No More Dursley's

Harry lowered his forehead miserably to the window, welcoming the cool touch of the glass as it was cooled by the rain pelting it from outside. Two weeks he had been at the Dursley's, two weeks he had waited, and for two weeks, he had received nothing. Not a word from anyone, except for a letter from Ron the fifth day back, not an owl, not a call, nothing. He had a horrible, nolstalgic feeling of the summer of his fifth year.

To make matters worse, the non-existent contact had included information on the Horcrux from Aberforth Dumbledore. His promise to contact Harry within three days had not been fulfilled, and Harry had never felt like such a fool. He had willingly handed over information on something crucially important to a complete stranger. Even if Dumbledore had told him to trust the man . . . Where had Dumbledore's trust in Severus Snape gotten him?

Bringing his forehead from the glass, he mentally berated himself for such brash thoughts. Dumbledore had been the greatest wizard alive, and Harry knew that there must have been something Dumbledore had known about Snape that had made him act as such. Besides, Dumbledore wasn't a complete fool, he had, after all, known of Snape's past ways . . . Or at least Harry wanted to believe it. There was that constant, ever-vigilant voice in the back of his head that maliciously nagged about how trusting Dumbledore had been, how foolish . . .

Harry gritted his teeth, turning sharply from the window. After a quick glance about his room, he turned back around, watching the rain with a wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't exactly say his self-confidence was at it's best. Sighing, he sank to the floor, resting his head against the wall.

Another horrible feature brought along with the short stay he had to endure at the Dursley's was the absolute boredom. He had nothing to do, literally. Not even friends to write to, he added, somewhat bitterly. Another sigh escaped him. Ron, Hermione, and the others had to have a good reason for keeping silent. For all he knew, they could have been . . . Harry shook his head, refusing to let his thoughts stray to that unwelcome region. It was just too painful.

And Lupin . . . Harry hadn't even been able to visit him in St. Mungo's, something he felt particularily miserable about. Lupin was probably already out and about, thinking Harry some horrible lad who wouldn't even visit a friend in the hospital. There was also Bill and Fleur's wedding. Harry had no idea what exact date it was going to be held, though he knew sometime in July, and he hoped he hadn't already missed it. He'd feel even worse, if it was possible, if he did.

And the Daily Prophet had stopped coming. Harry had thought this odd, considering it had never happened before. Another horribly wrong thing to happen, considering he now had absolutely no way of contacting or keeping up with the wizarding world. He felt a knot of anger form in his chest, and he scowled at the floor. All because of Voldemort, he thought angrily, picking at a piece of wood that had splintered from the dully polished floor.

"What are you doing to my floor, boy!"

Harry involuntarily winced at the high-pitched shriek, bringing his hands to his ears. There was a thundering of footsteps coming up the stairs, and Harry looked up hesitantly, meeting the angry eyes of his Aunt Petunia and his Uncle Vernon. He was mildly surprised, though. Aunt Petunia's sentance had contained more words than his only relatives had spoken to him the entire two weeks, a record low, he noted with abstract amusement.

"Boy," Uncle Vernon growled out, stepping in front of his wife. Harry stood quickly, not sure to what ungodly pleasure he owed the current visit. Judging from the steely look on Aunt Petunia's drawn face and the predatory gleam in Uncle Vernon's eyes, it wasn't something he was going to enjoy.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" Harry said, keeping his distance by the window. Uncle Vernon let out another sound mixing between a grunt and a growl, taking a step forward. He reached behind his back, and Harry felt a rolling in his stomach as the rather crazy tales of Muggles gone mad with guns spiraled through his head. To his immense relief, Uncle Vernon only pulled out what looked like an envelope.

It had three perfectly placed stamps on it, and a neat, scrawling handwriting that Harry immediately recognized as that of his best friend's, Hermione Granger. Feeling his spirits lift sky-high, he walked slowly toward Uncle Vernon, reaching forward to snatch the letter from his Uncle's hands. However, Uncle Vernon had different ideas, and he pulled the letter back, a gleam in his beady, sordid eyes.

"Boy, you will tell these . . . freak," the word rolled of his tongue with obvious distaste, accompanied by a domineering sneer, "Friends of yours not to be sending letters to my house," Uncle Vernon warned, his eyes narrowing, causing the excess fat on his cheeks to roll upward in a uncanny form of movement. Harry nodded absently, reaching for the letter once more. He sighed in relief when Uncle Vernon let him take it, and checked it over, making sure it was still sealed correctly. The last thing he needed was his relatives prying into his business.

When he looked back up, he noticed that his Aunt and Uncle were still in his doorway, and he gave them a wary look. "Will that be all?" he asked slowly, feeling very uncomfortable at the still-present knowing look in Vernon's eyes. He nodded jerkily, the action causing the mounds of flab on his various chins to wobble uncertainly before falling back into place, making his neck resemble an odd, sort of staircase-shaped thing. Aunt Petunia gave him a superior look, closing the door with much more force than was necessary after following her husband out.

Deciding that his Aunt and Uncle's strange behavior could wait, he withdrew Hermione's letter, shoving some stray Quidditch books off his bed as he sat down. Tossing the envelope carelessly to the side, he adjusted his glasses, dropping his eyes to the letter.

Harry,

Don't have much time. Sorry we haven't written(Harry assumed Ron and the others were included in the 'we') but things are hectic in the wizarding world. There was recently a killing involving twenty seven Muggles and four witches, and the Ministry, and our friends(Harry frowned at her horrible use of discrepency) are rather cautious about letting us out and about.

Our best regards, and sorry again for not being able to visit. The wedding is on the twentieth, and they'll be coming to fetch you sometime soon. You'll be staying someplace you know, so be prepared. By the way, their's curfew on the wizarding world now, too. Anyone caught after sunset without official purposes is immediately arrested on the spot.

Which is why I have to rush. It's getting dark, and Mrs. Weasley sends her regards as well. Bye for now.

Love,

Hermione

The paper fluttered from his hands to the coverlet on his bed, folding in upon itself. Harry stared blankly at the dark-printed scratchy writing, his mind numb with shock. Twenty seven Muggles and four witches? Harry asked himself, blinking several times. Thirty one people killed? He swallowed, feeling a surge of anger and violence.

Voldemort was behind it. He knew it, just like he knew Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy were rotten Slytherins, just like he knew Dumbledore was dead . . . His fist clenched, and his arm trembled with the effort to keep from pounding something to a pulp as the question echoed over and over in his head; Why? What was to gain from doing such things? How could it feel good and powerful to kill so many innocent people?

And then Dumbledore's voice floated in his head, swimming around and around itself until it was emblazened behind his eyes. To set him apart from others . . . Harry stiffly folded the letter up, tucking it back into the envelope and setting it with forced, tight movements on his nightstand. He swallowed once again, not sure what to do with himself.

And then he remembered his Uncle's face, the knowing, superior look. Had the Durseley's somehow known? Harry smiled grimly, though it looked like more of a grimace. It was likely, considering twenty seven of the deaths had been Muggles. Uncle Vernon was probably shaking in his slippers at the moment, elated at the thought that the same lunatic who had done all that was going to take care of Harry.

He forced himself to remember the letter. At least his stay would be shorter than he had thought. This time a genuine smile tilted his lips. Only a few days, if that, before he was gone. The letter had been by Muggle post, so Harry was positive that it had taken a day or so to get there, considering the slow post in Little Whinging. Feeling much better, though only slightly, he stood from his bed, padding back over to the window.

The rain had slowed down to a steady drizzle, just hard enough to leave droplet marks on the window, but soft enough to keep from making an annoying tap. He pressed his forehead once more to the glass, feeling a sudden rush of melancholy as the news finally sank in. This was his last time at the Dursley's.

No longer would he have the safe haven that played base for him when Hogwart's was unavailable. Dumbledore had said the protection would wear off the instant he turned seventeen. Harry would no longer have people watching over him, concerned day and night about his safety. Well, maybe Lupin . . . He sighed, his breath forming a circle of fog on the glass. He hoped they would hurry up.

When Hermione had said they were coming to fetch him, he had expected to go by floo, or maybe Side-Along Apparition, if the members of the Order were strong enough to perform it. A portkey also sounded reasonable, even more likely, given it's safety. What he hadn't expected, however, was a beat up, slug like station wagon, parked on the curb in front of Number Four, Privet Drive.

He knew immediately that this was not a visitor for the Dursley's(He was at his customary spot by the window, two days after the letter, and had received the first view of the visitors). They wouldn't be caught dead conversing with people who drove a car like that, if it could even be called a car. It had run out of steam a few feet before officially reaching the mailbox, and Harry had fought back a laugh when the occupant wrestled with the driver's door.

The laugh, however, turned into a hacking cough as he caught sight of a familiar, balding, lanky figure unfolding itself from the car. And the man that followed had turned the hacking cough into a wheezing choke, which had left him slightly purple in the face as he raced down the stairs and toward the front door when the sound of the doorbell rang throughout the house.

Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon had reached it first, and Harry went barreling headlong into the meaty back, rebounding off the soft flesh to land roughly on the floor. Uncle Vernon swung around, his face flushed with rage as a single, thick finger rose, it's aim dead on Harry. He swalled, scrambling to his feet.

"Uncle Vernon, wait, those people-" Harry was cut off by a heavy, deafeningpounding on the door, and he winced, knowing that it must be Mr. Weasley. He wasn't accustomed to Muggle manners and politeness, which did not conclude trying to beat someone's door down, especially if you were making an afternoon call on them.

"Boy, if these are any of your freak friends," Uncle Vernon muttered, warning evident as he turned on his heel, nearly slamming into the wall, and yanked the door open with a vicious pull. "Good evening," he greeted stiffly, eyeing the figures of Mad Eye Moody and Arthur Weasley with avid weariness. It seemed that his last encounter with the two was not forgotten.

"Ah, Dursley, is it?" Mr. Weasley said pleasantly, striding forward and offering his hand. Uncle Vernon eyed the hand with disgust before looking back up at Mr. Weasley, his refusal written plainly on his face. Mr. Weasley looked slightly crestfallen, but his cheeriness returned when he spotted Harry. "Harry! Lovely afternoon, isn't it?" he asked, beaming. Harry nodded, glancing at Uncle Vernon, whose lips at tightened considerably.

"Dursley, budge over," Moody growled, taking a few limps forward. Uncle Vernon gave him a look of pure outrage, clearly insulted at being ordered about in his own house. He lifted that same, meaty finger, swinging it toward Moody with a threatening shake.

"Now listen here, sir! This is my house, and I shall not be-What in the ruddy hell are you doing?" Uncle Vernon said loudly, eyes widening and face darkening a few shades when Moody limped by, the two nearly matched in height.

"Save it, you slimy codger. Potter," Moody greeted, nodding at him. Harry returned the gesture, looking back to Mr. Weasley, who was attempting to console Uncle Vernon, who was having none of it.

"Terribly sorry, Mr. Dursley. Allastor tends to be a bit capricious when his mind's set on business," Mr. Weasley said, similing apologetically. It was lost to Uncle Vernon's ears though, as his glower moved to Harry.

"Boy, take your guests and get out of my house," Uncle Vernon said, his tone clipped and pristinely clear. Harry nodded grimly, swallowing at the shaking now causing his Uncle's entire being to quiver with rage. It was at that precise moment, however, that Dudley, Harry's cousin, chose to take his third afternoon snack. Or third on Harry's count alone.

"Mum!" the portly boy bellowed, dropping the small, handheld gaming device in his hands and waddling off the other way. Mr. Weasley's smile was now strained and forced, though Moody showed no apparent reaction to the Dursley's. Aunt Petunia entered the foyer a moment later, her eyes widening in shock and her hand fluttering to her breast as her breath escaped her in a gasp.

"Vernon!" she screeched, shoving roughly past Harry to help her husband, who was leaning against the wall, his breathing heavy and labored in an attempt to control his rage at the invasion of his home. "You, boy!" Aunt Petunia said, rounding on Harry.

"We'll be leaving," Harry said quickly, looking to Moody for affirmation.

"Got your stuff packed, Potter?" Moody asked leisurely, looking with obvious disdain at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, who was attempting to heave her husband from the wall. Harry shook his head, jumping up quickly and starting toward the stairs. "I'll be lending you a hand, then, I suppose," Moody added grumpily, nodding at Mr. Weasley. "Arthur, I trust you can take care of things down here?" With that, he started up the stairs, with minor difficulty, after Harry.

Harry had just started to round up his stack of books when Moody lumbered through the doorway, drawing his wand and swishing it out. Harry turned, ready to deposit the rather heavy armload of books into his trunk, when he noticed the wand of the ex-Auror pointed directly at him.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked frantically, the books sagging in his protesting arms.

"You haven't even checked to make sure Arthur and I aren't impersonaters," Moody said scornfully, wand steady and still. Harry swallowed, nodding his head at the mistake. He had been quite sure they were real. They had acted like they always did. And since when does a Death Eater act like a Death Eater when impersonating someone? the nagging voice in his head quipped. Harry scowled at nothing, raising his eyes to Moody's.

"Who's laying in St. Mungo's right now?" Harry asked suddenly, pretty sure a Death Eater wouldn't know that. With Lupin being in the Order and all, he was confident that the information wouldn't be widespread. To his utter surprise, a look of disapproval flitted across Moody's face.

"That the best you can come up with, Potter? I've heard better from little kids," he said, lowering the wand, though he did not put it away. Harry sagged in relief, the books toppling into his trunk as he was allowed to move again. "You ought to work on that. Six years at Hogwart's should have prepared you for the outside world," he added, flicking his wand at a few piles of dirty robes. They all did a strange sort of jig in the air before toddling toward Harry's trunk clumsily, landing in a heap with a swish.

"I've got one more year left," Harry muttered, knowing he was lying through his teeth. It was best not to let anybody know at the moment, though. Mrs. Weasley was sure to find out if he or Ron told anyone, and Harry was already dreading the inevitable as it was.

Harry turned, amazed, when Moody barked out a laugh, his magical eye swiveling about to focus on Harry along with the real one. "Potter, you aren't going back to that school without Dumbledore. I don't blame you, either. Minerva is one hell of a witch, but she ain't Dumbledore. Nope, she ain't Dumbledore," he added, somewhat more quietly. Harry gaped, the pile of socks in his hands dropping to the floor with a light thump. "What?" Moody growled, catching his shocked look.

"How'd you . . .? Know that-" Harry sputtered, gesturing at Moody. Moody let out another hollow laugh, the noise sounding as if it had been grated over thousands of nails.

"Like I said, Hogwart's ain't Hogwarts without that Dumbledore. Now hurry, boy, we don't have all day. And what is this?" he asked, nudging something on the floor with his shoe. Harry frowned, leaning forward on his haunches to inspect whatever Moody was indicating. He fell back with a yelp, staring fearfully at the fidgeting object on the floor. It was a sock, or used to be a sock. It had small, wormy tentacles and a slight patch of fuzz near the ankle of it now. Harry's eyes widened. He hadn't realized it had gone that long without washing. "Disgusting, Potter. All Aurors learn cleanliness. I suggest you get a start on it now," Moody added.

For some reason, it caused a smile to fall on Harry's face, and he lifted the sock with renewed vigor, taking a step back when Moody pointed his wand at it. The tentacles shriveled up and disappeared with a pop, the hair soon following it. Harry tossed it harmlessly into his trunk, scouring the room for any missing materials.

"That all?" Moody finally asked, looking fit and ready to go as he pointed his wand at Harry's trunk. It levitated into the air, and Harry started to follow Moody before he remembered it.

"Wait!" he shouted, rushing back into the room. He threw himself on the floor and crawled under the bed, lifting the floorboard and grabbing all the items in his growing hoard. Every birthday card he had ever received from his friends, a few moldy pieces of cake he had intended to eat later but forgotten about(Moody quickly vanquished them with a flick of his wrist), and other small things that meant the world to Harry. Putting them in the top of of his trunk, he nodded at Moody.

"Let's go then, Potter." Harry followed the ex-Auror down the stairs, grimacing uncontrollably when he saw his Aunt and Uncle pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Mr. Weasley had his wand out, though it was pointed toward the door, and his spine was rigid. Moody immediately tensed, joining Mr. Weasley in a flash, warning Harry with a look to stay on the stairs. "Trouble, Arthur?" Moody asked out of the corner of his mouth. Harry had to strain on his toes at the bottom step to hear.

"No, nothing, Allastor. I just wanted to keep an eye out," Arthur said, turning pleasantly to Harry. "Well, Harry, I assume you'll want to say goodbye?" he asked, though his tone was more forceful than his face belied. Harry remembered the last time Mr. Weasley had witnessed him say goodbye to his relatives, and he fought back another grimace as he faced the Dursley's, finally climbing down the last step on the staircase.

"Er, thank you," he said awkwardly, ruffling the hair near the back of his head. "I know you don't like me and all, so, er . . . thanks for letting me stay. I won't be coming back," he added, choosing to ignore the pleased look that settled on Uncle Vernon's face. He looked to Mr. Weasley, hoping it would suffice as a decent enough goodbye. From the pleasant expression on his face, it had, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. While he didn't hate his relatives, at least not yet, he wasn't too fond of them either.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. We'll take our leave," Mr. Weasley said, giving it one last ditch effort and offering his hand. Neither Dursley accepted, and his smile faltered a bit as he turned, starting toward the door. "I'll check, Allastor," he added quietly, slowly cracking the door open and peeking out. Satisfied, he turned to Harry. "Come on, Harry, out you go, after me."

"Boy, wait." Harry turned, mild surprise evident on his face as he faced Aunt Petunia. She seemed to struggle with her words, and they came out carefully and slowly. "That man . . . Dumbledore, was it?" she asked, and Harry stiffened, although no less curious. He waited, wondering what in the world his Aunt Petunia was getting at. "He won't be bothering us anymore, will he?" she asked, eyes narrowed, as if she expected to get landed with another orphan boy, or perhaps girl.

Harry felt every ounce of hope that his Aunt would say something pleasant deplete as his face hardened. "No," he said flatly, turning and following Mr. Weasley brusquely. Moody followed suit, slamming the door and limping toward them, wand concealed under his arm.

"In the back, Harry," Mr. Weasley instructed him, opening the door and nodding at Harry. Harry slid in the backseat, wrinkling his nose as the scent of must, sewage, and spoiled spirits assaulted his nostrils. Mr. Weasley noticed his grimace and chuckled uneasily, wringing his hands. "Found the car in a back alley, Harry. Best that you don't go spouting it off to Molly, though," Mr. Weasley added. Harry couldn't help but smile as he nodded his head.

"No, of course not, Mr. Weasley," he said, trying to keep from touching anything in the car that wasn't necessary, seats included. They were ripped and torn, and there was a rather large dark stain that Harry guessed was blood to his right. Moody slipped Harry's trunk in on the other side, and climbed in the passenger seat, buckling his seat belt with a little help from Mr. Weasley.

"Well, Potter, all set?" Moody asked, looking back to give him a gruff look. Harry nodded, gripping his own seat belt, which was nearly ripped in two, tightly as the car started forward with a jerk, sputtering and spitting. Harry noticed a foul cloud of black coughing up from the motor under the hood, but he didn't say anything.

He looked back out the cracked rear windsheild, squinting his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. He peered forward. Turning back around with a sigh and shake of his head, he cursed himself for being so stupid. He could have sworn, for just a moment, he saw his Aunt's face through the cracked curtains.

"See something, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, trying to keep his tone casual, but Harry saw his eyes narrow in the rear view mirror. Harry shook his head, fidgeting in his seat and tightening his grasp on the seat belt.

"Er, no," Harry said, resisting the urge to peer out the window again. He glanced around the car, shifting his feet with a look of disgust when he noticed a spot of what looked like chunks of dried vomit. "Er, Mr. Weasley, is it safe? I mean, driving by ourselves like this and all?" Harry asked nervously, leaning forward to inspect the rest of the area near his feet.

Moody let out a rasping chuckle, turning to scrutinize him with his normal eye. "This little car right here has the best Anti-Jinx, Anti-Curse, and disillusion charms on it. Even if anyone does happen to catch a glance, it'll only look like a trick of their mind. Rather naive lot, them Muggles," Moody added, shaking his head and turning back around to face the front. Harry noticed Mr. Weasley's reassuring smile in the mirror.

"There are many more charms and protection placed on the car, Harry, don't worry," he said quietly, squeezing between two Muggle cars, almost exactly like the Knight Bus had done. Harry remained silent, gazing out the window at the many cars that passed by. Though they weren't going as fast as the Knight Bus, Harry had never seen a Muggle car go at this speed, and he idly wondered how they managed, even with magic. Putting his head against the glass, he sighed, wondering how Ron and Hermione were doing.

He suddenly remembered the letter, and the mass killing Hermione had briefly written about. He lifted his head from the window."Er, Mr. Weasley, Hermione told me about another incident," Harry ventured, not sure if the topic was open for discussion. He saw Mr. Weasley's face fall, and the older man sighed quietly, the sound drawn and hollow.

"Twenty seven Muggles and four witches killed, Harry," Mr. Weasley replied, zipping past a red light. Harry waited for him to go on. "Two of the witches were Ministry officials in my department trying to calm the Muggles down," Mr. Weasley continued. Harry's breath hitched in his throat, and he swallowed hard, frowning slightly.

"Fist fight broke out in a crowd of Muggles," Moody explained gruffly. "The witches from Arthur's department received a tip about some crazy lot of Dark wizards sicking snapping broomsticks on Muggles. Tried to confiscate 'em and one of the lunatics ended up blowing the whole plaza up. Killed 'em all within a ten foot reach, two of Arthur's witches got caught," Moody finished, noticing the pained look on Mr. Weasley's face.

"Sorry, Mr. Weasley," Harry said, feeling miserable for bringing the subject up. Mr. Weasley smiled, nodding his head at Harry in the mirror.

"Don't worry about it, Harry. I still have to make the official report tomorrow for the Ministry. Rufus Scrimgeuor is apparently more . . . ah, prompt than Fudge was," he added, trying to keep the disdain for the old Minister of Magic out of his voice. Harry grinned at his seat, understanding full and well what Mr. Weasley meant. Fudge really hadn't been that good a Minister at all, at least in Harry's opinion.

Moody followed it up with another strange kind of laugh, and the trio fell silent for the rest of the ride. Harry chose not to comment when he saw the sun sink slowly beneath the horizon, and they were officially past the curfew. Then again, Moody being ex-Auror and Mr. Weasley being a Ministry Head, they were probably safe enough. He felt a yawn split his face, and he shifted comfortably against the door. He didn't want to bother Moody or Mr. Weasley about how much longer, so he rested his head against the window again, feeling his eyes drift shut.

OK, this didn't go quite as I planned. This and the next chapter were supposed to be one together, but it was nearing eight or nine thousand words, so I decided to split it up.