A/N: O' come all ye 'what if' lovers! Welcome for my second go at a 'what
if' fic, and once again I'm taking a road less traveled. Actually, I don't
think it has been traveled at all. So I'm creating it! Aren't you proud of
me? Okay, enough babbling from the soon-to-be-babbling queen, and onto the
story. (I know, I know same author's note but oh well)
What if Sirius Black was given a second chance that fateful Halloween night? What if he never went after Pettigrew and stayed with Harry, but not quite what you're thinking. This 'Sirius stayed with Harry' fic has one huge twist, but you have to read to find out.
Thank you: HoundofDeath (Here it is! Here it is!), Keara Jordan (Thank you! You're making me blush), Angie, potter_hal, Lilly Potter, summersun, Lotesse (Aw Lotesse! Such praise! The humor part is for later, it'll be there though), Lassy D, sweets (Welcome to beta-dom!), Sandrine Black, Fire Spirit, Nicky, Clue, Midnight Owl, Lavander Ice, Immia, Artemis-chan, vmr, Nagini (aw, yes, but your Dad is also my buddy! Haha!), Butterflygurl, Wolfie (You are my ego's best friend!), T. Cairpre, Shayla, ChibiK, s, Lin- z, Tvillinger, Spunky (you'll see)
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious thanks to my betas, Immia, (she gave me the title for this story) Essence of Magic and sweets! Without them I would have scrapped this whole thing immediately. So if you really like this story line thank them for encouraging me to write it.
Disclaimer - This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Many lines are taken directly from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer/Philosopher's Stone, I stake no claim to them; they are Rowling's. I own the plot and a few original things.
Chapter 1: The Best of Friends
"Get up! Get up, now!"
Harry Potter awoke with a start; a fist was pounding against his door. He was surrounded in darkness, but that was not so unusual since his bedroom was the dingy cupboard under the stairs.
"Are you up yet?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Yes Aunt Petunia," Harry said sleepily, turning over the other way.
"You have five minutes," Aunt Petunia warned before the sound of her retreating half-heels echoed down the hallway.
Hearing this, Harry rolled over and buried his face in a mountain of thick, black fur. "Morning Padfoot," he murmured.
The dog yawned, stretching his long, pink tongue out. Padfoot sat up causing Harry's head to fall off his back.
"Oof!" Harry grumbled, slightly annoyed of being deprived of his pillow. He had every intention of going back to sleep until he felt his neck grow solidly wet. He twisted around, and was assaulted by a large, wet tongue. "No!" he cried trying to push Padfoot back.
Padfoot barked loudly, before pinning Harry to the bed.
"I surrender," Harry laughed as he received his 'good morning lick attack.'
Padfoot leapt off his owner and landed lightly on the floor. He waited patiently as Harry dressed. He pawed the cupboard door lightly, telling Harry he wanted out of the small space.
Harry opened the door. Padfoot trotted alongside him as they walked into the kitchen. "Good morning Aunt Petunia," he mumbled pouring some dry dog food into a very battered dog dish.
The horse-faced blonde woman sneered at the sight of the dog. "Feed that mutt after you make _our_ breakfast. It's Dudley's birthday."
"But—" protested Harry as a carton of eggs was thrust into his hands. Sighing, he placed the dog dish on the counter and began preparing the Dursleys' breakfast.
This was what it had been like for nearly ten years for Harry. He had lived a life of near slavery ever since he came to number 4 Privet Drive. Ever since his parents had been killed in, what he had been told, a car crash. Harry couldn't remember being in a car, but when he tried hard he could remember a searing pain in his forehead and a flash of green light. He had guessed that whatever caused the pain had given him his scar.
His scar was the only thing that he liked about himself. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, but was usually hidden behind his jet black bangs. It had a faint air of mystery about it, but the Dursleys had forbidden him from asking questions before he could ask.
So not having any other living relatives Harry was sent to the Dursleys along with his dog Padfoot. The large, shaggy, black mutt was the only thing he had from his parents, and he had always been his. Never Dudley's or some stranger's, always his. Although no one ever noticed, Harry regarded Padfoot as his best friend, and often said that his dog was really a person trapped in a dog's body, but no one ever believed him. Well, except Padfoot.
Padfoot, at the moment, was thumping his tail eagerly against the floor as he watched Harry causally knock a large piece of sausage off the breakfast platter.
"Whoops," Harry mumbled smirking as Aunt Petunia's back was turned. The dog swiftly lifted the meat from the floor and gulped in down hungrily.
Harry patted the dog's head as he brought the breakfast platter into the dining room. As soon as he placed the heavy platter on the table (which was nearly buried under all the presents) he pulled out a thick, worn, faded brown, leather collar from his back jeans' pocket. "Come here Padfoot," he called, kneeling.
Padfoot stood patiently as Harry buckled the collar around his neck. Harry checked it to make sure it wasn't too tight before running a finger over the silver license tag.
"Proposing to your long lost love Harry?" sneered a fat, blonde boy.
Harry jumped to his feet, scowling at his cousin, "Shut up Dudley."
Dudley flicked him off. Harry's fists clinched and Padfoot snarled.
"Shut that mutt up," said a gruff voice, Uncle Vernon.
Padfoot rolled his eyes turning to Harry.
"Shh, Padfoot," Harry whispered tiredly. He didn't feel like dealing with the Dursleys this morning. He watched as Dudley counted his presents, vaguely aware of Padfoot's head on his lap.
"Two less than last year," Dudley whined.
Harry watched as Dudley whined and Aunt Petunia soothed, wondering if he would have acted the same way toward his own mother. Probably not. His thoughts were pulled cruelly back to the present by the ringing of the telephone.
Aunt Petunia scurried off to answer it, and returned a moment later looking rather cross. "That was Mrs. Figg," she said to he husband. "She broke her leg."
"So?" Uncle Vernon replied from behind the morning paper.
"She said that she can't take _him_," she snapped, jerking her head toward Harry.
Although knowing that he should feel sorry for Mrs. Figg, Harry's heart couldn't resist to give a little leap of joy at this. Every year on Dudley's birthday Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon took their son and a friend to the movies, or amusement parks, or out to eat while Harry was sent to Mrs. Figg's. The elderly woman's house smelt of cabbage and cats, and she always made him look at the pictures of all the cats she had ever own. The thought of not seeing Fluffy of Mr. Tibbles for another year was worth its weight in gold.
But one quick argument later put a slight damper on Harry's good mood; true he was going to the zoo for the first time in his life, and true he wasn't going to Mrs. Figg's, but what was also true was that Uncle Vernon was already breathing down his neck about it.
"I'm warning you," he said, putting his large, purple face right up close to Harry's. "I'm warning you now, boy—any funny business, anything at all—and you'll be in that cupboard firm now until Christmas."
"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry. "Honestly . . ."
But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him, no one ever did.
Padfoot whined softly as Harry yanked a brush through his hair as if trying to say, "Take me with you."
"I'll be okay, Pad," Harry said, scratching Padfoot behind the ears. "You don't _have_ to act like an overprotective father _all_ the time you know."
Suddenly, Harry found himself pinned to the floor, being subjected to a lick attack. "Ger off! Oi, say one wrong thing and . . . blah! That was my mouth!"
"Boy! Stop playing with your damn dog already!"
"Yes Uncle Vernon, see you later Padfoot."
~*~
"NO MEALS!"
Harry buried his face in his hands. Once again he was in his dark cupboard pondering how had he had made the glass disappear. "And then the snake said, "Thanks amigo" before slithering off," he explained to Padfoot who had his head on Harry's knee. "Why do these things always happen to _me_?"
Padfoot looked pensive for a moment before nuzzling Harry's hand sympathetically.
"I hate it here, I really do. Next year, I have to go to Stonewall. No dogs allowed. You'll be stuck here with them all day; they'd starve you for sure!"
Padfoot perked an ear; this was Harry's way of expressing self pity, by redirecting it to the dog.
Furious, Harry swung his legs up on the bed and slammed his head against the pillow. "I wish . . . I wish," he mumbled staring at the ceiling. "I wish we had a fairy godfather or something!"
Padfoot jumped onto the cot, giving Harry an odd look.
"Well, fairy godmothers are for girls, right?" Harry grinned.
The dog shrugged, flopping down next to the boy. Harry stroked his back, letting his fingers run through the silky fur.
"Paddy?" he said quietly as the dog jerked his head up looking him straight in the eyes, as if understanding that something was bothering Harry. They sat there for several moments simply staring at each other before Harry burst out into giggles. He was laughing so hard that he had to cling to Padfoot so he wouldn't fall over.
Padfoot, by now, was quite bemused. What did Harry think was so funny? A small doggish grin crossed his face as he pushed Harry down, prompting a wrestling match.
Several minutes later, both were sprawled out on the floor, panting. Defeated, Harry scrambled back on his cot, tired but happy. Padfoot followed suit, laying his head on Harry's pillow.
Harry buried his face in Padfoot's fur again and closed his eyes, murmuring, "I love you, Padfoot."
~~~~
The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest- ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of the cupboard again, the summer holidays had started.
Although Harry was glad that school was over, there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Big and stupid, the lot of them, but since Dudley was the biggest and stupidest he was the leader. They all immensely enjoy playing their favorite sport: Harry Hunting.
Therefore, Harry and Padfoot spent as much time wandering the town as possible. Harry spent most of this time thinking about the end of the holidays, when he would be attending Stonewall High without, for the first time in his life, Dudley. Dudley was attending Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings.
One day in late-July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to buy his school uniform while leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. She didn't complain about Padfoot terrorizing her precious cats, which Harry could never understand since Padfoot paid the hideous fur- balls, no mind let alone chase them. She let Harry watch television, and even gave both of them a slice of stale chocolate cake.
That night, Dudley showed off his new Smeltings uniform, while his parents doted. Harry, on the other hand, was digging his nails in Padfoot's fur trying not to laugh.
~~~
When Harry entered the kitchen the next morning he nearly gagged. There was a terrible smell coming from a large metal tub filled with gray water. It turned out that Aunt Petunia was dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray so they supposedly look like the Stonewall uniform. Harry doubted this.
When the mail arrived, Harry was forced to get it or be subjected to a whacking by the Smeltings' stick. He rifled through it, letter from Aunt Marge, bill, and a letter for _him_.
Harry stared at it curiously, the envelope was made of a yellow parchment and the address was written in green ink. On the back there was a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, eagle, badger, and a snake intertwined around a large letter H.
"Hurry up, boy!" hollered Uncle Vernon from the kitchen.
Harry returned to the kitchen, still gazing at his letter. He handed his Uncle the card and the bill, sat back down and started to open the letter.
Padfoot looked inquisitively at Harry, as if wondering or even knowing what the letter was about. He watched as Harry was about to unfold the letter when it was yanked out of his hands.
"That's _mine_!" snapped Harry, snatching at the letter.
"Who would write to you?" sneered his Uncle as he read the contents of the letter, unaware of the loud snarling coming from the dog behind him. Within seconds Uncle Vernon went from red to green to a pasty white.
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon held it out of reach. Aunt Petunia took the letter, read the first line, and looked faint. "Vernon!" she choked out.
They stared at each other in astonishment and horror. They seemed to have forgotten about Harry, Dudley, and more importantly Padfoot.
Before anyone noticed the dog jumped up and ripped the letter out of Aunt Petunia's bony hand. He got out of Uncle Vernon's reach before bounding toward Harry, letter in mouth. Uncle Vernon rounded on Harry, his fat, purple hand raised . . .
Dropping the letter, Padfoot shot forward, eyes blazing.
Uncle Vernon brought his hand down, not on Harry's face, but around Padfoot's collar. He hoisted the dog up, opened the kitchen door, and flung him outside. He smirked at the yelp the dog gave when he hit the dirt.
Uncle Vernon turned around, and swipe the letter up, enjoying the terrified look on Harry's face at what had been done to his precious Padfoot. "Out, both of you," he said stuffing the letter in his pocket.
Harry stayed put.
"GIVE ME MY LETTER!" he yelled.
"_I_ want to see it!" snapped Dudley.
"OUT!" Uncle Vernon roared, grabbing Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and throwing them in the hall, slamming the door in their faces.
They had a silent fight over who would listen through the keyhole, Dudley won. So Harry laid flat in his stomach, listening through the crack in the door. What they heard was a confusing conversation that ended with;
"But what if that dog knew?"
"No! I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him and his damn dog in that we would stamp out this dangerous nonsense?"
When Uncle Vernon returned from that evening, he did something that he had never done before; visited Harry in his cupboard.
"Where's my letter?" Harry asked the moment squeezed in. "Who's writing to me?"
"No one, it was a mistake, I burnt it," Uncle Vernon said quickly.
"It was _not_, it had my cupboard on it," Harry grumbled. "Even Padfoot knew it."
"SILENCE!" bellowed Uncle Vernon. Then he forced a smile which looked more like a sneer.
"Harry, about this cupboard, your aunt and I were thinking that you're getting a bit big for it, and since that dog—Padfoot, I mean—sleeps with you . . . we thought the you should move into Dudley's second bedroom."
"Why?"
"Just go!"
Several minutes later, Harry lay on the bed with Padfoot (who had been kept outside all day) curled up next to him.
Downstairs they heard Dudley throwing a tantrum, "But I _don't_ want them in there! It'll smell like dog!"
Sighing, Harry turned to Padfoot, "I wonder what was in that letter anyway."
When the mail arrived the next morning there was another letter. This time a brawl brought out between Harry, Dudley, and Uncle Vernon for it. Padfoot, on the other hand, dived in and out of the confused pile, trying to grab the letter when no one was minding it. He turned out to be the only one who wasn't smacked by the Smelting stick, but in the end Uncle Vernon was the one who got the letter.
"Go to your cupboard—I mean room," he huffed at Harry. "Dudley—go—just go."
Harry paced the length of his room several times, Padfoot pacing behind him. "They knew I didn't get the first letter and that I moved out of my cupboard. I bet they're going to try again, and this time I _am_ going to get that letter."
Early the next morning, Harry awoke and dressed silently. He told Padfoot to stay, so the Dursleys would get suspicious. Then he crept downstairs, he planned to wait for the postman on the corner and get the mail for number four first.
Just as he reached the front door he stepped on something squashy—something alive!
It was Uncle Vernon, who was apparently trying to prevent Harry from doing what he had planned to do. He yelled at his nephew for half an hour before telling him to go make a cup of tea. When Harry returned the mail had arrived right in Uncle Vernon's lap, there were three letters addressed in green ink. Uncle Vernon tore them up before his eyes.
Also that day, he nailed up the mail slot.
On Friday, at least twelve letters arrived, shoved under the door, stuck in the sides, and even a few were forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
After burning the letters, Uncle Vernon stayed home from work boarding up all the cracks in the house.
By Saturday, things were getting out of hand; twenty-four letters were delivered in two dozen eggs by a very confused milkman.
Uncle Vernon spent a good part of the day trying to find someone to complain to while Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.
~~
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon happily reminded them that there was no post on Sundays. But as soon as he said it something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney and hit him on the back of the head. Then thirty of forty letters came whizzing out of the fireplace. Harry leapt in the air trying to catch one.
But before he could, Uncle Vernon seized him around the waist and Padfoot by the collar, and threw them in the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut right in Padfoot's face.
Harry watched the dog clawed furiously at the door as the sound of the letters streaming in became louder.
A few moments later, Uncle Vernon ran out of the room, livid, kicking Padfoot out of his way, shouting, "I want you all back here in five minutes! We're leaving! No arguments."
Ten minutes later, they were in the car speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat while Harry was examining where Uncle Vernon had kicked Padfoot. Padfoot, who by some miracle was allowed to come, was looking almost as irritated as Uncle Vernon as he stared out the window at the house.
They drove for hours, every now and then taking a sharp turn and drove in the opposite direction. They did not stop to eat or drink all day, and by nightfall Dudley was howling.
Finally, Uncle Vernon stopped at a gloomy-looking hotel outside of a city. Padfoot was tried to the car since no dogs were allowed inside. And Harry was forced to share a room with Dudley. He stayed up all night while Dudley snored, simply thinking.
The next morning the hotel owner came up to them, saying that she had gotten a hundred letters this morning addressed to a Mr. H. Potter.
~~
Harry was sprawled out on the back seats while Dudley complained to Aunt Petunia in the front. Uncle Vernon had left several hours ago, parking the car on the coast. Rain drops were beating on the hood. Padfoot looked despairingly up at the roof.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure you stay inside tonight," Harry promised.
"It's Monday," Dudley told his mother up front.
Harry's eyes widened; if today was Monday then tomorrow was Tuesday, Harry's eleventh birthday. Even though Harry's birthdays were never exactly fun—last year he had gotten a coat hanger and an old pair of Uncle Vernon's socks—but still, it _was_ his birthday.
Just then Uncle Vernon appeared, carrying a long, thin box. "Found the perfect place, everybody follow me!"
Uncle Vernon's perfect place turned out to be a little shack perched on a rock a ways out to sea. It smelled strongly of seaweed, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the wall with a blackened fireplace and only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon was delighted; he obviously thought that no one would be able to reach them all the way out here, especially with a storm rolling in. Harry agreed with him, feeling more depressed than before.
As the storm raged outside, Aunt Petunia made up a bed for Dudley on the dilapidated couch, leaving Harry to find the softest bit of floor to sleep on.
The storm shook the shack making the windows rattle as Harry tossed and turned trying to fall asleep, but nothing worked. Harry looked at Dudley whose watch had a lighted dial, it was ten to twelve.
To past the time he started drawing a huge birthday cake with HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY written on it on the sand covered floor. Carefully he drew eleven candles as his birthday ticked closer.
Padfoot nudged Harry's hand away, and using one of his nail scratched a flame over each candle.
"You want me to make a wish?" Harry mumbled. "Okay." He closed his eyes for a second before grinning and "blowing out" the sand flames.
Just as he blew out the last candle the watch clicked 12:00 . . .
BOOM!
What if Sirius Black was given a second chance that fateful Halloween night? What if he never went after Pettigrew and stayed with Harry, but not quite what you're thinking. This 'Sirius stayed with Harry' fic has one huge twist, but you have to read to find out.
Thank you: HoundofDeath (Here it is! Here it is!), Keara Jordan (Thank you! You're making me blush), Angie, potter_hal, Lilly Potter, summersun, Lotesse (Aw Lotesse! Such praise! The humor part is for later, it'll be there though), Lassy D, sweets (Welcome to beta-dom!), Sandrine Black, Fire Spirit, Nicky, Clue, Midnight Owl, Lavander Ice, Immia, Artemis-chan, vmr, Nagini (aw, yes, but your Dad is also my buddy! Haha!), Butterflygurl, Wolfie (You are my ego's best friend!), T. Cairpre, Shayla, ChibiK, s, Lin- z, Tvillinger, Spunky (you'll see)
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious thanks to my betas, Immia, (she gave me the title for this story) Essence of Magic and sweets! Without them I would have scrapped this whole thing immediately. So if you really like this story line thank them for encouraging me to write it.
Disclaimer - This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Many lines are taken directly from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer/Philosopher's Stone, I stake no claim to them; they are Rowling's. I own the plot and a few original things.
Chapter 1: The Best of Friends
"Get up! Get up, now!"
Harry Potter awoke with a start; a fist was pounding against his door. He was surrounded in darkness, but that was not so unusual since his bedroom was the dingy cupboard under the stairs.
"Are you up yet?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Yes Aunt Petunia," Harry said sleepily, turning over the other way.
"You have five minutes," Aunt Petunia warned before the sound of her retreating half-heels echoed down the hallway.
Hearing this, Harry rolled over and buried his face in a mountain of thick, black fur. "Morning Padfoot," he murmured.
The dog yawned, stretching his long, pink tongue out. Padfoot sat up causing Harry's head to fall off his back.
"Oof!" Harry grumbled, slightly annoyed of being deprived of his pillow. He had every intention of going back to sleep until he felt his neck grow solidly wet. He twisted around, and was assaulted by a large, wet tongue. "No!" he cried trying to push Padfoot back.
Padfoot barked loudly, before pinning Harry to the bed.
"I surrender," Harry laughed as he received his 'good morning lick attack.'
Padfoot leapt off his owner and landed lightly on the floor. He waited patiently as Harry dressed. He pawed the cupboard door lightly, telling Harry he wanted out of the small space.
Harry opened the door. Padfoot trotted alongside him as they walked into the kitchen. "Good morning Aunt Petunia," he mumbled pouring some dry dog food into a very battered dog dish.
The horse-faced blonde woman sneered at the sight of the dog. "Feed that mutt after you make _our_ breakfast. It's Dudley's birthday."
"But—" protested Harry as a carton of eggs was thrust into his hands. Sighing, he placed the dog dish on the counter and began preparing the Dursleys' breakfast.
This was what it had been like for nearly ten years for Harry. He had lived a life of near slavery ever since he came to number 4 Privet Drive. Ever since his parents had been killed in, what he had been told, a car crash. Harry couldn't remember being in a car, but when he tried hard he could remember a searing pain in his forehead and a flash of green light. He had guessed that whatever caused the pain had given him his scar.
His scar was the only thing that he liked about himself. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, but was usually hidden behind his jet black bangs. It had a faint air of mystery about it, but the Dursleys had forbidden him from asking questions before he could ask.
So not having any other living relatives Harry was sent to the Dursleys along with his dog Padfoot. The large, shaggy, black mutt was the only thing he had from his parents, and he had always been his. Never Dudley's or some stranger's, always his. Although no one ever noticed, Harry regarded Padfoot as his best friend, and often said that his dog was really a person trapped in a dog's body, but no one ever believed him. Well, except Padfoot.
Padfoot, at the moment, was thumping his tail eagerly against the floor as he watched Harry causally knock a large piece of sausage off the breakfast platter.
"Whoops," Harry mumbled smirking as Aunt Petunia's back was turned. The dog swiftly lifted the meat from the floor and gulped in down hungrily.
Harry patted the dog's head as he brought the breakfast platter into the dining room. As soon as he placed the heavy platter on the table (which was nearly buried under all the presents) he pulled out a thick, worn, faded brown, leather collar from his back jeans' pocket. "Come here Padfoot," he called, kneeling.
Padfoot stood patiently as Harry buckled the collar around his neck. Harry checked it to make sure it wasn't too tight before running a finger over the silver license tag.
"Proposing to your long lost love Harry?" sneered a fat, blonde boy.
Harry jumped to his feet, scowling at his cousin, "Shut up Dudley."
Dudley flicked him off. Harry's fists clinched and Padfoot snarled.
"Shut that mutt up," said a gruff voice, Uncle Vernon.
Padfoot rolled his eyes turning to Harry.
"Shh, Padfoot," Harry whispered tiredly. He didn't feel like dealing with the Dursleys this morning. He watched as Dudley counted his presents, vaguely aware of Padfoot's head on his lap.
"Two less than last year," Dudley whined.
Harry watched as Dudley whined and Aunt Petunia soothed, wondering if he would have acted the same way toward his own mother. Probably not. His thoughts were pulled cruelly back to the present by the ringing of the telephone.
Aunt Petunia scurried off to answer it, and returned a moment later looking rather cross. "That was Mrs. Figg," she said to he husband. "She broke her leg."
"So?" Uncle Vernon replied from behind the morning paper.
"She said that she can't take _him_," she snapped, jerking her head toward Harry.
Although knowing that he should feel sorry for Mrs. Figg, Harry's heart couldn't resist to give a little leap of joy at this. Every year on Dudley's birthday Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon took their son and a friend to the movies, or amusement parks, or out to eat while Harry was sent to Mrs. Figg's. The elderly woman's house smelt of cabbage and cats, and she always made him look at the pictures of all the cats she had ever own. The thought of not seeing Fluffy of Mr. Tibbles for another year was worth its weight in gold.
But one quick argument later put a slight damper on Harry's good mood; true he was going to the zoo for the first time in his life, and true he wasn't going to Mrs. Figg's, but what was also true was that Uncle Vernon was already breathing down his neck about it.
"I'm warning you," he said, putting his large, purple face right up close to Harry's. "I'm warning you now, boy—any funny business, anything at all—and you'll be in that cupboard firm now until Christmas."
"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry. "Honestly . . ."
But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him, no one ever did.
Padfoot whined softly as Harry yanked a brush through his hair as if trying to say, "Take me with you."
"I'll be okay, Pad," Harry said, scratching Padfoot behind the ears. "You don't _have_ to act like an overprotective father _all_ the time you know."
Suddenly, Harry found himself pinned to the floor, being subjected to a lick attack. "Ger off! Oi, say one wrong thing and . . . blah! That was my mouth!"
"Boy! Stop playing with your damn dog already!"
"Yes Uncle Vernon, see you later Padfoot."
~*~
"NO MEALS!"
Harry buried his face in his hands. Once again he was in his dark cupboard pondering how had he had made the glass disappear. "And then the snake said, "Thanks amigo" before slithering off," he explained to Padfoot who had his head on Harry's knee. "Why do these things always happen to _me_?"
Padfoot looked pensive for a moment before nuzzling Harry's hand sympathetically.
"I hate it here, I really do. Next year, I have to go to Stonewall. No dogs allowed. You'll be stuck here with them all day; they'd starve you for sure!"
Padfoot perked an ear; this was Harry's way of expressing self pity, by redirecting it to the dog.
Furious, Harry swung his legs up on the bed and slammed his head against the pillow. "I wish . . . I wish," he mumbled staring at the ceiling. "I wish we had a fairy godfather or something!"
Padfoot jumped onto the cot, giving Harry an odd look.
"Well, fairy godmothers are for girls, right?" Harry grinned.
The dog shrugged, flopping down next to the boy. Harry stroked his back, letting his fingers run through the silky fur.
"Paddy?" he said quietly as the dog jerked his head up looking him straight in the eyes, as if understanding that something was bothering Harry. They sat there for several moments simply staring at each other before Harry burst out into giggles. He was laughing so hard that he had to cling to Padfoot so he wouldn't fall over.
Padfoot, by now, was quite bemused. What did Harry think was so funny? A small doggish grin crossed his face as he pushed Harry down, prompting a wrestling match.
Several minutes later, both were sprawled out on the floor, panting. Defeated, Harry scrambled back on his cot, tired but happy. Padfoot followed suit, laying his head on Harry's pillow.
Harry buried his face in Padfoot's fur again and closed his eyes, murmuring, "I love you, Padfoot."
~~~~
The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest- ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of the cupboard again, the summer holidays had started.
Although Harry was glad that school was over, there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Big and stupid, the lot of them, but since Dudley was the biggest and stupidest he was the leader. They all immensely enjoy playing their favorite sport: Harry Hunting.
Therefore, Harry and Padfoot spent as much time wandering the town as possible. Harry spent most of this time thinking about the end of the holidays, when he would be attending Stonewall High without, for the first time in his life, Dudley. Dudley was attending Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings.
One day in late-July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to buy his school uniform while leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. She didn't complain about Padfoot terrorizing her precious cats, which Harry could never understand since Padfoot paid the hideous fur- balls, no mind let alone chase them. She let Harry watch television, and even gave both of them a slice of stale chocolate cake.
That night, Dudley showed off his new Smeltings uniform, while his parents doted. Harry, on the other hand, was digging his nails in Padfoot's fur trying not to laugh.
~~~
When Harry entered the kitchen the next morning he nearly gagged. There was a terrible smell coming from a large metal tub filled with gray water. It turned out that Aunt Petunia was dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray so they supposedly look like the Stonewall uniform. Harry doubted this.
When the mail arrived, Harry was forced to get it or be subjected to a whacking by the Smeltings' stick. He rifled through it, letter from Aunt Marge, bill, and a letter for _him_.
Harry stared at it curiously, the envelope was made of a yellow parchment and the address was written in green ink. On the back there was a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, eagle, badger, and a snake intertwined around a large letter H.
"Hurry up, boy!" hollered Uncle Vernon from the kitchen.
Harry returned to the kitchen, still gazing at his letter. He handed his Uncle the card and the bill, sat back down and started to open the letter.
Padfoot looked inquisitively at Harry, as if wondering or even knowing what the letter was about. He watched as Harry was about to unfold the letter when it was yanked out of his hands.
"That's _mine_!" snapped Harry, snatching at the letter.
"Who would write to you?" sneered his Uncle as he read the contents of the letter, unaware of the loud snarling coming from the dog behind him. Within seconds Uncle Vernon went from red to green to a pasty white.
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
Dudley made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon held it out of reach. Aunt Petunia took the letter, read the first line, and looked faint. "Vernon!" she choked out.
They stared at each other in astonishment and horror. They seemed to have forgotten about Harry, Dudley, and more importantly Padfoot.
Before anyone noticed the dog jumped up and ripped the letter out of Aunt Petunia's bony hand. He got out of Uncle Vernon's reach before bounding toward Harry, letter in mouth. Uncle Vernon rounded on Harry, his fat, purple hand raised . . .
Dropping the letter, Padfoot shot forward, eyes blazing.
Uncle Vernon brought his hand down, not on Harry's face, but around Padfoot's collar. He hoisted the dog up, opened the kitchen door, and flung him outside. He smirked at the yelp the dog gave when he hit the dirt.
Uncle Vernon turned around, and swipe the letter up, enjoying the terrified look on Harry's face at what had been done to his precious Padfoot. "Out, both of you," he said stuffing the letter in his pocket.
Harry stayed put.
"GIVE ME MY LETTER!" he yelled.
"_I_ want to see it!" snapped Dudley.
"OUT!" Uncle Vernon roared, grabbing Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and throwing them in the hall, slamming the door in their faces.
They had a silent fight over who would listen through the keyhole, Dudley won. So Harry laid flat in his stomach, listening through the crack in the door. What they heard was a confusing conversation that ended with;
"But what if that dog knew?"
"No! I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him and his damn dog in that we would stamp out this dangerous nonsense?"
When Uncle Vernon returned from that evening, he did something that he had never done before; visited Harry in his cupboard.
"Where's my letter?" Harry asked the moment squeezed in. "Who's writing to me?"
"No one, it was a mistake, I burnt it," Uncle Vernon said quickly.
"It was _not_, it had my cupboard on it," Harry grumbled. "Even Padfoot knew it."
"SILENCE!" bellowed Uncle Vernon. Then he forced a smile which looked more like a sneer.
"Harry, about this cupboard, your aunt and I were thinking that you're getting a bit big for it, and since that dog—Padfoot, I mean—sleeps with you . . . we thought the you should move into Dudley's second bedroom."
"Why?"
"Just go!"
Several minutes later, Harry lay on the bed with Padfoot (who had been kept outside all day) curled up next to him.
Downstairs they heard Dudley throwing a tantrum, "But I _don't_ want them in there! It'll smell like dog!"
Sighing, Harry turned to Padfoot, "I wonder what was in that letter anyway."
When the mail arrived the next morning there was another letter. This time a brawl brought out between Harry, Dudley, and Uncle Vernon for it. Padfoot, on the other hand, dived in and out of the confused pile, trying to grab the letter when no one was minding it. He turned out to be the only one who wasn't smacked by the Smelting stick, but in the end Uncle Vernon was the one who got the letter.
"Go to your cupboard—I mean room," he huffed at Harry. "Dudley—go—just go."
Harry paced the length of his room several times, Padfoot pacing behind him. "They knew I didn't get the first letter and that I moved out of my cupboard. I bet they're going to try again, and this time I _am_ going to get that letter."
Early the next morning, Harry awoke and dressed silently. He told Padfoot to stay, so the Dursleys would get suspicious. Then he crept downstairs, he planned to wait for the postman on the corner and get the mail for number four first.
Just as he reached the front door he stepped on something squashy—something alive!
It was Uncle Vernon, who was apparently trying to prevent Harry from doing what he had planned to do. He yelled at his nephew for half an hour before telling him to go make a cup of tea. When Harry returned the mail had arrived right in Uncle Vernon's lap, there were three letters addressed in green ink. Uncle Vernon tore them up before his eyes.
Also that day, he nailed up the mail slot.
On Friday, at least twelve letters arrived, shoved under the door, stuck in the sides, and even a few were forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
After burning the letters, Uncle Vernon stayed home from work boarding up all the cracks in the house.
By Saturday, things were getting out of hand; twenty-four letters were delivered in two dozen eggs by a very confused milkman.
Uncle Vernon spent a good part of the day trying to find someone to complain to while Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.
~~
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon happily reminded them that there was no post on Sundays. But as soon as he said it something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney and hit him on the back of the head. Then thirty of forty letters came whizzing out of the fireplace. Harry leapt in the air trying to catch one.
But before he could, Uncle Vernon seized him around the waist and Padfoot by the collar, and threw them in the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut right in Padfoot's face.
Harry watched the dog clawed furiously at the door as the sound of the letters streaming in became louder.
A few moments later, Uncle Vernon ran out of the room, livid, kicking Padfoot out of his way, shouting, "I want you all back here in five minutes! We're leaving! No arguments."
Ten minutes later, they were in the car speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat while Harry was examining where Uncle Vernon had kicked Padfoot. Padfoot, who by some miracle was allowed to come, was looking almost as irritated as Uncle Vernon as he stared out the window at the house.
They drove for hours, every now and then taking a sharp turn and drove in the opposite direction. They did not stop to eat or drink all day, and by nightfall Dudley was howling.
Finally, Uncle Vernon stopped at a gloomy-looking hotel outside of a city. Padfoot was tried to the car since no dogs were allowed inside. And Harry was forced to share a room with Dudley. He stayed up all night while Dudley snored, simply thinking.
The next morning the hotel owner came up to them, saying that she had gotten a hundred letters this morning addressed to a Mr. H. Potter.
~~
Harry was sprawled out on the back seats while Dudley complained to Aunt Petunia in the front. Uncle Vernon had left several hours ago, parking the car on the coast. Rain drops were beating on the hood. Padfoot looked despairingly up at the roof.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure you stay inside tonight," Harry promised.
"It's Monday," Dudley told his mother up front.
Harry's eyes widened; if today was Monday then tomorrow was Tuesday, Harry's eleventh birthday. Even though Harry's birthdays were never exactly fun—last year he had gotten a coat hanger and an old pair of Uncle Vernon's socks—but still, it _was_ his birthday.
Just then Uncle Vernon appeared, carrying a long, thin box. "Found the perfect place, everybody follow me!"
Uncle Vernon's perfect place turned out to be a little shack perched on a rock a ways out to sea. It smelled strongly of seaweed, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the wall with a blackened fireplace and only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon was delighted; he obviously thought that no one would be able to reach them all the way out here, especially with a storm rolling in. Harry agreed with him, feeling more depressed than before.
As the storm raged outside, Aunt Petunia made up a bed for Dudley on the dilapidated couch, leaving Harry to find the softest bit of floor to sleep on.
The storm shook the shack making the windows rattle as Harry tossed and turned trying to fall asleep, but nothing worked. Harry looked at Dudley whose watch had a lighted dial, it was ten to twelve.
To past the time he started drawing a huge birthday cake with HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY written on it on the sand covered floor. Carefully he drew eleven candles as his birthday ticked closer.
Padfoot nudged Harry's hand away, and using one of his nail scratched a flame over each candle.
"You want me to make a wish?" Harry mumbled. "Okay." He closed his eyes for a second before grinning and "blowing out" the sand flames.
Just as he blew out the last candle the watch clicked 12:00 . . .
BOOM!