Title: Harry Potter and the Werewolf of Azkaban
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, settings or anything else from Harry Potter.
Warnings: AU
Chapter One
"...the public is warned that the escapee is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sightings should be reported immediately...."
Vernon Dursley snorted at the television. "No need to tell us he's good-for-nothing!" he bellowed, waving a spoon at the image of a skeletally thin figure, scar-faced and lank-haired. "Look at the state of him!"
Harry ignored his uncle, knowing from experience his views on people who were less than immaculately turned out, and continued eating his cereal. Dudley glowered enviously at Harry over his already-empty bowl.
"When's this godfather of yours coming for you?" Vernon asked, casting an eye at the clock on the wall as if counting the minutes until he could be rid of his nephew.
"Twelve," Harry replied shortly. He, too, was looking forward to a gloriously Dursley-free week, and after that the new term started at Hogwarts, so he would not have to see them again until next July. He grinned to himself at the thought.
"He's not bringing that blasted motorcycle again is he, boy? The neighbours talk, they all want to know who it is that makes so much damned noise riding that machine!"
Harry shrugged, secretly hoping that Sirius would come roaring through the sleepy streets of Little Whingeing on the huge motorbike, revving the enormous engine and laughing. It was great fun to see every curtain in Privet Drive twitching as the nosy neighbours peered out at Harry's godfather in his leather jacket, shaking out his messy black hair. It was even more fun to see Mr Dursley's face turn that deep, angry shade of purple he reserved especially for Sirius.
"When are you going to pick Marge up from the station, Vernon?" Aunt Petunia's thin, nasal voice broke through Harry's train of thought.
"Her train arrives at one, so the boy'll be well away before she gets here."
"Aunt Marge? She's coming?" Harry felt giddy with relief. Aunt Marge never missed an opportunity to snap at him, insult him, set her 'precious' pitbull terrier on him ("Don't be silly, boy! Ripper wouldn't hurt a fly!"). Across the table, Dudley's eyes were bright and he was laughing softly to himself over the memory of Harry being chased across the garden and up into the tree by Ripper. He laughed softly, however, because he had never quite got over his terror of Harry's magical abilities, nor forgotten Sirius' threats that if he was ever caught bullying Harry again he would find himself in a world of trouble.
"Yes," Vernon snapped," and I want you safely out of this house before she arrives. We don't want everyone knowing abut your abnormality."
"Fine by me," Harry snapped back. He pushed his chair back and went upstairs to finish packing his trunk.
Ten to twelve. Harry sat in the spotless living room of the Dursley's house, watching the slow progression of the clock's hands. Every second was like an eternity.
Vernon Dursley paced the length of the room, wearing his very best suit, as he always did for Sirius' visits, and slowly building up his facial colour. Aunt Petunia sat rigidly in an armchair, eyes searching the room for any errant speck of dust, not that it mattered, for Sirius was never invited into the house. Dudley was nowhere to be seen. He was hiding in his room and playing his most violent computer game in an effort to remind himself that he was a hard gang leader and definitely not afraid of scrawny younger cousins and their godfathers.
Five to twelve. A heavy feeling of anticipation settled in Harry's stomach, as it always did on the days of Sirius' visits. Although Sirius had never been late or let him down so far, Harry never felt certain that he would arrive until the moment the doorbell rang.
One minute to twelve. The second hand moved ponderously, each separate tick and tock echoingly loud. Uncle Vernon kept pacing, and had achieved a crimson hue. Aunt Petunia was stiff as a board, nostrils flared as though she were sniffing for Sirius.
And then it was twelve, and Sirius wasn't there. Of course, it was ridiculous to expect him to be punctual to the very second, Harry thought, although the anticipation thickened into a leaden dread that gave him a vaguely nauseous sensation.
Five past twelve. Ten past twelve. Twenty past twelve. Harry felt sick with despair. Uncle Vernon looked pointedly at his watch.
"Well, well. Not bothered to turn up, has he? Can't say I'm surprised, myself. Scruffy layabout like that, probably lying drunk somewhere," he sneered at Harry, who couldn't work past the awful devastated feeling enough to get really angry.
Aunt Petunia sniffed haughtily and got up to go into the kitchen, as if she had quite given up waiting.
"Going to be stuck with you now until term starts, I suppose?" Uncle Vernon went on, "We'll have to get you to that train station, I expect? No consideration at all," he concluded.
There was a strangled shriek from the kitchen, followed by a soft hooting that Harry immediately recognised as an owl's. Hope suddenly flaring, he raced into the kitchen and wrenched the letter from the owl, who ruffled her feathers and hooted reproachfully at him before flapping off out of the kitchen window. The handwriting on the note was Sirius', but scrawled and ink-blotted as if he had written hurriedly. It read:
Harry,
I'm sorry, but something very important has just come up and I'm not going to be able to come and get you from the Dursley's this week. Chin up, and I'll meet you on Platform 9 ¾.
Do not leave Privet Drive, and do not go out alone. I wish I could explain this to you better, but I'm in a mad rush and I've got to go. If you need me, send Hedwig to the Leaky Cauldron, and if the Dursleys cause trouble then tell them they'll have to deal with me next week.
Be careful Harry. I'll see you soon,
Sirius
Harry read the letter with a growing sense of confusion, and had to read it through again to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
Uncle Vernon snatched the scrap of parchment and held it with distaste. His lips moved as he read.
"Got himself into trouble, has he?" he snarled at his nephew when he had finished.
"How should I know?" Harry snapped back, snatching the letter again.
"Don't talk to me like that, boy!"
"I won't talk to you at all, then!" Harry shouted. He knew he was being childish, but it was satisfying to shout and be angry instead of focusing on the heavy disappointment in the pit of his belly and blocking his throat and stinging behind his eyes. He pushed past Uncle Vernon and headed for the stairs, intending to lock himself into his room. Uncle Vernon caught his arm and held him back.
"Marge is coming," he hissed, "and you'll be very polite to her and not mention that...that school, or anything to do with it. We've told her that you attend St. Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys."
"St. what?!"
"St. Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys!" Uncle Vernon roared. His face was painfully red.
"Alright, alright. What if I forget?"
"Do you want to try me, boy?"
"Fine, I'll remember."
"And you'll be very polite to her."
"If she's polite to me."
"And there'll be none of your funny business, do you hear me? None at all!"
"YOU BRING HER BACK!" Uncle Vernon shouted at Harry, who rounded on him and shouted back:
"No! She deserved it!" He heaved his trunk out of the front door and away from number four, Privet Drive. Anger boiled inside him, and he felt a fierce rush of glee at the thought of fat Aunt Marge floating somewhere up above him.
She'd had no right to say what she did, about his parents, about his mother, about him. Behind him, Uncle Vernon had slammed the door, obviously unwilling to cause a scene that the neighbours might overhear, and Harry didn't care. He was leavng Privet Drive, no matter what.
It was a dark, clear night, the sky all rich velvet-black, scattered with twinkling pinpricks of cold starlight and adorned with a bright silvery moon only a few days away from fullness. Harry stormed along, unseeing and uncaring, driven along by anger and a nagging fear that told him how much he was going to be in trouble for doing whatever he had done to Aunt Marge. It hadn't been intentional, of course. It was just that she had kept on and on in that loud, vulgar voice saying those things that she had no right to say. Harry had stared at her fat face, reddened by brandy , and felt a loathing so powerful that it had to escape somehow. The next moment she was swelling and swelling and Uncle Vernon was shouting and Aunt Petunia was shrieking and Dudley was staring at him in undisguised terror and Harry had to get out of that house.
Harry paused. It hadn't quite occured to him, in his angry rush to get away, that he didn't actually have anywhere to go. How far was Little Wingeing from London? Could he walk it? Could he find the Leaky Cauldron once he got there? There was a bus stop a little further ahead, he would go there and wait for a bus to London, and worry about finding his way later. Feeling suddenly tired and alone, he let his levitated trunk fall to the floor and sat on it.
As he sat, a strange sensation came over him, like shivers tingling along the length of his spine. It felt like he was being watched. Cautiously, he turned around, reaching for his wand. Behind him was the old playground, very still and quiet. Too quiet? "
"Lumos," Harry whispered,and searched for any small rustle, any tiny movement in the bushes nearby. Nobody was there, of course. It was nothing but Harry's imagination. "Nox," he sighed, shoved his wand into his back pocket and resumed waiting.
"Out rather late, aren't we?" asked a mild, pleasant voice.
Harry started and looked around for the source of the unexpected voice. Standing next to him, leaning against the bus shelter, was a tall figure in a long coat, just out of the dim orange glow cast by the streetlight so that his features were hidden in shadow.
"I suppose," said Harry warily. He couldn't quite make out the man's face, but he was sure he saw a smile spread over it.
"Running away?" the stranger asked lightly, tapping Harry's trunk with a booted foot.
"Maybe," Harry said, peering closely at the man. There was something about him that was vaguely familiar.
"You'll want to be careful, out late at night, all alone, with an escaped murderer on the loose. They say he killed thirteen people."
Harry stared, a creeping feeling of unease settling about him. There was something about the fall of the man's shoulder-length hair, something about the obvious thinness under the long coat, that Harry felt he should recognise.
"Why are you out so late?" he countered, mouth dry and pulse racing.
"I was...visiting someone. Yes..." said the man almost wistfully and trailed off, looking away from Harry as if lost in thought. Harry watched him. At last the stranger turned back. "Your bus is coming," he smiled. "I am sure we will see each other soon, Harry Potter."
There was a bus coming, its headlights drenched the dark street in brilliance and Harry saw the face of the man clearly: a gaunt, haggard, starved looking face, crisscrossed with pale scar-lines, shadowed eyes gleaming and mouth stretched into a strange smile. Harry gasped, and heard Uncle Vernon's snort of 'No need to tell us he's good-for-nothing!' in his mind, because this was the face of the escaped criminal, the murderer. The murderer gave Harry one last smile and a friendly wink, and disappeared into the shadows.
The bus ground to a halt in front of him, and Harry was still gazing at the place where the murderer had disappeared.
"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."¹
Harry turned, and his jaw dropped. The bus was purple, and triple-deckered, and very obviously magical.
"Er...er...how much would it be to get to London? The, er, Leaky Cauldron?" he stammered, feeling slightly in shock.
"Eleven sickles," said the conductor, a pimply boy of no more than eighteen or nineteen. "You gettin' on, or what?"
Harry followed Stan onto the bus and paid the eleven sickles for his ride and two extra for a mug of hot chocolate. He sat on a rickety bed alone, sipping the thin drink and wondering why the murderer had stood and talked to him. It only struck him much later, as the sky began to lighten, that he had called him Harry Potter.
A/N: ¹This speech is taken directly from the book. It is not mine, and I lay no claim to it whatsoever.
Reviews and constructive criticism are, as always, extremely welcome.