Authors' Notes for Harry Potter and the Doomspell Potion

Disclaimer

Characters and settings that you recognize from the Harry Potter books are property of J. K. Rowling. No rights to them are claimed or implied. Thank you J. K. for letting us play in your magical world.

History of Doomspell Potion

Harry Potter and the Doomspell Potion was conceived in 1999, after Prisoner of Azkaban appeared and the wait for Book IV seemed interminable. Extrapolating from the first three books, we began writing in December 1999. The original chapter 9 (Spring) was under internal review, and chapters 10 and 11 (Return, and Partings) were completely plotted, when Goblet of Fire came out. Any similarities to events in Goblet of Fire predate the real Book IV's release on July 8, 2000.

Authors' identitities (written late July 2000, more in author profile)

Pogonia, aged forty-something, is an engineer practicing in the northeast US. She claims responsibility for the millimoles to parts per million conversions and other unpleasant details of the Potions labs, and for the choice of murder victims. This is her first fanfic.

Medusa is an aspiring university student in London, who grew up at a school much like Hogwarts (except it was a Muggle school...or so she has led Pogonia to believe). If you happened to laugh at anything in Doomspell Potion, it's probably something she wrote.

Chapter 1: Summer at the Dursleys'

"Brrrrrring!"

With a practiced swing, Harry Potter launched himself back and slapped the top of the alarm clock, bringing the noise to an abrupt stop. The clock read 5:45, and a pinkish dawn was breaking. Another alarm sounded faintly down the hall, followed by a low groan. Harry pulled on his socks and sprinted down the stairs to begin breakfast. As he poured the orange juice, the bathroom door slammed and the stairs began to creak. Harry was ready.

"Mmph." Vernon Dursley grunted, settling heavily into his chair. Harry set down a dish of sausages and slid three eggs onto a warmed plate.

"Bloody runny again," grumbled his uncle. "Toast?"

"Right here." Harry deposited toast, butter and marmalade on the table and was refilling his uncle's coffee mug when his aunt Petunia entered the kitchen. Her thin lips pursed and she rolled her eyes upwards.

"Your hair's a disgrace," she declared. "Who's going to hire a boy that looks like a sheepdog?" Not really expecting a reply, she went on. "What's your schedule today?" Harry poured milk, then tea into a cup and handed it to her.

"Lawn mowing for the Entwhistles and the Pratts in the morning. Tutoring Tarquin Polkiss in maths at noon. Scraping paint on the Mouldens' garage. And Mrs. Figg's cats and garden again." Much as he disliked her cats, Harry felt grateful to Mrs. Figg for the summer job, which Dudley had botched so badly that it had passed to him, along with as many other odd jobs as Petunia could find for him around the neighborhood. Since Vernon's leveraged buyout of Grunning's drill factory that spring, business had been slow, and he had taken to putting in long hours at work. His secretary had been sacked to save money, and Petunia had taken over her job. Every night the two of them returned exhausted and swallowed their dinner in silence, too tired to berate Harry or to pay attention to Dudley's chatter about hip throws and choke holds.

Petunia fixed Harry with her usual hard stare. "Mind you're polite, boy, it'll bring in a better tip. We'll be home at quarter past six: have dinner on the table, along with your wages. It's your birthday, so make a cake for dessert. Chocolate with white icing. You can do the washing tonight." She drained her cup and held it out for a refill.

Vernon cleared his throat. "Mind our garden too, it's a right tip."

"Absolutely. It sets an example. Do it before you start at the Entwhistles'. Did you ask Mrs. Pickles about ironing?

"No. Meaning, she said no. But she'll pay me to pick up their washing from Grady's Supawash this afternoon."

Petunia sniffed. "Grady's? No wonder they always look rumpled. Very well, put it on your list. And don't disturb Dudley. He's training."

Harry had nearly finished weeding the front garden when Dudley emerged, his vast bulk squeezed into an orange and maroon sweatsuit. He yawned, swung his shoulders back and forth half a dozen times, then strained to touch his toes and settled for reaching his ankles. Bright red under his pale blond hair, he shuffled through the gate for his morning run. Harry let out his breath in relief. Since the start of Dudley's wrestling craze he had never felt quite safe. Every day Dudley arose late, pounded his way slowly around the block, then retired to his room to lift weights and watch professional wrestling videos. Evenings he would work out with his friends, a sullen boy from Stonewall and jolly, cruel Piers Polkiss, until they had dropped enough dumbbells on his bedroom floor to infuriate Uncle Vernon; then it was time to practice joint locks on Harry. If Dudley wasn't getting any smarter, Harry mused ruefully, he was most certainly getting stronger.

Harry finished his weeding and sprinted off to Mrs. Figg's. The arrangement wasn't perfect, but it was working out tolerably well for everyone. Harry had a measure of liberty, as did Hedwig, who stayed in the rafters of Mrs. Figg's back porch. He had neighbors to talk with, and the pleasure of corresponding with Ron and Hermione by owl post. Unfortunately, Harry's earnings had given the Dursleys yet another motive for keeping him home from Hogwarts in the fall. He remembered his uncle's words of the night before. "It's high time you earned your keep," Vernon had remarked when Harry handed over his wages. "Tips too! And if you try holding out on me, you'll regret it!"

Harry had dropped the last five-pence piece into his uncle's hand, hoping that he had managed to look angry enough. He thought again with satisfaction of the golden pound coin enroute to Ron for safekeeping. The neighbors never tipped him much, and he had to give most of it up, but bit by bit he was accumulating enough Muggle money for an escape back to Hogwarts in the fall. I wonder what they'll try this year, he thought, remembering the Dursleys' past stratagems. No matter what it takes, he resolved, I'll get away. And I hope I never come back.

Loping up the driveway, Harry was surprised to see Hedwig perched on the verandah railing, waiting for him. "Back already?" he asked. He unwound the tiny scroll from her leg. It was a birthday note from Ron, but had a postscript at the bottom in a different hand.

P.S. Ickle Harrykins –

We've heard about your little difficulty and have just the plan for you. Book the Knight Bus and a room at the Leaky Cauldron for the night of August 31. We'll take care of the rest. Those pathetic Muggles that call themselves your family will be having the time of their so-called lives and will never miss you. Trust us. We mean it this time, really.

Fred (and George)

P.P.S. For the record, this won't require magic, just Mum's Muggle cousin who happened to owe the two of us a large favor. So keep your hair combed, old man, and we'll see you in Diagon Alley the morning of September 1.

Remember, just trust us!

George (and Fred)

Several days later, the Dursleys arrived home to find a fat, official-looking envelope in their post. "Dudley," called Petunia shrilly, "there's a letter for you, sweet boy!" A crash of barbells on the second floor and the pounding of heavy feet on the stairs told Harry that Dudley was about to take the bait.

"Don't call me that, Mum", whined Dudley, reaching for the letter. Harry peeked out of the kitchen in time to see Vernon snatch it out of his hand. He scanned the envelope. "World Wrestling Federation? What in blazes is this?"

"Give it here, Dad, give it here!" Trembling with anticipation, Dudley ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Four small white cards and a large one fell out. "Yippee!" Harry leaned against the door and bit his tongue to keep from laughing as Dudley picked up the cards – finally reaching to the floor for the first time all summer. "They're tickets! To a professional wrestling match! Please, Mum, Dad, can we go?"

"Wrestling!" Petunia exclaimed, her voice quivering with disdain. "A Dursley at a wrestling match! Unthinkable!"

Vernon examined the tickets, then whistled in amazement. "Fifty quid each! What's the letter say?"

Dudley read, excitedly, stumbling at the end.

Dear Mr. Dursley,

Please accept these tickets and dinner for four as a gesture of thanks for your fan letters and your support of Professional Wrestling in Great Britain.

Yours very truly,

Bogdan the Magnificent

(Zdzislaw M. Kurtyka)

"Oh, Dudley!" Petunia exclaimed in horror. "Professional wrestling? But it's so very... common! And you wrote to those freaks? Did you really communicate with the sort of person who makes a living of fisticuffs?"

"But Mum, he's the greatest! Totally awesome!" Petunia glared at him. "Topping, I mean. I wanna go! I wanna go! Oh, please, oh please…" Vernon and Petunia exchanged silent glances.

"I wouldn't be seen dead at that sort of vulgar exhibition," sneered Petunia, disgust dripping from her voice. "And where is the so-called dinner? At some dreadful little chip shop? Or a McDonald's?"

Vernon turned over the card. "Hmm… The card says the Blenkinsop Inn, Petunia. Have you ever heard of it?"

Petunia's eyes opened wide. "Oh my, yes! It was written up in "Gourmet Dining" just last month. Are there reservations?"

"It looks real enough," said Vernon tentatively, "but I'd better call in the morning to be certain of it." He glared suspiciously at Harry. "We don't want any surprises, do we?"

"Well if it is real, could we go?" asked Petunia plaintively. "We haven't been anywhere all summer, not even for Duddykins' birthday. And I'm sick of Harry's cooking. Please, darling?"

Harry crossed his fingers inside the oven mitt and wished as hard as he could.

"Well… " Vernon paused. "All right," he conceded, "but only if I can confirm all the particulars."

"All right? All right? ALLLLL RIGHT!" screamed Dudley. "I want Piers to come along. Can he, Dad? Can he? I'll call him right now. I've got to tell him the news!"

It was only the next day that the Dursleys realized that the wrestling match was to take place on the last day of August. As Vernon and Petunia's argument built into a crescendo, Harry escaped to Mrs. Figg's. He fed her cats, watered her garden, and swept her verandah. By the time he returned to the Dursleys, sounds of construction had replaced the sounds of conflict. Vernon held a cluster of long nails in his mouth, inserting them one by one into the edge of the door under the stairs, nailing it to the frame. "Got the best of you this time, boy," chuckled Vernon around the nails. "All that disgusting gubbins of yours is here in this cupboard, and here it will stay!"

Friday, August 31 dawned crisp and bright. When Harry reached the kitchen Dudley was already there, standing at the open refrigerator drinking milk from the carton. "I can't wait!" exclaimed Dudley. "What will I do until Piers gets here?" Harry looked at the clock. Eleven hours to go. As he passed the table Dudley grabbed his arm and jerked him over. "Look! I downloaded the program for tonight's matches." Harry straightened his glasses and feigned interest in the printout. "This is so exciting! It's almost too good to be true!"

Hearing those words, Harry's heart flip-flopped. Dudley must have sensed something in his manner. He exploded from his seat and pushed Harry backwards across the room, slamming his shoulders against the pantry door. He twisted the front of Harry's shirt and dug his knuckles into Harry's collarbone. "Loser," he growled. "If you're winding me up, I'll give you a leathering you'll never forget. " Trembling, Harry nodded. Dudley moved back, and pondered for a moment. The ends of his mouth curled up into a sly grin. "What do you like to eat for breakfast, punk?"

Harry searched his face, struggling to understand the question. "Breakfast?" he repeated, as Dudley's knuckles dug in deeper. He felt himself flushing with anger. Dudley grinned broadly and shoved him again. "Cross me, punk, and you're - gonna - eat - my - "

"Duddykins!" Petunia's shrill voice sang out cheerily. "It's your big day, sweet boy!" She thudded into the kitchen and took in the situation instantly. "Harry!" she barked. "What's got into you? There's work to be done, and there you are picking a fight!"

Harry grabbed a piece of toast and scooted toward the back door. He dodged Dudley, but not in time to avoid a shove. "Punk!"

A horrified expression spread over Petunia's face.

"Dudley! Wherever did you learn that nasty American slang? Why can't you use a nice English word instead?"

By the time he had finished digging the hole for Petunia's new flowering cherry tree, an hour was gone from his sentence. By the time he finished planting the Fogartys' daffodil bulbs and mowing their lawn, there were only three hours to go. He was unloading the clothes dryer in the garage when he heard Piers Polkiss's racing bike squealing into the driveway. Almost there. Harry dropped the last sock into the laundry basket and trotted back towards the house. What he saw at the back door made his stomach lurch. Vernon and Petunia were waiting for him. Behind them Dudley and Piers stood expectantly, their hands full.

"Give me the basket, Harry." Petunia reached out for the laundry. Harry handed it to her and turned to Vernon. "What's going on?" he demanded.

His uncle pulled out a long thin key. "You're spending tonight in the garage," he said with malicious cheer. "Can't take any chances on another escape attempt, can we?" Dudley nudged Piers and waggled a hammer in the air. Piers waved back with a two-by-four and a handful of nails.

"Right-o, Harry", sneered Dudley. "Off you go to the garage with the other rubbish! Have a lovely evening." He nudged Piers in the ribs and snickered.

"Wait!" said Harry, "you can't." His mind worked furiously. "I'm babysitting for the Fogartys tonight. Seven to midnight. They're paying me double since they asked only this noon... " His voice trailed off.

Vernon and Petunia exchanged glances. "Double? That's thirty pound for the evening! They must be made of money," exclaimed Petunia. She moved her tongue surreptitiously over her lip. "I'd better ring them up."

Dudley hopped back and forth, his belly jiggling. "Never mind, Mum. We'll be late. Please, let's get in the car!"

"Be still!" ordered Vernon, and the boys fell silent. Behind his father's back Dudley continued his nailing game, and Piers beat on an imaginary door and pretended to weep. After a long minute Petunia returned. "No answer," she said with a grimace.

"Please, Dad, Mum, please?" urged Dudley. Tears came into his eyes, and Harry wondered whether Dudley could still cry at will. Piers looked at him and guffawed.

"C'mon, Duds, we'll wait in the car. They won't back out just because of that little rat."

Dropping the tools onto the verandah, the boys pelted across the lawn. Petunia followed. Vernon glanced after her, then dropped the key into his pocket. "Any funny business…" he began sternly.

"I know," Harry cut in. "Dudley told me this morning."

"All right, then. Back to work. And get those tools out of here." Pressing his lips together, Vernon stomped after his wife. Harry did not move until he saw the car pull out of the driveway. He waited another minute, then two, hardly believing they were gone. For the first time in his life, he had the house to himself. For the first time, no one would stop him from leaving. He walked over to Mrs. Figg's to check on the cats and fetch Hedwig, then slowly wrote a note to his aunt and uncle and put it on the front table. Now there was nothing to do but wait.