia had finally broken away from her cooking to come to the kitchen doorway and shake a finger at him. "The neighbors will see you and what will they think? What, with the state of your hair…" She waved her hand furiously at him and Harry glared back defiantly.

Finally, he said, "You can't keep me inside forever. And sometime, I'll get outside and I'll go knocking on doors and tell them all about magic and wiz-"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Want to bet a Galleon on it?" Aunt Petunia flinched, perhaps thinking that there was some sort of spell that had been cast upon her. "Let me out now and I won't breathe a word." Aunt Petunia scowled hard at him, then whirled and returned to the kitchen.

Harry turned the doorknob and wrenched open the front door. He rubbed his eyes against the bright sunshine of the morning and started down the front path. He began to jog and sped up as he let out pent-up energy. Soon, he was running full speed down Privet Drive, around the corner on Robin Lane and finally began to slow at Magnolia Crescent. Breathing heavily, he resumed his slow pace and jammed his hands in his pockets.

Four days left, he reminded himself. He saw that the sun had fully risen and his stomach was now rumbling with hunger. He kicked himself for not getting anything to eat before leaving the house. Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead and continued, intending to round the block and head home.

Soon, he neared Mrs. Figg's house. Mrs. Figg was the old woman who took care of Harry while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon took their precious son out for his birthday. She spent most of the time enthusiastically showing him pictures off all the cats she'd ever taken care of. Unlike pictures in the wizarding world, the cats stayed perfectly still, frozen in time. As he got nearer to her house, he saw that there was something going on through the window that seemed to accompany the muffled noises from the house. Although he knew it was an invasion of privacy, Harry couldn't help but be naturally curious. He quickly but stealthily made his way up the lawn and poked his head up just enough to see a startling sight.

Mrs. Figg was smiling, waving a magic wand through the air. Gold lines emitted from its tip and made a staff with notes. The piano, which Mrs. Figg had always said was out of tune and hopelessly beyond repair, was playing along happily to the notes. Her cats wound around her ankles, purring. Harry watched in utter disbelief. What happened to the wretched woman who made him look through hundreds of boring pictures and made cakes that tasted like rocks? He had never seen Mrs. Figg even smile before. Harry must have made a sudden movement or an audible noise because Mrs. Figg's sharp eyes focused on the window too fast for Harry to duck away without being seen. In surprise, she dropped her wand and the gold dissipated into the air. The music stopped abruptly and her cat sauntered out of the room.

Eyes like saucers, Harry backed up a few steps from the window and began to turn, wanting to run home as fast as he could. He had just made it to the end of the driveway when he heard Mrs. Figg's voice behind him: "Harry, please stop." The voice sounded so pleading that Harry slowed to a stop and turned to face her.

"Come inside," Mrs. Figg said, standing in the doorway. Gulping down nervousness in his throat, he started forward, wishing he had his wand in his hand instead of having back in his bedroom, with the rest of his school things. After what seemed like ages, he stepped into the small house, which, as always, smelled of cats. His green eyes danced across his surroundings: shabby furniture and slightly crooked pictures hanging from the walls; a small dining room set off to one side and a doorway into the tiny kitchen; a dark wooden door that led off her bedroom. Mrs. Figg led him to the couch, where they both sat.

"I suppose you know now," Mrs. Figg said slowly, cautiously.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a witch?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Dumbledore didn't want me to say anything," she replied, referring to the Hogwarts headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. "Not until you were ready to know."

"But… but… I was… all those years I could have just… you could have told me everything!"

"That's exactly why Dumbledore didn't want you to know I was a witch. I was stationed here to 'keep an eye on you,' so to speak."

"Stationed?" Harry murmured, disbelieving. "I don't understand…"

"Oh, dear, you've gotten so big," she said, much like a grandmother who hadn't seen her grandson in months. "Oh, I remember when you were just a few months old." Harry drew his breath in sharply, not knowing Mrs. Figg had known his parents, but she went on. "I remember it so well…Your father was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, holding you in his arms," she smiled dreamily. "He was going on about how you were going to be the best Seeker ever to play Quidditch and how he was going to teach you all the finer points of the game. I suppose it was something like the Americans and their baseball."

Harry nodded numbly, feeling a surge of hate for Voldemort. He'd been cheated out of years of Quidditch tips from his father because a power-hungry wizard had been on a killing spree. He was gripping the fabric of the couch so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

"And, oh, how he was so crazy about your mother. You would think she was Venus herself with the way he talked about her." Harry's grip relaxed as his head filled with the image of his father and mother on their wedding day. Towards the end of his first year at Hogwarts, he received a photo album with a photo of his parents just after getting married. Once in a while, he'd open it and see his parents waving furiously up at him. He'd reach out and touch their faces, but they wouldn't respond; they'd only keep waving and smiling. He longed to hear their voices, anything but their screams… "Take Harry… run, Lily, take Harry… No, James, I can't… Stand aside, girl… No, spare him… Mercy, please… Oh, James…" How many times had he woken up in a cold sweat, remembering nothing but a blinding green light and his parents final words?

"Harry…Harry, dear, are you all right?" Harry snapped back to reality to see that Mrs. Figg had gently laid a hand over his own, and that his fingers were still clutching the material of the couch tightly. "Harry…please don't dwell on what could have been. Your parents saved many lives that night, not only your own. This was part of the reason Dumbledore didn't want me to tell you."

"Why?" Harry whispered. "Why did they have to die?"

"Harry, you'll understand when you're older. It's not my place to tell you," Mrs. Figg said. "But you will know someday. That I promise you." She looked away from him. "You should be getting home," she said quietly, picking up her wand from where it had rested on the couch near Harry. Harry opened his mouth to argue; he had to know more about his parents. But Mrs. Figg waved her wand slowly in front of his face and touched his forehead lightly, murmuring a few words. Suddenly, Harry felt all the curiosity leave him and was remembering how important it was for him to get home.

"Thank you for letting me stay," he said dully, a glazed look over his eyes. "I need to be getting home."

"It's been my pleasure," Mrs. Figg said with a sad smile. She led Harry to the door and opened it for him. He looked back at her for a moment, nodded and then stepped outside. He started home, knowing it was something he needed to do right at that moment. He saw that it had become mid-morning, or rather felt it through the pangs of hunger coming from his missed breakfast catching up with him. Deciding to go home and nick some food from the refrigerator while his aunt and uncle weren't looking, Harry increased his pace slightly as he turned from Robin Lane back onto Privet Drive. Number Four loomed into view and Harry sighed, closing his eyes and wishing Hogwarts castle was in its place. Four days.

* * *

After making sure the Dursleys were well occupied with Dudley in the backyard, Harry sneaked into the kitchen to get an apple for lunch. Uncle Vernon was trying to teach his son how to play rugby, but Dudley could hardly run fast enough to keep up with his father ("Give me the ball!" he whined.). Aunt Petunia was standing off to the side, eyes filled with tears because her little Dudleykins was so talented. Harry could think of plenty of ways to describe how Dudley played, but "talented" was not one of them. Harry sniggered as he started up the staircase to his room, holding the apple in one hand. He turned the corner and heard a loud, irritating hooting noise.

Hedwig.

Harry began to run to his room, apple clutched tightly in his hand. He pushed open the door to his room and saw that Hedwig was still locked into her cage, but she was hooting loudly and flapping around in the small enclosure.

"Hedwig, what is it?" he asked urgently, kneeling by her cage, but the owl only continued to squawk incessantly. He glanced around the room, trying to see what was upsetting his pet so badly, when he noticed something small and brown darting madly around just outside the window. Crossing the room, he looked out the window and saw that it was only Pigwidgeon, an owl belonging to one of his friends in the wizard world, Ron Weasley.

The Weasleys, parents Arthur and Molly with seven children, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny (the only girl and youngest of the lot), all had flaming red hair, a splatter of freckles, and were extremely poor but they were still Harry's favorite family. Just the year before, he'd attended the Quidditch World Cup with them to see Ireland and Bulgaria play. They had a family owl, Errol, but he was rarely up to long journeys anymore. Ron received an owl, Pigwidgeon, as a gift and was usually generally annoyed with the tiny bird. Harry hurriedly opened the window and Pigwidgeon zoomed in, hooting loudly.

"Quiet…quiet!" he said urgently, hoping the Dursleys hadn't come in yet. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, knowing he would be locked in the cupboard under the stairs until he was fifty if they found out there were two owls flying amok and causing an awful ruckus. Obediently, Hedwig calmed and settled her feathers, showing Pigwidgeon the proper way to behave. The small owl took no notice and landed on Harry's bed, hopping up and down madly, but being blessedly quiet.

Harry reached out and untied a piece of parchment from around Pigwidgeon's scrawny leg. He unrolled it and smiled at Ron's familiar handwriting.

Harry, how's it going? Sorry I haven't written in a while, but Mum got angry when Fred and George tried to bewitch Pig into a parrot who could tell jokes and wouldn't let any of us send anything for the past few weeks. I know the Muggle post takes ages to get from one place to another, so I decided to wait it out. I hope that that lousy git Dudley still has to do the diet thing. Mum says she'd send you more mince pies if they were making you eat the rabbit food. Anyway, we were wondering if you could come to Diagon Alley with us tomorrow. If you can, we'll pick you up on tomorrow at five and if you can't, we'll pick you on tomorrow at five anyway. Hermione will be with us, too. Send an answer back with Pig pronto. Ginny says hi.

Ron

Harry smiled as he finished the letter and went over to the small desk to take out a piece of parchment and a quill with its inkwell. He scratched a note back to Ron saying that he'd be ready the next day at five with his things and tied it to Pigwidgeon's leg. He picked the small bird up in his hands and started for the window, but it had already rocketed out of his outstretched palm and into the mid-afternoon sky. He looked back at Hedwig, who was hooting softly as she buried her face in her feathers and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

"Absolutely not!" Uncle Vernon roared, standing up from his armchair in he sitting room with his nostrils flaring and his face flushed red. "Those…those…people are never coming near this house again!" Harry wanted to cry out, "Why not?!" but he already knew the answer: The last time the Weasleys had shown up at the Dursleys', they'd practically destroyed the sitting room when they arrived by Floo Powder and smashed their way out of the fireplace. Also, by eating some of Fred and George's Ton-Tongue Toffees, Dudley had grown a four foot long purple tongue before Mr. Weasley was able to control the situation and right everything.

"But I'll be leaving early," Harry said desperately, clinging to all hope. He saw the muscles in Uncle Vernon's jaw working furiously as he thought this over. Uncle Vernon hated it when Harry was happy, but at the same time, it would get the boy out of the house sooner. "And you won't have to drive me to King's Cross on the first." This didn't seem to help, as he hadn't been driven to King's Cross since his first year at Hogwarts. Finally, Uncle Vernon decided.

"No, you will remain here until you need to go to that… school of yours. Petunia and I are going to shop for some rugby equipment for Dudley…fine young boy…properly sized," he said, glaring disdainfully at Harry's thin form. Too used to being compared to Dudley to care, Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Uncle Vernon cut him off, "No arguments or that owl of yours goes. Understood?" he barked. "And if you even think about sneaking off, you'll never come back into this house again." Harry fought the urge to tell Uncle Vernon that Number Four Privet Drive was his least favorite place in the world and that he'd be doing him a favor to toss him out. "And then off you'll go to enhance that… abnormality of yours." He sneered and turned to leave.

"But I need to get my school things…" Harry began to protest.

"That's not my problem, is it?" Uncle Vernon said cruelly before striding out of the room, a slight bounce in his step from the happiness of making Harry miserable.

Harry finally stormed from the room and up the stairs into his bedroom. Angry, he flopped down on the bed as he faintly heard the phone ring downstairs. He went through dozens of spells in his mind to wish on the Dursleys, but knew he was an underage wizard and would probably get expelled from Hogwarts if he used magic during the summer holidays.

Sighing, Harry picked himself up and decided that he had to send an owl to Ron, telling him he couldn't come. He still didn't know what to do about his school books. Perhaps Dumbledore would let him take a quick trip to Diagon Alley when he got to school and before classes started. Harry pulled off the loose floorboard from under his bed, where he kept his school things and pulled out a quill, inkwell and a scrap of parchment.

Ron-

The Muggles aren't letting me come. I don't know how I'm going to get my school books. Maybe Dumbledore will let me go to Diagon Alley and get them after I get to Hogwarts. Sorry. Say hello to everyone for me.

Harry

Harry rolled up the small piece of parchment and opened Hedwig's cage. Before he could reach in to tie the small piece around her leg, he heard Aunt Petunia's voice from downstairs.

"Boy, you've got a phone call!" her voice called. Harry sat up, startled. He'd never had a phone call in his life. The only person who had tried to call him was Ron and he'd nearly blasted Uncle Vernon's eardrum by yelling. In any case, Harry put his things away quickly and went downstairs. Uncle Vernon was holding the phone in one hand with a cold smile on his face. It seemed as though he could hardly conceal his excitement.

"You've got a phone call. A teacher at that place wants to discuss discipline for the upcoming year. It seems you've gotten into a lot of trouble." This time, there was a smirk on his face as he handed the phone to the young boy.

Trembling (At this, Dudley poked his head in from another room and grinned, although it was hardly noticed under his fat cheeks.), Harry took the phone from his uncle and pressed it to his ear.

"H- Hello?" Harry stammered.

"Harry? Are you all right? Oh, it's good to hear your voice!" Harry's eyebrows shot up. The voice was not that of a Hogwarts faculty member, rather that of one of his best friends, Hermione Granger. A bushy-haired fifteen year old with warm brown eyes and a brain like a computer, Hermione had been a companion since Harry's first year at school.

"Her-" Harry started in a disbelieving voice.

"Harry, don't say my name! Pretend as though I'm shouting at you; your uncle thinks I'm a professor at Hogwarts."

"Oh…right, Professor…McGonagall," Harry said aloud, nervously ("McGonagall," Uncle Vernon snorted.). The Transfiguration teacher's name was the first one that had popped into his head.

"Ron said he wrote you about coming tomorrow. Are the Muggles letting you go?"

"No," Harry said dejectedly. For good measure, he added, "I know I missed loads of assignments." At this point, Dudley was nearly beside himself in glee at Harry's supposed suffering.

"Well, you've got to get here somehow! You need to get your school things and we simply must go over our spells in preparation for our O.W.L.s."

"I know it'll take ages for me to make them up." Uncle Vernon left the room, laughing out loud. A noise came from inside the sitting room and Dudley's television program came back on, so the porky boy waddled back to his former spot. In a soft voice, Harry continued, "They're gone. Hermione, I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to get to Diagon Alley to get my things?" There was a pause as Hermione thought on the other end. "Maybe I can take my broomstick," he suggested.

"Don't be silly, Harry. How are you supposed to carry your trunk with all of your school things?" Harry's shoulders slumped. Hermione drew in a breath, as if she was about to suggest something, but then let it out. "I was going to say to come by the…"

"That's it!" Harry said excitedly, cutting her off and forgetting to lower his voice. Dudley looked at him through the doorway, a suspicious look in his eyes. "And I deserve all the punishment you've just explained." He lowered his voice again as Dudley's attention shifted back to the television. "Tell the Weasleys that I'll be there tonight. Tell them I'm sorry about the short notice, but it's the only chance I'll have." Uncle Vernon came into the room at that moment.

"But Harry-"

"All right, see you then, Professor," Harry said in the most miserable voice he could muster. He hung up the phone and looked at Uncle Vernon's smiling eyes.

"Seems that you won't be having as much fun as you thought," he said spitefully to his nephew. Harry didn't reply, only brushed past him and up the stairs to his bedroom. He saw Hedwig sitting on his bed, nipping softly at the parchment from the note he'd started writing to Ron. The snowy owl looked up at him, turning her head slightly to the side.

"Hedwig, we're going to the Weasley's tonight," Harry said happily, offering his arm. Hedwig hooted softly and flew forward onto his arm. After putting her away, he crumpled up the written note to Ron and threw it away, then laid down on the bed happily. He'd be to Diagon Alley sooner than he'd thought.

* * *

Harry waited until late that night to put his plan into action. He was going to the Weasley's whether the Dursleys liked it or not, and if they forbade him ever to step into their house again, it would be a blessing. He gathered all his school things and tucked them safely into his trunk. Hedwig cocked her head to one side and looked up at Harry questioningly.

"We're going to the Weasley's," he explained in a whisper. "You have to be quiet," he said slowly, not entirely sure if Hedwig understood him. Whether she did or not, she remained silent as Harry put her cage under one arm and pulled the trunk softly with the other. The trunk began to make a loud scraping noise and Harry froze, listening to hear if the Dursleys were awake. He heard Uncle Vernon's sleepy grunt, but nothing more. Harry gently set his trunk down, searching for something soft to put beneath it so he could drag it out into the hallway and somehow, down the stairs.

Finally, he decided on a sheet from his bed and lifted the trunk up just enough to slide it under the dragging edge. Harry dragged it a few feet forward, testing it. He heaved a relieved sigh and put Hedwig's cage under his arm and started out.

Harry crept slowly into the hallway and down the (thankfully carpeted) stairs. He reached the front door and opened it slowly, so as not to make any creaking noises. He waited another moment until he was sure there were no other sounds in the house and then stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

At this point, he had to be careful of any of the possible people who would be up at this hour. He looked down the street each way to make sure there weren't any adults coming home from a night job or leaving for an early morning shift and started out. He waited until he was about a block away, where Privet Drive met Robin Lane, before opening his trunk and pulling out his wand.

He, of course, wasn't going to do any real magic. He was simply going to hail the Knight Bus, a royal purple vehicle that had picked him up inadvertently two years earlier. With a little smile on his face he raised his arm, his wand clutched tightly in his fist.

Nothing happened.

He looked up and down the street. Just before his third year, it had appeared nearly instantaneously and he hadn't even meant to flag it down. He raised his wand again; thinking perhaps he hadn't done it right the first time. Again, nothing. Soon, a lump of panic formed in his throat. He was stuck in the middle of the street with an owl and a trunk full of spellbooks and no way to get back to the wizarding world. Harry raised his wand one more time, hoping against hope that somehow he'd be able to catch the attention of the Knight Bus's driver, Ernie Prang, or his young, pimply assistant, Stan Shunpike.

Nothing came.

Not knowing what else to do, he picked up Hedwig's cage and went father down Robin Lane, almost to the point where it turned onto Magnolia Crescent. He tried one more time, standing on the tips of his toes and raising his wand arm in the air, waving it madly.

"Blimey, Harry, what in Merlin's name are you doing out at all hours of the night?" A voice came from behind him. His heart leaping into his throat as he drew in a sharp breath, Harry spun around to see Mrs. Figg standing in the doorway, nightgown swaying slightly in the breeze. He let out a sigh of relief.

"The Knight Bus," Harry gasped, regaining his ability to breathe. "Where is it?"

"Oh, come inside before you freeze," Mrs. Figg fussed, not answering his question. She was muttering something about young wizards these days and sleeping habits being affected. Harry lugged his heavy trunk under one arm and pulled on Hedwig's cage with the other until he was safely inside the house.

"So sorry," Harry gasped as Mrs. Figg shut the door with a cross look on her face. "Dursleys weren't going to let me go to Diagon Alley… had to get to Weasley's house."

"Weasley?" Mrs. Figg asked, arching an eyebrow as she picked up her wand from the coffee table. "Arthur and Molly?"

"Yeah, that's Ron's Mum and Dad," Harry answered, wondering exactly what Mrs. Figg needed her wand for.

"I knew them. Arthur Weasley and Molly Brown," she smiled. "They were just entering Hogwarts in my last year." Harry looked Mrs. Figg over critically. She looked much older than six years Arthur and Molly's senior, but as she was his best hope to get anywhere, he held his tongue.

"Well, I suppose you still need to get to the Weasley's tonight," Mrs. Figg said, eyeing Harry's belongings. Harry nodded. "Follow me," she sighed. Harry looked down at his things awkwardly, wondering whether or not to take them. Finally, he decided he had better and pulled them along as Mrs. Figg led him to a small room off the sitting room that Harry had never been allowed in.

By time Harry had gotten all the way inside with all of his things, Mrs. Figg had started a fire in the large fireplace in the corner. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at the flames and announced, "Incendio!" The flames leapt higher and, with wide eyes, he watched as she took a small sachet off the mantelpiece and pour a silvery sandy substance in her hand. She threw it into the fireplace and the flames changed to a green sparkle.

"Go on…you're lucky this fireplace is still connected to the Floo Powder network," she said tiredly. Harry beamed.

"Thanks, Mrs. Figg!" He said brightly, feeling a lot better since he realized something was wrong with the Knight Bus. He pulled his trunk and Hedwig's cage, containing a very ruffled owl, into the flames and shouted, "The Burrow!" He waved fervently at Mrs. Figg as the room disappeared around her and Harry went spinning through fireplaces, finally on the way back to the wizarding world. His world.

To be continued…

Author's Notes: I'd like to extend a huge shout out to Sita Marie (who just can't seem to keep that friend of hers in control), Selphie Leonhart (my evil co-conspirator, whose given me tons to work with and ideas to possibly make this into a trilogy), JM Robin (my twin), Susie Q (evil monkey and writer of the Fifth Amulet series), Krystyn Poe (High Priestess of Toastertarianiam, writer-in-training, and Azerbaijani advocate extrodinaire), and Chocolate Fireguard (who has the COOLEST pen name I've ever heard) for putting up with me through the whole editing process. It was remarkably annoying for them, I'm sure, so I'm truly grateful for it. This story wouldn't be half of what you scroll down and see if it wasn't for these incredibly patient people. I'd also like to thank all the people who were in the Harry Potter AOL chat room at two in the morning when I popped in and asked random questions about Lupin and Sirius.

This usually isn't put into A/Ns, but I need to thank Xing for this awesome site. He does so much to keep it going only to get complaints about things not working.

I honestly don't mind flames (Howlers? ::giggle:J because they only show the reviewer's lack of intelligence. They also tend to be rather humorous. However, any received will be used to toast marshmallows. All other constructive criticisms are welcomed and appreciated. Okay, and one last tiny thing: Check out my web page at http://www.homestead.com/AzkabanWizardPrison/fanfiction.html Thanks!