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Part 1: Him, Himself & Hermione

Episode II

Harry growled angrily as he stomped through the rain, away from Privet Drive and onto Magnolia Crescent. All he could think was how much of a – of a plain and utter bitch Marge could be. He would even have gotten Vernon to sign that bloody Hogsmeade permission slip ("If you breathe one godforsaken word, about – about – about your Freakishness –" his uncle had threatened, looking a foul shade of puce, before Harry managed to convince him that, perhaps, he needed some persuasion to stay true to his word instead of babbling on and on about magic) but she had to screw it up by bringing up his parents. Really, if she'd chosen to rage about something else – anything else, from his own freakishness to the nosiness of her neighbours in the past few months to Colonel Fubster not caring for her dogs as he should've – he'd have been good.

But no. But no. No, of course not. No way anything would ever go his way. And now, he'd have to do without Hogsmeade for the year (and likely for the rest of his time at Hogwarts), and an ugly, fat, naked aunt would be giving astronauts nightmares within hours. Wonderful.

Well, maybe MIR could pick her up before she started orbiting. Or not, and she could go all the way to Mars. Harry shrugged to himself, trudging further along the path next to the road. It wasn't like he was planning on seeing her again, after all, and if she did die and Harry was asked to attend the funeral, he could always send a nice congratulatory card.

(Of course he didn't think this way. Not really. Even if she was the worst human being Harry had ever had displeasure of meeting, Voldemort included, she was still family, in an odd, awkward, fucked-up kind of way. And he never could and never would want family dead, despite whatever past transgressions they might've had. But he wouldn't admit to that if it killed him.)

Still, the Permission Slip wasn't actually what Vernon had given him the most grief over. Ron, for all his kindness, had sent him a pocket-sized Sneakoscope, which, since it had no 'off' button, was constantly whirring and whistling whenever anyone other than Harry came close to it. Vernon had threatened, multiple times, to throw it out of the window, and the only reason he refrained was likely because the neighbours would, of course, ask questions – questions he didn't want to answer.

But even then, that wasn't the worst part of his summer. No, the worst part came when Hagrid's present, the Monstrous Book of Monsters, decided to eat his homework. That's right. A book ate his homework. Somehow, Harry didn't think McGonagall would believe that particular excuse, no matter how truthful it actually was.

Honestly, Harry loved the man, but if Hagrid sent something like that ever again, he might have to clamp it around his beard just to make him realise that, no, dangerous things like that did not make for good presents.

Now annoyed again, Harry sighed, setting his trunk down and plopping down on the lid. Honestly, he didn't know what to do anymore. He certainly couldn't go back to the Dursleys – at least, not without possibly sustaining grievous bodily harm at the hands of his uncle – and he didn't have a way to contact the Wizarding World–

That thought pulled him up short. Yes, he did have a way to head to the Wizarding World, perhaps to the Leaky Cauldron, to rent a room; the Knight Bus. Hermione had been ranting about it in the common room a few months earlier – with her nose scrunched up cutely, as she always did when she ranted, and kindly fuck off now, thoughts, 'cause that's my friend you're talking about; and why do I even remember that conversation? – because according to her it was a completely irresponsible way of travel, practically guaranteed to kill a couple dozen Muggles casually crossing the road a day. Harry hadn't picked up on why, exactly, it should be killing people, but it couldn't actually be that bad, could it?

Whipping out his wand again, Harry flicked it at the street, and, half a second later – BANG!

The Knight Bus, somehow, looked exactly like how Hermione had described it. A gigantic, violently purple double-decker bus had suddenly pulled up on the previously completely empty street, brushing the tips of Harry's shoes as he flinched backwards ins surprise with its side while it lurched forwards, the hind wheels picking up off the ground as it slowed down with a speed that should have been physically impossible. A man in a battered conductor's uniform was hanging out from the open door casually as the hind end came down with a loud SMASH, smiling blandly at the seated Harry as he repeated his obviously well-rehearsed lines.

"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 evening." Shunpike then blinked, as if only suddenly realising what he was seeing, and peered down at Harry with a raised eyebrow. "Oi, wha'choo you sittin' down there for?"

Harry scowled at the rude man as he stood up and pulled out his wallet without answering. "How much for the Leaky Cauldron?"

Shunpike didn't even blink. "Eleven sickles," He said easily, "but for firteen you get 'ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an 'ot –water bottle an' a toofbrush in the colour of your choice. Galleon fer boff."

Harry, suddenly recalling that he hadn't had the time to grab his toothbrush from the bathroom, paid him fifteen. "Hold the water, and I want mine in red." Shunpike nodded, produced a bright red toothbrush from his back pocket, and accepted the offered money, directing him to one of the beds – beds? – to sit down on.

"Firs' time on the Knight Bus?" Shunpike asked amicably, and when Harry nodded, he grinned. "Well, I 'ope tha'choo enjoy 'em Muggle theme park rides, then. I 'eard it's a lot like this."

The younger Wizard blinked. That seemed unlikely because, again, how bad could it possibly be? It had to stay safe, didn't it?

Mere seconds after Harry sat down on one of the beds and managed to stuff his new toothbrush in his pocket alongside his wand, Shunpike (and Harry narrowed his eyes; the conductor looked much too happy now) shouted, "Take 'er away, Ern!"

With an ear-shattering BANG!, the bus suddenly shot off at what must have been a few hundred miles an hour, and the beds rolled around, crashing into each other as somehow the other Wizards and Witches on said beds stayed asleep, peacefully snoring away. Stan was reading the Daily Prophet, looking as if it were merely a minor disturbance every time the bus went around a corner while Harry had to hold on for dear life lest he fall off of his bed and be trampled by the others.

"Enjoyin' the ride?" Shunpike, the bastard, quirked a friendly eyebrow over his newspaper, and Harry glowered, digging his feet into the floor of the bus in an attempt to stop his bed from rolling, and for a brief second, it worked – then, the Wizard lying on the bed behind him slammed into him, and he was flying across the bus again, slamming into the wall across the way moments later with a loud CRASH!

Shunpike sniggered, nonchalantly flipping a page of his Prophet. "'Choo when the next stop is, Ern? An' 'choo know where we are, anyway?"

"Scotland." Ern answered shortly, and Harry goggled. "Fetch Mister During. We're nearing Aberdeen, half a minute, tops."

"Scotland?" Harry asked, baffled, as Shunpike moved away upstairs, presumably to fetch the aforementioned Mister During. "How are we in Scotland already?"

"Magic." Ern grunted. He didn't seem a man of very many words.

"There you are, Jeff." Shunpike smiled, leading an old, balding man along in between the rolling beds towards the door. "One Aberdeen, coming up." He clearly hadn't been expecting an answer, because as soon as the doors shot open, the green-faced Jeff was pushed outside, his cane following him a brief second later; then, as the doors slammed shut and with another BANG! the bus shot away again, the last glimpse Harry caught of Jeff was his cane smacking against the back of his head as he tripped over his own two feet.

"'Oo's up next?" Shunpike called to Ern as the quite possibly blind driver rounded a corner and wound up nearly crashing into a family of Muggles, before the entire bus jolted as a security measure activated and deposited them in the centre of the road again, going the same speed they were before.

Ern glanced at the small list taped to the side of his window. "…Miss Bog. Dublin. Central tube station."

"But – that's across the water, on another – another island!" Harry gaped at Shunpike, who looked much too amused. "How's that even possible?"

"Magic." Ern grunted again.

"How come the Muggles aren't noticing us, anyway?" Harry asked then, directing his question to Shunpike, who was reading through his paper again. He scowled at the man's smirk. "And if you say magic, I won't be held responsible for any damage your face might suffer from a high-velocity impact with my fist."

Shunpike laughed. "Nah, tha's got nuffin to do wif magic. Muggles are ignoran', see," He explained. "'Cause they don' know 'bout magic, they dismiss anyfin' strange as a trick o' the ligh', like a bright purple bus speedin' past wiv several 'undred miles an hour, or a sudden pop from a disillusioned Wizard or Witch tha's apparatin' 'round, which happened to come from a few feet away. Now, if someone tha' does know 'bout Magic sees us speedin' past, even if they're Muggle, they'll know, 'Oh, the Knight Bus's goin' 'round again.'"

"And Notice-Me-Not charms." Ern grunted from his place behind the steering wheel, and Shunpike rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, those too, but I di'n' wanna get decked in the face for sayin' Magic, now did I?" He suddenly blinked at Harry, looking quite surprised. "Say, wha'choo say your name was? Di'choo even give it?"

"Seamus." Harry lied quickly, clinging on to the edge of his bed as Ern went around another bed, because telling a bus full of people that Harry Potter was sitting right there didn't seem such a good idea. "Seamus Finnegan."

Shunpike peered at his face. "Funny. 'Choo don' seem very Irish."

Just as Harry was trying (and failing) to come up with another lie, however, Ern inadvertently came to his rescue. "Goin' over water, now." He grunted, swinging the bus around to drive towards the sea, which Harry could see approaching from the distance very, very quickly. "Brace yourself."

Then, they were skipping over the water like a particularly well-tossed rock, and the entire bus started shaking up and down hard enough for Harry's teeth to start shattering hard enough that he felt like they were about to break. He couldn't even speak or yell abuse at Shunpike, who was still standing comfortably near the door, not looking the least bit disturbed by the fact that the bus was now skidding along the entire Irish Sea without any real protection should a whale decide that a giant purple bus made a perfectly fine snack. Not that whales came over there, but still, it was the principle of the thing – and they still had to go back, too.

"This's always my favouri'e part o' the ride." Shunpike grinned, looking nearly sadistic as Harry glared at his insufferable face. "Always a couple people tha' need to be in Ireland for some reason or another."

"When's the next stop at the Leaky?" Harry managed to ask through shattering teeth, fervently hoping for this nightmare to be over so he could just go to bed and be done with things for the day.

Ern glanced at his list. "Couple stops." He informed him shortly, sounding as comfortable as Shunpike did. "Dublin, Snowdon Peak, then London."

"Good." Harry sighed in relief, and blinked when he realised that large, black rocks were already in sight. "Wait, that's Ireland?"

Shunpike glanced behind him, at the approaching cliffs. "Sure it is, Seamus." He shot Harry a puzzled glance. "Di'choo think we'd be takin' tha' much longer?"

"Well, yes." Harry admitted, glancing up at the cliffside that was steadily growing larger, and larger, and larger. He paled. "We're not going to smash into that, are we?"

"'Course not." Shunpike assured, and Harry sighed in relief. But the conductor paused, before amending, "Well, we will, bu' then the security thingies will jus' activate, an' dump us up above."

"Wait, what?"

Then, just as they were about to hit the cliff – BANG! The bus slammed to a stop, suddenly on a street in a place where it was incredibly rainy, and Shunpike leaned out of the side of the bus, looking completely unsurprised by this sudden development. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded – oi, 'choo do tha' for?" A smallish grumpy-looking man suddenly came stomping past Harry's bed and up the ladder, and Shunpike was left standing in the doorway, his hand closed around a pile of Galleons that hadn't been there before. Then, he shrugged, pocketed the money, stepped inside, and the doors slammed shut again. "One more for the Leaky; add 'im to the list, Ern."

Ern grunted, scratched something onto his list with a quill, and with another BANG! they were off again, shooting towards the cliffside once more, before another BANG! had them shooting upwards, over the cliff and onto the grass on top of it. "'Choo were sayin'?" Shunpike asked Harry, who shook his head, still clutching his heart.

"Nothing. I said nothing."

Shunpike smirked, clearly having deduced what Harry was thinking, but returned to his newspaper without another word. Harry blinked at the face on the cover, turning his head sideways so he could actually appreciate it. "Wait, wasn't he on the Muggle news?" He asked, pointing at the man, and Shunpike blinked, turning the paper around to look at the cover.

"I'd imagine so, wouldn'choo?" He asked rhetorically, returning to his earlier page. "You oughta read the Prophet more, Seamus. Black broke outta Azkaban, 'round a week ago, he did. Was all over the fron' page. Couldn't've missed it if you tried."

"Black?" Harry prodded, and Shunpike shot him a strange look.

"Don'choo know?" He sounded genuinely baffled. "Firteen years ago, Halloween. Sirius Black. Blew up twelve Muggles an' a Wizard, in broad dayligh'. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?"

Ern grunted darkly in agreement, somehow weaving the Knight Bus around a Muggle one even though the downtown street they were driving on was distinctly unsuited for such a thing – as in, it literally physically didn't fit, but the Knight Bus apparently didn't much care for silly things like physics.

"'Course, didn' help tha' 'e woz a big supporter o' You-Know-'Oo." Shunpike added, frowning. "No-one really knows why 'e wen' after tha' particular Wizard – Petty-something, I think – but I've heard 'e woz once friends wiv the man. Then, day after his Master's dead, he came 'round an' blew up the entire street just to kill 'im, an' then – 'choo know wha' he did?" Shunpike leaned forwards conspiratorially, as if he were about to tell some big secret; "He stood there as it rained bits o' Muggle, an' laughed. He laughed, as if those lives di'n' really matter, an' he hadn' jus' killed a baker's dozen worth o' human beings. An' when Aurors arrived, he jus' wen', still laughin' his head clean off. Mad, 'e was. Barkin' mad, wasn' 'e, Ern?"

Ern grunted in agreement, even as Shunpike shook his head, moving back to lean against his wall again. "Wasn' even a contest, at tha' point. Don' remember even seein' the trial transcript in the Prophet. Shoved straigh' inta Azkaban – highes' security level, course – without 'nother word. Good riddance, I'd say, wouldn'choo, Ern?"

"Aye." Ern shook his head. "Course, if he wasn't mad before, he'd be now. I'd rather hang myself than to ever even step foot in that place."

"They 'ad a job coverin' it up, di'n' they, Ern?" Shunpike continued, nodding along. "'Ole street blown up an' all them Muggles dead. I 'eard other Muggles 'ad to spend 'alf a month gettin' everyone's pieces together again, 'til there was 'nuff for a proper funeral. An' Petty-whatever, caught in the centre of the blast – mos' they ever found o' him was a pinkie, an' a lil' bit o' blood. The res' woz probably incinerated in the blas', wasn' it, Ern? Wha' was it they told 'em Muggles, anyway? Some kinda terrorist attack?"

"Gas explosion." Ern grunted, swinging the bus around into what Harry presumed was Dublin, as he followed up with, "Fetch Miss Bog, Stan."

"Right-o." Shunpike nodded, hopping up the ladder and out of sight. His voice drifted down from above, clearly not yet done with his story. "So now, Black's out, an' everyone an' their mother's ou' an abou' tryna catch him – Miss Bog? We've arrived at your stop – 'cause there's never been a breakout from Azkaban before, 'as there, Ern?" Shunpike prodded, hopping back downstairs, followed soon after by a pretty brown-haired young woman that looked as sick as everyone felt.

Ern, meanwhile, grunted darkly in agreement, swinging the bus around to hop off the highway – literally, because they smashed into the ground a few seconds later, skidding to a stop in front of an unassuming warehouse Harry knew held the way into one of the smaller but nonetheless important alleys of Magical Dublin. "There you go, Miss Bog." Shunpike none-too-gently shoved the woman outside, sending her chest careening after her seconds later, before slamming the doors shut, and, with a BANG!, they were off again, shooting back over the highway towards mainland Britain.

"Beats me 'ow 'e did it, really." Shunpike admitted, grabbing his Prophet from where he'd abandoned it, tucked over the rail for the curtains, to stare in puzzlement at Black's gaunt face. "Don't fancy me own chances against 'em Azkaban guards. Mind, I doubt 'e'd do any better wiv 'em, eh, wouldn'choo think, Ern?"

The bus suddenly lurched to the side, and Harry saw Ern's shoulder – the only part of him he could see – shudder violently. "Don't talk abou them casually like that, Stan!" Ern reprimanded, dodging around an approaching motorcycle. "Change the subject, unless you want me to run into a wall. Them guards give me the scare, and so bloody well should they you."

Harry blinked at the vehemence of the normally soft-spoken man, but before he could ask about it, they were skipping across the water again, and his teeth were shattering too loudly for him to be able to. Shunpike looked annoyed but complied wordlessly, folding up the paper neatly before it disappeared inside an apparently bottomless pocket inside his uniform.

The rest of the ride, all the way to the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales and back down along the M40 to London, was spent without much more chatter as Harry attempted not to fall off his bed and Shunpike tried not to fall asleep at the monotonous nature of a night-time shift on the Knight Bus. Ern was mostly just busy trying to keep the Knight Bus from smashing into walls – not that that even seemed to be possible, given the way entire buildings jumped out of the way to allow for the bus's passage – so he said even less than usual, giving Harry quite a bit of time to think on his probable impending imprisonment.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew that, while magic was illegal to do outside of Hogwarts for anyone underage, accidental magic was exempt for that law. But so was House Elf Magic, and the Ministry hadn't seemed to care much about that, had they? Such, Harry reflected with a frown as Ern turned a corner and his bed slammed into the wall, was his situation as celebrity; praised and lauded for every little thing he did, but the second he as much as sneezed wrongly, he was the bad guy and nobody would ever believe otherwise (Heir of Slytherin, anyone?).

Perhaps Snape was right about one thing after all. Most of the population really was a bloody dunderhead.

Oo0oO

It was nearly half an hour after he embarked on his great cross-United Kingdom journey that the Bus finally arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. While the angry little man from earlier steamed away down the road with a strangely jolly pink umbrella, followed quickly by a plump Witch who rushed into the Leaky without even glancing at her surroundings, Harry had to take the time to lug his trunk out the bus, assisted by a reluctant Shunpike, who clearly rather would have preferred staying in the bus instead of venturing out into the rain.

When Harry turned to collect Hedwig's cage however, Shunpike was frozen, staring with wide eyes over Harry's shoulder. Then, Harry turned, and saw quite possibly the last person he wanted to see right then.

"Ah, there you are, Harry." Minister Fudge said, smiling gratefully at Harry's visage, and not for the first time that night, Harry cursed his luck.

Oo0oO

The Minister for Magic was a short, rather pompous little man, wearing nothing but a small, green hat and a horribly mismatched pinstriped cloak, pants, and deep bluejacket to protect him against the disgusting weather. He looked like he hadn't seen either warmth or a seat in half a year, and Harry had to stop himself from asking whether the Minister was alright, old as he was – it wouldn't really be a kind thing to point out. Plus, he had worse things to worry about than little things like that. "You've had us all in a right frenzy, you know that, Harry?" He said good-naturedly, but Shunpike suddenly spoke up, sounding surprised.

"Minister? Wha'choo talkin' 'bout?" He asked, tilting his head. "This's Seamus, this is. No 'Arry in sigh'." Then, he turned into the bus, sounding quite eager. "Oi, Ern, come out 'ere! It's the Minister for Magic!"

Minister Fudge smiled blandly at Shunpike, looking as confused as Shunpike did. "I'm afraid I don't quite know what you're talking about, Mr. Conductor." He said. "This is Harry Potter, not Seamus."

Shunpike peered at Harry's face, and blinked. "Blimey, you're righ', Minister! Oi, Ern, this is 'Arry Potter!"

"Who?" Came Ern's voice, sounding vague from within the bus.

"'Arry Potter!" Stan reiterated, stepping back inside the bus. "Righ' 'ere, wiv the Minister!"

"You're full of it." Ern grunted, before closing the doors. Shunpike balked, trying to stop the doors from closing, but it was too late, and, with a BANG!, the Knight Bus shot off, out of sight.

"That was a… colourful pair." Minister Fudge said diplomatically, sounding amused, before motioning towards the Leaky Cauldron. "Come on, let's go inside."

The Minister put a hand on his shoulder and Harry quickly found himself getting steered inside the Leaky Cauldron – not that he had any intentions to do otherwise. Still, he was dragging his trunk along by the handle quite heavily, and silently wondered why on earth the Minister didn't lend a hand and cast a featherlight charm on the trunk – but perhaps, he thought vindictively, the man was secretly quite sadistic and liked watching other people suffer. Certainly would explain why he just dumped Hagrid into Azkaban the year before without even waiting to give him a proper trial.

Meanwhile, Tom the Barkeep – Harry actually didn't know his last name; something to check up on later – opened the door to the Leaky, holding a lantern. Then, he blinked in surprise, before suddenly grinning in relief. "You've found him, Minister!" He said, sounding relieved, and Harry found his lips twitching despite himself. Tom was always willing to help everyone who came by; he still remembered that from the first time he visited Diagon, and Harry was fairly sure that Tom was more worried about 'Harry Potter' than 'The Boy-Who-Lived'. That was just… Tom. He just didn't do preconceptions. It was part of the reason why everyone in Magical London loved him. "Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?"

"Put on a pot of tea, would you, Tom?" Minister Fudge asked, and Harry nodded along, before stopping.

"Actually, could I have a glass of Butterbeer, maybe with a little Firewhiskey mixed in? I need something a little stronger than usual." He shot a questioning glance over his shoulder at Minister Fudge – because if anyone can give you permission to drink alcohol, it's the goddamn Minister – who looked startled for a second before nodding understandingly.

"Ah, but of course. After tonight's events…" The Minister left the sentence hanging there, as if it were a sensitive subject that Harry had blown up his Aunt like he had; instead, Harry could barely contain his laughter, and came out looking incredibly troubled instead. The actual reason he wanted this mixture was because he was incredibly cold – the Knight Bus, because of some idiocy, wasn't fitted with standard warmth charms – and nothing, he reasoned, will warm you up more than Firewhiskey; last year, a show-off seventh-year had taken a big gulp and spat out an actual fireball. Of course, he did end up in the infirmary for half a week afterward, but it still served to prove his point.

Tom, meanwhile, nodded in sympathy. "Yes, I heard about the incident from a few witches passing by a couple minutes ago." Harry's eyes widened at the speed of the grapevine, which Tom didn't seem to have noticed, as the aged Barkeep motioned to a hallway off to the side. "Shall I lead you to a meeting room?"

"Please do, Tom." Minister Fudge sighed in relief at the warmth of the Leaky, and cast a glance behind him, where Harry's trunk was sitting on the floor. "And could you take Harry's trunk to his room?"

"I'll do it myself, Minister." Harry grunted as he hefted his trunk onto his shoulder, making it a substantially lighter load to bear, before balancing Hedwig's cage on top of it. The Minister blinked a few times in surprise, clearly unused to wizards being able to carry any substantial weight, and Tom smiled approvingly, before entering the narrow hallway he'd pointed out earlier earlier, leading them into a small parlour off to the side. Then, Tom excused himself, before the Minister clicked his fingers, and a fire burst into life in the grate. Harry grinned. "Cool trick."

Fudge chuckled ambivalently, putting his hat on an empty chair's finial. "Sit down, Harry." He indicated one of the two large chairs – the kind you sink into to the point where you nearly disappear – by the fire. The bespectacled lad did as ordered and, after throwing his cloak over the back of the other chair, Fudge sat as well. "I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister for Magic."

Harry snorted. "Minister, everyone, their mother, kitchen sink, and dog knows who you are. If I don't need to introduce myself – unfortunate as though that may be – I highly doubt you have to."

Minister Fudge looked startled for a second, before frowning in confusion. "Unfortunate? Why is it unfortunate to be well-known?"

"Er –" Harry blinked to himself, trying to come up with an example. "Well, in a hypothetical situation, what would happen should you decide to spend the coming Sunday shopping with your wife and children, should you have any, just to have a nice and calm family day?" The Minister frowned.

"Well, apart from the fact that shopping with my wife is anything but calm and usually ends up with me broke and forced to accept more, ah – donations from Lucius Malfoy just to keep my head above the water tax-wise," Harry snorted, "I would more than likely get asked about the coming elections – which, if you are unaware, still two years away – about family members working in the ministry, if they are in danger of losing their jobs, and all sorts of other meaningless chatter that I know absolutely squat about. It's always rather annoying, really. Aside from that, I'll more than likely get targeted by the press, asking about the women walking beside me, asking if I am cheating on my wife – the women are, by the way, my eleven-year-old daughter and wife, which they always seem to forget every time I set out with my family – and–" The Minister cut himself off, frowning again. "Well, I suppose that I see what you mean."

It was at that moment that Tom silently came in again, an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea, crumpets, and a large glass of Butterwhiskey. He placed the tray on the table between Fudge and Harry, who nodded in thanks, before leaving as silent as he came, closing the door behind him.

"In any case, Harry, you've had us all in a right flap, I don't mind telling you." The minister sighed, reaching for the kettle. "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 poured his cup full of tea as he spoke, and Harry took a couple of sips of his heavenly drink, blowing a smoke ring with the little smoke that gathered due to the Firewhiskey (he'd overheard Dudley and his friends talking about the theory of it just that summer, when they were smoking cheap illegal cigarettes in an attempt to be cool. Ultimately, they'd decided it was too much trouble and abandoned the project. Didn't mean that Harry didn't think it a project worth spending time on, though). Unfortunately, the ring dissipated before it could really go anywhere, but the Minister seemed to have noticed, as he grinned. "Good show, Harry, good show."

He handed Harry a buttered crumpet, which Harry accepted gratefully – never mind the running away stuff, blowing up your aunt and house made you hungry – before taking one for himself. "You'll be pleased to know that the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad sent out have removed the knowledge of the incident and of magic from your family's minds. They will have no recollection of it ever having happened." Minister Fudge smiled at Harry, who nodded his thanks, somewhat grateful that Vernon wouldn't actively be hunting him down, now. "All that remains now, however, is to decide where you're going to spend the last two weeks of your holidays. Your family was, ah, less than eager to take you back for the remainder of the summer," From Fudge's frown, it wasn't hard to guess that Vernon had used some specific choice words during their conversation, the likes not shared in polite conversation, "so I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron. I asked beforehand, room eleven's free; if you're short on cash, I'll even pay for your first night." He offered. "No need for you to head all the way down to the bowels of Gringotts just for a single galleon, not at this time of night."

"Alright, I'll take that." Harry nodded, smiling gratefully at the Minister. "I'll have to take some money out of my vault tomorrow, so I might drop by the Ministry to pay you back later that afternoon, if that's alright."

Minister Fudge beamed, waving a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Nonsense, Harry! I'm more than willing to pay a few Galleons; no need for you to come all the way to my office for such little money." He chuckled heartily, clapping in a decisive manner that reminded Harry of a joyous child. "Excellent! I think you'll be very comfortable." He paused, as if hesitant to continue; "Just one thing, and I'm sure you'll understand: I don't want you wandering into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you're to be back here before dark each night." Fudge looked to be thinking something over, before he grimaced. "I originally planned to keep this from you as long as I could – ignorance is bliss, as they say – but there has been a recent escape from Azkaban."

"Yes, I heard, from Mr. Shunpike, the conductor." Harry answered, elaborating at the Minister's mystified face. "He had a copy of the Prophet. Black, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Sirius Black." The Minister nodded. "Voldemort's right hand, and…" Fudge shifted uncomfortably, his mouth twitching down into a frown, "The one who betrayed your parents to Voldemort."

Harry went completely still at that. Minister Fudge sighed. "Times were darkest, back then. Almost everyone was in hiding, hoping to survive. Aurors weren't doing much to the enemy Death Eaters, even with the help of an order that made lethal force – and, indeed, the Unforgivables – legal against anyone in a Death Eater garb. Nobody knew if their neighbours, their friends, or if even their own family members were on their side. Visits to see your girlfriend were interpreted as Death Eater meetings by paranoid siblings, someone who went to get a cucumber from a muggle market would disappear without a trace, and entire families were found dead in their homes by friends coming over for a cup of tea.

"From what I understand – though I must say that I am not well-versed in rituals, and this is most definitely a ritual – your parents were hidden under a Fidelius Charm. 'Charm' is actually a misnomer, as casting the Fidelius requires a lot of runes, a bit of blood, and a few potions ingredients. At least, this is what Professor Dumbledore told me. The reality might be extremely different, for all I know; the Fidelius is an obscure piece of magic, even more so than other rituals, which are generally only known by a rare few throughout the world. It would make sense that Dumbledore misinformed me, just in case I told anyone." Here, he paused briefly, attempting to collect his thoughts. Harry let him.

"What the Fidelius does is it hides the secret of a subject within someone's soul. That someone then becomes the Secret Keeper, and becomes the only one able to tell anyone that secret. Your parents, unfortunately, chose the wrong 'friend' to give the secret to; they made Black the Secret Keeper, and Black, in turn, told You-Know-Who where the Potters were." Minister Fudge's frown deepened. "The Potters, having been a thorn in You-Know-Who's side for ages – from your grandfather Charlus Potter, who almost cut off his head, to James, who managed a dead-centre Crucio in a fit of rage after his parents' death in front of him – were taken care of by You-Know-Who himself. The rest is history."

Minister Fudge sighed as he saw Harry staring blankly at him, his mind struggling to fully grasp what he had just been told. "Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me. I understand that you've been given your father's Invisibility Cloak – please don't abuse it." He gathered his hat and cloak and made his way to the door, patting Harry's shoulder in passing. "Goodnight, Harry. And, the next time we meet, call me Cornelius." Then, the Minister exited the room, closing the door behind him softly.

Harry stayed in the parlour until well past midnight, nursing his glass of Butterwhiskey as he stared out of the single window unto the rainy streets below, letting in Hedwig when she came tapping at the window.

Sleep, unsurprisingly, didn't come that night.


Why, I can already hear you cry out. Why on earth did Minister Fudge give Harry all that information, and how did Harry's crush on Hermione change that?

Lemme explain real quick, if you hadn't already picked up on it yourself. Harry, due to reasons as of yet unexplained, had a much worse outburst than in canon, which destroyed the Dursleys' house. Seeing as how it was rather difficult to wipe the memories of everyone who'd come to take a look at the destruction – and there would undoubtedly be a lot of people that came to take a look if your house suddenly crumbled into dust – they didn't remove that part of their memory, though they left the exact reasons for its ruin up for interpretation.

Subsequently, the Dursleys were more pissed than in Canon, and, logically (not really), called Minister Fudge a freak and an unnatural whatever – you probably know their general thought processes at this point. Minister Fudge's conversation with Harry, in turn, took a different path, and when it came up that Harry had to stay somewhere… well, this is where it gets rather… vague.

See, what I can picture Fudge doing here is that he sees an advantage and takes it. He can sink his claws into the Boy-Who-Lived – bumbling idiot or not, Fudge didn't get his position by being blind and naïve as well – potentially furthering his career, but only if Harry trusts him, however little. By revealing to Harry what nobody else did, he ensured that Harry would at least feel some sort of gratitude to him for revealing that, potentially leaving him open to the suggestion of accompanying him to, say, a Ministry Ball in the future, or perhaps give a short quote to the newspaper in Minister Fudge's favour when the next election rolls around.

So yes, Fudge is still an idiot, and I'm still sticking to the all-changes-from-one-single-point angle. Like I said in the beginning, sometimes, you just have to look underneath the underneath.

-The Baron