Chapter 1 OWLS, owls, and away

Despite what the weatherman had promised the previous evening, the morning sky was the same thundery purple haze the sun had set upon, and the air of the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive was still close and stifling. Harry Potter lay sprawled on his bed with the sheets kicked into a tangle around his ankles and one arm thrown over his face, waiting for the owl that would bring him the Daily Prophet, and with it, hopefully, news

Not that he expected much. Since the end of June, when— Harry screwed up his eyes as tight as they would go — the Ministry of Magic finally had to admit that the most evil wizard in anyone's memory had returned, there had been a fortnight of ridiculous bluster from Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, on the front page; increasingly hysterical editorials inside the paper; then...nothing. As soon as it became apparent that Voldemort wasn't currently on a murderous rampage, the front page reverted to more usual fare: the bass player of The Weird Sisters being divorced by his wife because of a six-day-long Firewhisky binge; and the minutiae of the corrupt bid Transylvania had made for the next Quidditch World Cup. Nor had news been forthcoming from his best friends, Ron and Hermione. Letters from them were no more informative than those he received from them last summer, but this was because, they said, there was no news. Instead they were full of concerns about OWL results and how he, Harry, was... Part of him thought he very much preferred the tantalising suggestions and half-intelligence of last summer. Even the pain in his scar, which had prickled almost constantly for months, had been absent for the past two weeks...

Unable to lie any longer and unwilling to let his mind drift down that avenue again, he stood and dressed quickly. Just as he was pulling his T-shirt over his head, he heard a flump behind him. Turning around quickly, he saw a staticy-looking brown owl on his desk with a rolled-up newspaper at its feet, holding out its leg which had a small leather pouch attached to it. He had barely gave the owl a Knut when it spread his wings and flew out of the window, very nearly straight into a handsome tawny owl bearing an official-looking scroll with a red wax seal.

Fearing this could be only one thing; he hurriedly gave the owl a treat from the bag beside Hedwig's empty cage, and tore the scroll open. It was his OWL results.

Dear Mr Potter he read

Enclosed are the results of your Ordinary Wizarding Levels, taken in June of this year, as reported to the Wizarding Examinations Authority by Professor Griselda Marchbanks.

Please note that Astronomy (practical) grades have been adjusted to compensate for the considerable disruption to the exam. Re-examination in the subject will also be made available to those who request it

I am also delighted to inform you that you received the highest mark in living memory for Defence Against the Dark Arts at OWL: 237. Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you on what was truly an exceptional performance.

Enjoy the rest of your summer!

John Xavium Tofty

Wizarding Examinations Authority

Harry stared at the final paragraph of the letter for several minutes before its meaning started to sink in. Highest mark in living memory! Then something Hermione had said months ago came back to him: "Harry, you're the best in the year at Defence Against the Dark Arts...think about what you've done..."

Well, yes, alright, he knew after producing a Patronus in the practical part of the exam that he had done well, and he had found the paper pretty easy, but never had he thought that he would receive the highest mark in the class, never mind the highest mark in living memory...

Remembering that he had, in fact, also taken other exams, he turned to the second sheet of parchment with a deep breath.

Astronomy Exceeds Expectations

Care of Magical Creatures Outstanding

Charms Exceeds Expectations

Defence Against the Dark Arts Outstanding

Divination Poor

Herbology Exceeds Expectations

History of Magic Acceptable

Potions Outstanding

Transfiguration Exceeds Expectations

He let out a small snort of disbelief. An O in Potions? That meant...he scanned the grades again...he could take all the classes he needed to be an Auror! Remembering his career interview with Professor McGonagall at which she had said to him, and Professor Umbridge, that "I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do...If I have to coach you nightly, I will make sure you receive the required results!" Harry smiled at the memory of Umbridge's fury at that pronouncement, but his smile became grimmer as he imagined Snape's face when he learned that he would be in his NEWT Potions class - he was unlikely to be particularly enthused with the prospect, although come to think of it, nor was he himself. Two more years of Snape was far from being a thought he relished: every time he thought about the Potions Master he felt bile rise in his throat and his fingernails clenched so deeply into his palms that little white half-moons remained for ages afterwards; and not to mention the deeply unfair treatment he was bound to be on the receiving end of during lessons... Whatever Dumbledore had told him at the end of last term, he would never forgive Snape for... Harry sighed. He could just imagine what Sirius's reaction to his marks would have been – he had a sneaking suspicion that it would have involved beverages considerably more potent than Butterbeer.

With a sigh he turned to the Daily Prophet, not really expecting to see anything of interest, but the headline made thoughts of Snape fly out of his head and his skin crawl.

CORNELIUS FUDGE MURDERED

DARK MARK SEEN ABOVE

The Minister for Magic was discovered dead early this morning in his official London townhouse, apparently killed by the lethal Avada Kedavra curse by the supporters of He Who Must Not Be Named.

Harry read the rest of the article sitting on the edge of his bed, open-mouthed. Beside the article was a photograph of a glittery skull with a serpent tongue above a neat sandstone terrace. Harry swallowed hard. He had certainly disliked the Minister, but no one deserved...He had never thought that things would begin with anything like this...fanfare.

He jumped as a blinding sheet of lightning tore across the sky, accompanied by a guttural rumble of thunder and a mildly irritated-looking snowy owl soaring in through the window with a dead mouse clamped in her beak.

He turned to Hedwig and absently stroked her head, his thoughts racing. What would happen now? Surely the entire Ministry would be in chaos, and surely that was exactly what Voldemort wanted? Harry felt sick. What was he planning?

With a final glance at the paper Harry pulled open the door and walked slowly downstairs to the kitchen, where his aunt and uncle and Dudley were already seated around the table, staring at the television. Instead of the death of a prominent member of the government, a balding middle-aged man in a lurid Hawaiian shirt was reporting from a pub in St Albans sat beside a cider-drinking chinchilla, who, according to the amused commentary, enjoyed half a pint every day.

None of the Dursleys bothered to acknowledge him as he sat and helped himself to some toast and marmalade. He had exchanged very few words with them since he had returned from Hogwarts – he had very little to say to them, and it seemed that they very much preferred the absence of communication. Just as he was about to reach for his second piece of toast, the front doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon grunted and Harry sighed. Even before Aunt Petunia turned to glare at him, he was standing up.

Expecting to see the postman with a parcel or an overly enthusiastic collector for charity when he opened the door, Harry was astounded to see a grim elderly woman he vaguely recognised standing on the front doorstep wearing a dress, which looked like it had once been a curtain, and carrying a battered pink handbag with a wand poking out of it. Before he could open his mouth to say anything she had pushed inside and closed the door with a slam.

"Wotcher Harry —" she began, just as Uncle Vernon came striding out of the kitchen. Unfortunately he caught Tonks in the middle of transforming her severe grey perm into a slightly less respectable mass of violet curls; her nose screwed up unbecomingly in concentration.

"Boy! I've told you..." he boomed, "I will have no fre—"

Tonks had her the tip of her wand pointing threateningly at the end of his corpulent nose before Uncle Vernon could complete his sentence, but when she spoke it was in an incongruously friendly voice.

"Listen up Mr Dursley, we have very little time and if you delay us I swear I will curse you seven ways from Sunday. Now, I am sure you will be delighted to hear that your nephew will shortly be leaving your care, but instead of any tearful goodbyes please return to your breakfast."

To Harry's astonishment, Uncle Vernon did as he was told; though his face was purple and he was muttering murderously under his breath. With a grin, Tonks turned to Harry.

"Lets get you out of this joint!"

Harry, amazed, opened his mouth to agree, but was cut off by her turning him forcefully around by the shoulders to face the stairs.

"We're leaving as soon as you can be packed," she said from behind him.

Harry nodded and ran up the stairs two at a time, hearing Tonks behind him do exactly the same. It wouldn't take long for him to pack; he had barely unpacked when he returned for the summer: it was just too much hassle after...

Going quickly to his bed, he grabbed the parchment with his OWL results on it and threw it into his trunk. Turning to the bedside table, he stuffed his wand into his back pocket, seized the couple of books he had tried to distract himself with and a letter from Ron which had arrived yesterday, and with the few items of muggle clothing lying on the floor, dumped them into the trunk. Distantly he heard the doorbell ring again.

A thud behind him told him Tonks had joined him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw her grinning sheepishly and rubbing her elbow.

"Considerably tidier than the last time I saw this place!" she said, smirking.

"What's going on?" he asked. Something about Tonks's smile, which looked rather more forced than he remembered, said a bruised elbow didn't factor on a list of even her most trivial worries.

Instead of replying straight away, she crossed to the window and looked both ways down the street. Evidently seeing nothing of concern, she turned back to him. Spying the Daily Prophet on his bed, she said,

"Well Fudge is the least of our problems, put it that way."

Before Harry could ask anything further, she was snapping the latches of his trunk closed and hustling Hedwig into her cage. After several moments rummaging in her handbag, she removed what looked like a crumpled piece of Droobles Best Blowing Gum - wrapper. Tapping it with her wand, she murmured "Portus" and the paper glowed.

"Right," she said, "got everything? I'll take your trunk; you take Hedwig's cage. Hold onto it, she'll probably not appreciate this mode of transport."

Harry seized the cage firmly around the middle and reached out to touch the portkey. Tonks counted down

"One...two..." but before she could say "Three," a scream rang up the stairs.

Muttering a number of choice expletives under her breath, Tonks turned on her heels and peered cautiously out into the hallway and down the stairs as a second scream pierced the air... and died at its crescendo.

Suddenly Tonks pulled away from the hallway, just in time to miss the jet of blue-green light that streaked diagonally upward through the space that her head had occupied half a moment before. She whirled back to face Harry, again holding out the bubble-gum-wrapper portkey.

Reaching out, he barely had time to feel the paper in his hand before he felt a abrupt tug somewhere behind his navel, and he and Tonks were pulled out of Privet Drive in a surge of colour.