Harry Potter and the Strange Twist
AN: REVAMPED CHAPTER!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, if I did why would I write a fan fiction? Also I know that most of it is straight from the book with a few parts tweaked to fit the time of the story but please bear with me and no flames I am going to stop using direct stuff from the book after this chapter I just need it to keep most of the plot the same. I shall make a small AN where it starts to change from the book majorly but if you read you can see I edited out some of the paragraphs and changed a few words to make it sound like he hadn't been there as long.
Chapter 1 – Escaping Privet Drive
Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many
ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any
other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his
homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night.
And he also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, "Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless discuss." The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph.
Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his inkbottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he'd probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.
The Dursley family of Number Four, Privet Drive, was the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son, Dudley, were Harry's only living relatives. They were Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude toward magic. Harry's dead parents, who had been a witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned under the Dursleys' roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as downtrodden as possible, they would be able to squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had not been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was to lock away Harry's spell books, wand, cauldron, and broomstick at the start of the summer break, and forbid him to talk to the neighbors.
This separation from his spell books had been a real problem for Harry, because his teachers at Hogwarts had given him a lot of holiday work. One of the essays, a particularly nasty one about Shrinking Potions, was for Harry's least favorite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had therefore seized his chance on the very next day. While Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire Uncle Vernon's new company car (in very loud voices, so that the rest of the street would notice it too), Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the cupboard under the stairs,grabbed some of his books, and hidden them in his bedroom. As long as he didn't leave spots of ink on the sheets, the Dursleys need never know that he was studying magic by night.
Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant, grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late, Harry thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finish this essay tomorrow night…
He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, A History of Magic, his essay, quill, and ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.
It was one o'clock in the morning. Stretching Harry walked over to the windowsill and propped himself up watching the stars twinkle in the late night sky.
Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was just as it always had been, stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.
Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most extraordinary and unusual of all. It was not, as the Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of the car crash that had killed Harry's parents, because Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash. They had been murdered by the most feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, whereas Voldemort's curse, instead of killing him, had rebounded upon its caster. Barely alive, Voldemort had fled…
But Harry had come face-to-face with him at Hogwarts twice now. Remembering their last meeting as he stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he was lucky even to have lived this long.
It was only three days into vacation but Harry was already wishing to be back in the wizarding world. Silently he went over to Hedwig's cage and stroked her feathers, for which she gave Harry a reassuring hoot. Glancing at the clock he saw that it was already two a.m. in the morning. Deciding to get a bit of sleep Harry walked over to his bed and collapsed onto it sleepily letting sleep overtake him.
****Scene Break****
Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually.
Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of mustache. None of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict.
"… The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately."
"No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy lay about! Look at his hair!"
He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed.
The reporter had reappeared. "The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today —"
"Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"
Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding neighbors.
"When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these people?"
"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door's runner-beans.
Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."
Harry, who had been thinking about a way to escape the Dursleys early, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.
"Aunt Marge?" he blurted out. "Sh-she's not coming here, is she?"
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry's (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), he had been forced to call her 'Aunt' all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs.
She didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry's mind.
At Dudley's fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked Harry around the shins with her walking stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry.
On her last visit, the year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight.
The memory of this incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley's eyes.
"Marge will be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, "and while we're on the subject," he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry, "we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her."
Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley's favorite form of entertainment.
"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your head when you're talking to Marge."
"All right," said Harry bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me."
"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any — any funny stuff while she's here. You behave yourself, got me?"
"I will if she does," said Harry through gritted teeth.
"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."
"What?" Harry yelled.
"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble," spat Uncle Vernon.
Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a weeklong visit was positively horrendous.
"Well, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, "I'll be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?"
"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.
"Duddy's got to make himself smart for his auntie," said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley's thick blond hair. "Mummy's bought him a lovely new bow-tie."
Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder. "See you in a bit, then," he said, and he left the kitchen.
Harry sat in a kind of horrified trance for a bit before rushing up to his room. Slamming his door he grabbed last years transfigurations textbook and read a bit of it while he cooled off his steamed head. Sighing loudly Harry tossed the book onto the bed and went over to Hedwig. "Hey girl imam let you out for the week. There is no way I am going to let you stay here with that fat bitch here. Go find Ron or Hermione and stay with them for a week ok? You can come back as soon as the weeks over."
Hedwig's large amber eyes were reproachful. "I'm sorry girl but you have to go for me please?"
Hedwig hooted softly and nipped his ear affectionately before taking off out the open window. Sighing Harry went downstairs as he heard Uncle Vernon pull into the driveway. With a feeling of coming doom Harry stepped into the living room where everyone was sitting.
****Scene Break****
Harry got through the next three days by forcing himself to think about his Quidditch matches whenever Aunt Marge started on him. This worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a glazed look, because Aunt Marge started voicing the opinion that he was mentally subnormal.
That night, one week into vacation and the fourth day of Marge's stay, Aunt Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a single mention of Harry's faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon bored them a with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy.
"Can I tempt you, Marge?"
Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very red. "Just a small one, then," she chuckled. "A bit more than that… and a bit more… that's the ticket."
Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon's angry little eyes and knew he would have to sit it out.
"Ah," said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy glass back down. "Excellent nosh, Petunia. It's normally just a fry-up for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after…" She burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach. "Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I'll have a spot more brandy, Vernon…"
"Now, this one here —" She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach clench. Quidditch, he thought quickly.
"This one's got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was, weak, underbred."
Harry was trying to remember his first ever Quidditch match.
"It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia" — she patted Aunt Petunia's bony hand with her shovel-like one "but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result right in front of us."
Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his ears. 'I was circling the pitch watching Katie score a few goals', he thought. But he couldn't remember what came next. Aunt Marge's voice seemed to be boring into him like one of Uncle Vernon's drills.
"This Potter," said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, "you never told me what he did?"
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents. "He — didn't work," said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at Harry. "Unemployed."
"As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who —"
"He was not," said Harry suddenly. The table went very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never felt so angry in his life.
"MORE BRANDY!" yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy," he snarled at Harry. "Go to bed, go on —"
"No, Vernon," hiccupped Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect) —"
"They didn't die in a car crash!" said Harry, who found himself on his feet.
"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little —"
But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger — but the swelling didn't stop.
Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami…
"MARGE!" yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia together as Aunt Marge's whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking madly.
"NOOOOOOO!"
Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge's feet and tried to pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon's leg.
Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could stop him, heading for the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically open as he reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig's empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters.
"COME BACK IN HERE!" he bellowed. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!"
But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon. "She deserved it," Harry said, breathing very fast. "She deserved what she got. You keep away from me."
He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. "I'm going," Harry said. "I've had enough."
And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig's cage under his arm.
****Scene Break****
Harry was several streets away before he collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart.
A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made Harry feel he was being watched, quickly looking around he saw that the street appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from any of the large square houses.
He bent over his trunk, but almost immediately stood up, his hand clenched on his wand. He had sensed rather than heard it: someone or something was standing in the narrow gap between the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted at the black alleyway. If only it would move, then he'd know whether it was just a stray cat or — something else.
"Lumos," Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the end of his wand, almost dazzling him. He held it high over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming eyes.
Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in the gutter.
There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding light…
With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry had just been lying.
They belonged, as Harry saw when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus.
For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak loudly to the night.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve—"
The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his wand again and scrambled to his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was only a few years older than he was, eighteen or nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and quite a few pimples.
"What were you doin' down there?" said Stan, dropping his professional manner.
"Fell over," said Harry.
"'Choo fall over for?" sniggered Stan.
"I didn't do it on purpose," said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus's headlamps were flooding it with light, (AN: here you go this is where it starts to change enjoy xP) and standing there was a huge black dog.
"Blimey tha's one big dog. He yours?"
The dog, which had been looking at them interestedly, suddenly bounded over to Harry and licked him on the face. Harry thought it might have been a trick of the light but he could swear he saw a grin on the dog's face. Still a bit shocked Harry managed to say, though he had no idea why, "Yes I guess he is."
Stan, turned his attention away from the dog and said, "Right then I guess he can ride wif' you wherever your goin'."
The dog seemed to be thrilled by this idea and bounded onto the bus. Smiling slightly Harry climbed to his feet absentmindedly brushing the hair out of his eyes.
Stan's eyes move to the scar on Harry's forehead.
"Woss that on your 'ead?" said Stan abruptly.
"Nothing," said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over his scar.
"Woss your name again?" Stan persisted.
"Neville Longbottom," said Harry, saying the first name that came into his head.
"So — so this bus," he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, "did you say it goes anywhere?"
"Yep," said Stan proudly, "anywhere you like, 'long it's on land, can't do nuffink underwater.
"Good can you get me and my dog to London?"
"Sure thing. It'll be eleven sickles."
Rummaging in his trunk he grabbed his money bag and paid Stan before helping him lift his trunk onto the bus. It was filled with brass bedsteads. He quickly dumped his trunk under the one that the dog was sitting on. Putting Hedwig's cage down next to him, he sat back for the ride.
****Scene Break****
As Harry dragged his trunk off the bus he had only one thought, 'I am SO glad that that is over.' Dragging his trunk into the Leaky Cauldron Harry was met with the last thing he wanted to see after blowing his aunt up, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.
As the dog nudged him from behind Harry walked forward and was greeted by the Minister. "Hello Harry."
"Hello sir," said Harry politely which got a small smile from Fudge. Just then a stooping figure came out from behind the bar, it was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.
"You've got him, Minister!" said Tom. "Will you want anything? Beer? Brandy?"
"Perhaps a pot of tea," said Fudge, "And a private parlor, please, Tom."
(AN: this is the same chat from the book so if you're not a complete dunderhead and remember it you can skip this part)
Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after Tom's lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the grate, and he bowed himself out of the room.
"Sit down, Harry," said Fudge, indicating a chair by the fire.
Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his arms despite the glow of the fire. Fudge took off his pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down opposite Harry.
"I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic."
Harry already knew this, of course; he had seen Fudge once before, but as he had been wearing his father's Invisibility Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn't to know that.
Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets. He placed the tray on a table between Fudge and Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind him.
"Well, Harry," said Fudge, pouring out tea, "you've had us all in a right flap, I don't mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle's house like that! I'd started to think… but you're safe, and that's what matters." Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the plate toward Harry.
"Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then… You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured and her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the incident at all. So that's that, and no harm done."
Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew. Harry, who couldn't believe his ears, opened his mouth to speak, couldn't think of anything to say, and closed it again.
"Ah, you're worrying about the reaction of your aunt and uncle?" said Fudge. "Well, I won't deny that they are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to take you back next summer as long as you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays."
Harry unstuck his throat. "I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays," he said, "and I don't ever want to go back to Privet Drive."
"Now, now, I'm sure you'll feel differently once you've calmed down," said Fudge in a worried tone. "They are your family, after all, and I'm sure you are fond of each other — err — very deep down."
It didn't occur to Harry to put Fudge right. He was still waiting to hear what was going to happen to him now.
"So all that remains," said Fudge, now buttering himself a second crumpet, "is to decide where you're going to spend the last month and a half of your vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron and…"
"Hang on," blurted Harry. "What about my punishment?"
Fudge blinked. "Punishment?"
"I broke the law!" Harry said. "The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry!"
"Oh, my dear boy, we're not going to punish you for a little thing like that!" cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. "It was an accident! We don't send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!"
But this didn't tally at all with Harry's past dealings with the Ministry of Magic. "Last year, I got an official warning just because a house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle's house!" he told Fudge, frowning. "The Ministry of Magic said I'd be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more magic there!"
Unless Harry's eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was suddenly looking awkward. "Circumstances change, Harry… We have to take into account… in the present climate… Surely you don't want to be expelled?"
"Of course I don't," said Harry.
"Well then, what's all the fuss about?" laughed Fudge. "Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if Tom's got a room for you."
Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after him. There was something extremely odd going on. Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he'd done? And now Harry came to think of it, surely it wasn't usual for the Minister of Magic himself to get involved in matters of underage magic?
Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper. "Room eleven's free, Harry," said Fudge. "I think you'll be very comfortable just one thing, and I'm sure you'll understand… I don't want you wandering off into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you're to be back here before dark each night. Sure you'll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me."
"Okay," said Harry slowly, "but why?"
"Don't want to lose you again, do we?" said Fudge with a hearty laugh. "No, no… best we know where you are… I mean…" Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.
"Well, I'll be off, plenty to do, you know…" (AN: Ok that's the end of the chat.)
"Thanks… Minister," And with a last smile and shake of Harry's hand, Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, beaming at Harry.
"If you'll follow me, Mr. Potter and bring your dog," he said, "I've already taken your things up…"
Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocked and opened for him.
Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some highly polished oak furniture, and a cheerfully crackling fire. The dog bounded into the room and settled onto the rug in front of the fire. Also, perched on top of the wardrobe was —
"Hedwig!" Harry gasped.
The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry's arm.
"Very smart owl you've got there," chuckled Tom. "She arrived about five minutes after you did. If there's anything you need, Mr. Potter, don't hesitate to ask." He gave another bow and left.
Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Harry could hardly believe that he'd left Privet Drive only a few hours ago, that he wasn't expelled, and that he was now facing a month and a half completely Dursley-free.
"It's been a very weird night, Hedwig," he yawned. And without even removing his glasses, he slumped back onto his pillows and fell asleep.