Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and practically everything else are property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling. A couple of things are mine.
1
Harry Potter sat with his back to the poorly papered wall of his bedroom, listening to the rain thundering down on the tiled roof of number four, Privet Drive. He had been watching an intensely boring Muggle movie on TV all morning, and he was now as the product of it thoroughly depressed.
There was a flash of lightning and a distant rumble of thunder as Harry pondered over his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Lord Voldemort had come back yet again, this time with a new body, and seemingly ten times as evil and powerful as he had been before. And somehow, Harry had been responsible for it all.
Harry still blamed himself for Cedric Diggory's death. If he hadn't offered Cedric the Triwizard Cup... if he had just taken it himself.... Then Cedric wouldn't have died. But both of them had been transported by the Triwizard Cup, at the same time. It had happened, and nothing could help it now. Harry sighed heavily and leaned back, trying to block out the fear and the pain as he listened to the rain upon the window.
Somehow, that rain was getting just too loud. Harry got up impatiently and threw open the window; suddenly he was face to face with two owls. One, large and snowy, was his own owl, Hedwig. The other was tiny and brown; it was his friend Ron Weasley's owl, Pigwidgeon. Harry let them in, and they collapsed onto Hedwig's perch after dropping two packages, dripping wet, onto Harry's bed.
Harry grinned at them, poured a little water into Hedwig's feeding bowl, and picked up his packages. The smallest one was from Ron Weasley. He opened the letter that was attached to it and read it out loud to the two birds.
Hello, Harry!
What's up? You're fifteen already!
Harry gasped. Ron was right; it was the first of August, the day before had been his birthday, and he hadn't even noticed.
Ginny's here beside me. She says happy birthday.
Dad says Hogwarts is getting plenty of new transfers from Durmstrang this year. He says they haven't got anyone new for Headmaster since Karkaroff fled.
Any clue who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is?
Bye,
Ron
P.S.: Hope you like my present!
Harry tore off the wet and sturdy wrapping paper, uncovering a small, thin book with silver letters proclaiming its name on the black cover: The Legend of the Knot of Eternity. A small note had been attached to it with spellotape, and Ron's familiar writing read:
Hermione chose it for me, she says it's really good, although it's just a myth. Wait until you see hers, it's awesome. -Ron
Harry grinned again, folded up the letter, and placed the book back on his bed. He picked up Hermione's present, nearly dropping it; it was very heavy. Sitting on the bed with the large package on his lap, he proceeded to unwrap it. The brownish paper fell off easily, revealing a huge book with a scarlet leather cover and gold-rimmed pages. The curly, golden title was, quite simply, iThe Art of Dueling/i. Harry gaped at it, then laughed out loud. The rest of the summer might not be so bad after all. Harry opened Hermione's letter with enthusiasm.
Dear Harry:
Happy Birthday! Did you like my present? I got it at Flourish & Blott's this summer with Ron (Ginny invited me over for a couple of weeks in July).
Lavender wrote me last month and she says the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher will be a witch, but I'm not too sure where she got that from.
We're going to Diagon Alley on the 9th. Will we see you there?
Love from
Hermione.
Harry folded up the letter and looked at his watch; it was nearly dinner time. He hid the books and the letters under a loose floorboard, wrote Ron a quick answer with a Muggle pen, and sent it back with Pigwidgeon. Then he went down to the kitchen for dinner.
The Dursleys never starved him, but they never gave him too much food either. And they always, invariably, ignored him. So it was certainly very strange when Uncle Vernon turned to him after dessert and said gruffly:
"We're going to Majorca for a month, boy, and we're not about to take you with us."
"Will I stay here by myself?" asked Harry timidly, his heart giving a leap.
"Don't interrupt! You'll stay at Mrs. Figg's. She's willing to take you in."
Harry's heart sank to his feet. Mrs. Figg was a grouchy old lady whose house reeked of cats and whose monotonous lifestyle possibly even excelled the Dursleys' in boredom.
"You'll stay there until the 31st, and no funny business, you hear?"
Harry's mind was racing. Until the 31st? When was he to get his Hogwarts materials? He had gotten his Hogwarts letter several days before, and many new books were required.
"But what about - " he tried to protest.
"No buts!" roared Uncle Vernon. "We don't want anyone to know about your - abnormality. You're going to Mrs. Figg's, and you're staying there until we come back! You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," replied Harry, thinking hard. He would sneak away from Mrs. Figg's, or send Ron another letter, or something.
"And you will be leaving your - stuff here until we come back," Uncle Vernon added nastily, almost as if he were reading Harry's mind.
*
The next day, the Dursleys dropped Harry off at Mrs. Figg's door on their way to the airport. The only thing Harry carried was a small, torn backpack with his clothes in it. It had been thoroughly searched by Aunt Petunia, so his wand, his broomstick, his Invisibility Cloak, and his spellbooks, were all locked in his room at number four, Privet Drive.
Mrs. Figg opened the door and let him in, muttering something about "grimy adolescents". Then she told Harry where his room was and left him to his own devices.
*
The next few days were probably the most boring Harry had ever been through in his whole life. Mrs. Figg's house hadn't had cats in it for several years, but it still smelled of them. Harry stayed in his room except during mealtimes, and those weren't too often either. Mrs. Figg's cooking tasted very little and often looked slightly mouldy, but he ate it anyway, fearing starvation otherwise.
As the 8th of August came around, Harry became slightly desperate. He'd told Ron that he would be seeing him and Hermione in Diagon Alley on the 9th. What would happen if he didn't show up? Would Ron drive by the window on a flying car like he had during their second year? Harry thought this highly unlikely, so he finally decided that Mrs. Figg must, somehow, be told about his - iabnormality/i.
Harry stepped out of his room and down the stairs to the living room, where Mrs. Figg was sitting in a spindly armchair, knitting something amorphous and grey. Harry walked up to her and cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry.
"Yes?" inquired Mrs. Figg shortly, looking up from her knitting and looking at Harry through wiry glasses. Harry noticed for the first time that her eyes were strangely amber-colored. He cleared his throat again and swallowed.
"Mrs. Figg... er.... There's something I have to tell you...." Harry said weakly, his eyes riveted to the ground.
"Yes?" she asked again. Harry could have sworn there was a glint of laughter in her eyes. He blinked.
"Well, I had... this... er... appointment with some friends of mine and it's... um... tomorrow."
"So?" Mrs. Figg asked. There was no mistake now; she was grinning. This was definitely strange.
"And...." Harry went on, "I need to get to London somehow."
"Don't worry, Harry, I'll make sure you get there," said Mrs. Figg, smiling openly. 'She's got really even teeth', thought Harry blankly before he realized what she had said.
"Really? You - you will?"
"Certainly. We'll leave tomorrow, first hour."
*
Harry got up very early the next morning. He had no idea how Mrs. Figg was going to get him to London, but he was down in the living room "first hour" anyway. He paced around the shabby sofa for a solid half hour before finally going up the steps and knocking impatiently on Mrs. Figg's bedroom door.
"Mrs. Figg?" he called. "I think we're not going to get to London anytime today!"
"Of course we are!" came a voice from the inside of the bedroom. Harry heard strangely sharp footsteps coming towards the door and a key turning in the lock....
A young woman of about thirty-five opened the door. She had light brown hair and soft, golden eyes, and she was smiling. She was wearing neat dark blue robes... irobes/i?
"Well, Harry?" she asked laughingly. "Shall we go?"
Harry gaped at her.
"Who - ?" he croaked feebly. "Who are you?"
"Let's go down to the living room, and I'll explain a little better," she said, stepping out of the room. "I'm Arabella Figg."
1
Harry Potter sat with his back to the poorly papered wall of his bedroom, listening to the rain thundering down on the tiled roof of number four, Privet Drive. He had been watching an intensely boring Muggle movie on TV all morning, and he was now as the product of it thoroughly depressed.
There was a flash of lightning and a distant rumble of thunder as Harry pondered over his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Lord Voldemort had come back yet again, this time with a new body, and seemingly ten times as evil and powerful as he had been before. And somehow, Harry had been responsible for it all.
Harry still blamed himself for Cedric Diggory's death. If he hadn't offered Cedric the Triwizard Cup... if he had just taken it himself.... Then Cedric wouldn't have died. But both of them had been transported by the Triwizard Cup, at the same time. It had happened, and nothing could help it now. Harry sighed heavily and leaned back, trying to block out the fear and the pain as he listened to the rain upon the window.
Somehow, that rain was getting just too loud. Harry got up impatiently and threw open the window; suddenly he was face to face with two owls. One, large and snowy, was his own owl, Hedwig. The other was tiny and brown; it was his friend Ron Weasley's owl, Pigwidgeon. Harry let them in, and they collapsed onto Hedwig's perch after dropping two packages, dripping wet, onto Harry's bed.
Harry grinned at them, poured a little water into Hedwig's feeding bowl, and picked up his packages. The smallest one was from Ron Weasley. He opened the letter that was attached to it and read it out loud to the two birds.
Hello, Harry!
What's up? You're fifteen already!
Harry gasped. Ron was right; it was the first of August, the day before had been his birthday, and he hadn't even noticed.
Ginny's here beside me. She says happy birthday.
Dad says Hogwarts is getting plenty of new transfers from Durmstrang this year. He says they haven't got anyone new for Headmaster since Karkaroff fled.
Any clue who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is?
Bye,
Ron
P.S.: Hope you like my present!
Harry tore off the wet and sturdy wrapping paper, uncovering a small, thin book with silver letters proclaiming its name on the black cover: The Legend of the Knot of Eternity. A small note had been attached to it with spellotape, and Ron's familiar writing read:
Hermione chose it for me, she says it's really good, although it's just a myth. Wait until you see hers, it's awesome. -Ron
Harry grinned again, folded up the letter, and placed the book back on his bed. He picked up Hermione's present, nearly dropping it; it was very heavy. Sitting on the bed with the large package on his lap, he proceeded to unwrap it. The brownish paper fell off easily, revealing a huge book with a scarlet leather cover and gold-rimmed pages. The curly, golden title was, quite simply, iThe Art of Dueling/i. Harry gaped at it, then laughed out loud. The rest of the summer might not be so bad after all. Harry opened Hermione's letter with enthusiasm.
Dear Harry:
Happy Birthday! Did you like my present? I got it at Flourish & Blott's this summer with Ron (Ginny invited me over for a couple of weeks in July).
Lavender wrote me last month and she says the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher will be a witch, but I'm not too sure where she got that from.
We're going to Diagon Alley on the 9th. Will we see you there?
Love from
Hermione.
Harry folded up the letter and looked at his watch; it was nearly dinner time. He hid the books and the letters under a loose floorboard, wrote Ron a quick answer with a Muggle pen, and sent it back with Pigwidgeon. Then he went down to the kitchen for dinner.
The Dursleys never starved him, but they never gave him too much food either. And they always, invariably, ignored him. So it was certainly very strange when Uncle Vernon turned to him after dessert and said gruffly:
"We're going to Majorca for a month, boy, and we're not about to take you with us."
"Will I stay here by myself?" asked Harry timidly, his heart giving a leap.
"Don't interrupt! You'll stay at Mrs. Figg's. She's willing to take you in."
Harry's heart sank to his feet. Mrs. Figg was a grouchy old lady whose house reeked of cats and whose monotonous lifestyle possibly even excelled the Dursleys' in boredom.
"You'll stay there until the 31st, and no funny business, you hear?"
Harry's mind was racing. Until the 31st? When was he to get his Hogwarts materials? He had gotten his Hogwarts letter several days before, and many new books were required.
"But what about - " he tried to protest.
"No buts!" roared Uncle Vernon. "We don't want anyone to know about your - abnormality. You're going to Mrs. Figg's, and you're staying there until we come back! You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," replied Harry, thinking hard. He would sneak away from Mrs. Figg's, or send Ron another letter, or something.
"And you will be leaving your - stuff here until we come back," Uncle Vernon added nastily, almost as if he were reading Harry's mind.
*
The next day, the Dursleys dropped Harry off at Mrs. Figg's door on their way to the airport. The only thing Harry carried was a small, torn backpack with his clothes in it. It had been thoroughly searched by Aunt Petunia, so his wand, his broomstick, his Invisibility Cloak, and his spellbooks, were all locked in his room at number four, Privet Drive.
Mrs. Figg opened the door and let him in, muttering something about "grimy adolescents". Then she told Harry where his room was and left him to his own devices.
*
The next few days were probably the most boring Harry had ever been through in his whole life. Mrs. Figg's house hadn't had cats in it for several years, but it still smelled of them. Harry stayed in his room except during mealtimes, and those weren't too often either. Mrs. Figg's cooking tasted very little and often looked slightly mouldy, but he ate it anyway, fearing starvation otherwise.
As the 8th of August came around, Harry became slightly desperate. He'd told Ron that he would be seeing him and Hermione in Diagon Alley on the 9th. What would happen if he didn't show up? Would Ron drive by the window on a flying car like he had during their second year? Harry thought this highly unlikely, so he finally decided that Mrs. Figg must, somehow, be told about his - iabnormality/i.
Harry stepped out of his room and down the stairs to the living room, where Mrs. Figg was sitting in a spindly armchair, knitting something amorphous and grey. Harry walked up to her and cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry.
"Yes?" inquired Mrs. Figg shortly, looking up from her knitting and looking at Harry through wiry glasses. Harry noticed for the first time that her eyes were strangely amber-colored. He cleared his throat again and swallowed.
"Mrs. Figg... er.... There's something I have to tell you...." Harry said weakly, his eyes riveted to the ground.
"Yes?" she asked again. Harry could have sworn there was a glint of laughter in her eyes. He blinked.
"Well, I had... this... er... appointment with some friends of mine and it's... um... tomorrow."
"So?" Mrs. Figg asked. There was no mistake now; she was grinning. This was definitely strange.
"And...." Harry went on, "I need to get to London somehow."
"Don't worry, Harry, I'll make sure you get there," said Mrs. Figg, smiling openly. 'She's got really even teeth', thought Harry blankly before he realized what she had said.
"Really? You - you will?"
"Certainly. We'll leave tomorrow, first hour."
*
Harry got up very early the next morning. He had no idea how Mrs. Figg was going to get him to London, but he was down in the living room "first hour" anyway. He paced around the shabby sofa for a solid half hour before finally going up the steps and knocking impatiently on Mrs. Figg's bedroom door.
"Mrs. Figg?" he called. "I think we're not going to get to London anytime today!"
"Of course we are!" came a voice from the inside of the bedroom. Harry heard strangely sharp footsteps coming towards the door and a key turning in the lock....
A young woman of about thirty-five opened the door. She had light brown hair and soft, golden eyes, and she was smiling. She was wearing neat dark blue robes... irobes/i?
"Well, Harry?" she asked laughingly. "Shall we go?"
Harry gaped at her.
"Who - ?" he croaked feebly. "Who are you?"
"Let's go down to the living room, and I'll explain a little better," she said, stepping out of the room. "I'm Arabella Figg."
