Being on the run as a dog is convenient for throwing off pursuers, but the reverse is also true. Without a wand, a broom, or any friends to speak of, it's difficult to travel efficiently – or find the people I'm looking for. I spend my first few days of freedom wandering the countryside and hitching rides on trucks or trains whenever I can, gradually making my way into London with the intention of seeing my godson.
Since I have no idea where Peter is right now, I figure I'd better wait on that. The concept of sneaking into Hogwarts is much more appealing than the near-impossible mission of locating the Weasleys's home, getting there, and stealthily killing their pet rat before the start of the school year.
Fortunately, I do know a thing or two about Harry. It's been far too long since I've seen the lad, and occasionally catching his name in the Daily Prophet is not the same. I believe I owe it to him to check up on him after all these years, since I've been a magnificent failure of a godfather so far. Plus, his thirteenth birthday is coming up, and I haven't gotten him a gift since he turned one.
By sunrise on the last day of July, I've arrived at Number Four Privet Drive.
This suburban neighborhood feels suffocating to me, but in a very different sense than Azkaban. Every house, car, plant, and person (I suspect) is neat, proper, and precisely as it should be...unlike me. I feel unnatural and unwelcome, a hulking black dog stalking along the freshly paved streets. Luckily, the area is deserted when I get there around five in the morning. Long before the earliest risers meander to their cars in their stuffy work clothes, I've settled down in a shadowy spot in the landscaping of Number Four, between the kitchen wall and a dense flowering bush. I listen to the birds and the silent house, and I reminisce.
It's only thanks to Lily that I know about this place. One sunny morning shortly after their wedding, I'd dropped in on her and James, as I so often did before they went into hiding. I'd been startled to find the usually composed and optimistic witch clinging to James with her face buried in his shoulder, sobbing about how her sister hated her. Petunia's intentional lack of involvement in her life had been a thorn in Lily's side since childhood, and it had only worsened over the years. Lily had done nothing to deserve it – apart from being born, that is. Petunia, a Muggle in all the worst ways, viewed her magical sister as a freak. She openly disapproved of James, and she refused to attend their wedding, even though Lily had personally invited her. That morning, Lily had tried calling her to congratulate her on her own life achievements, since she and her husband had just moved into a new house. Evidently, the call hadn't gone well.
As far as I know, that's the last time the two of them ever talked.
That same evening, James and I decided to vent our frustrations – unbeknownst to Lily. The two of us let loose a handful of roaches in Petunia's new house. We threw in a Niffler too for good measure. Then we hid outside in the same bushes that I'm lying in now, laughing at the shrieks and crashes coming from inside.
Those happier memories have been a lot closer to the surface since my escape. Before, the Dementors kept them at bay, forcing me to focus on the darkest times in my life. I suppose that's a sign that I'm recovering, but I'm not sure which memories are more painful to recall. Ironically, this mix of good and bad makes me feel less stable than before. I think I've dwelled in the darkness so long that I've forgotten what the light is like.
So melodramatic, Paddy! You should have won an Oscar by now.
I roll my eyes. My memory may still be adjusting, but my best mate's teasing voice in my head is not new at all. This habit of mine started long before he died. James and I were usually on the same wavelength, and we talked nearly every day for a decade. By the time I reached my fifth year, I could predict what he would say in most situations with fair accuracy. Even in Azkaban, his voice rarely left me alone. I can't decide whether it's more annoying, depressing, or comforting.
Sometimes, it makes me smile. Most times, I try to ignore it.
My grumbling stomach pulls me away from those thoughts – and then right back again. Finding decent food has been tricky since my escape, but I hit the jackpot two days ago when I stumbled upon a chicken coop in the countryside. I crept into the little wooden enclosure quietly enough not to wake the birds, but I couldn't bring myself to kill one, no matter how badly my canine stomach craved meat. See, I'd made the mistake of lurking outside the farmhouse long enough to hear the voices of young children inside. When I looked at the sleeping birds, all I could see was the distraught, tearful faces of nameless kids watching as a big bad dog made off with one of their animals. Cursing my stupid conscience, I swiped some eggs and fled as the terrorized birds panicked. All the while, I heard my best friend needling me: Some mass murderer you are! Can't even kill a measly chicken!
I huff a disgruntled breath. So what if killing someone's innocent animal doesn't sit right with me? I'm sure I could manage one that isn't so innocent. I'd be doing that Weasley boy a favor.
James doesn't have much to say about that.
Just then, a shout from inside the house makes me flinch. I relax when I realize it's only the television – some commercial, probably. I listen to the racket of someone fetching a pan from a cupboard. A moment later, I hear sizzling. Through the gap in the window, I can smell breakfast cooking, and my stomach aches longingly. I wonder if I can get away with begging at the door; maybe I'd even get to see Harry up close. Then I remember how the other prisoners reacted to my ragged Animagus form, and I picture the look of disgust on the Muggles' faces. I sigh wistfully.
Yeah, right. They'd sooner shoot me or call animal control than give me food.
I dismiss the thought as I hear more movement from inside: heavy footsteps down the stairs, the creak of wooden chairs, the clinking of cutlery against ceramic. I can make out most of their voices. Petunia sounds like a sugarcoated version of her sister. Vernon, her husband, has a gruff voice that reminds me unpleasantly of Barty Crouch, the man who sentenced me to life in prison without a trial. Their son, whose name escapes me, only speaks to his parents in whines or grunts, which makes him seem thick in multiple senses of the word. Overall, they don't seem like a very pleasant group. They remind me of my own family.
At this point, I'm starting to worry that I miscalculated. Is Harry staying at a friend's house, like I did for a good deal of my summers? Is he still living here, as Hagrid told me he would be all those years ago? Did he ever end up living here in the first place?
My nerves ease as I hear a much quieter set of footsteps. That must be him. Another wooden chair groans softly against the tile, but there are no greetings this time - and no mentions of anyone's birthday. Frowning, I press one ear closer to the house. For the next few minutes, the only voice I hear is a news reporter on the television. My ears twitch when the reporter says my name.
Huh. So they've let the Muggles know about me too. They must be desperate.
"—Black is armed and extremely dangerous—"
I snort. Sure, if they consider having claws and teeth as being armed, and nonverbal cooking spells as extremely dangerous.
When the reporter switches topics, Vernon protests. "Hang on! You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"
I hear footsteps near the kitchen window, followed by a whiff of perfume. I imagine Petunia peering out in search of me, and I hold back a husky laugh. Little do they know, that lunatic is mere feet away from them as they sit eating breakfast. Not that it matters. I only have interest in one resident - the one which they seem to have the least interest in.
Their conversation about me abruptly shifts. I sink lower to the ground as Vernon announces, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."
At last, Harry speaks up - and hearing his voice is like being kicked in the chest. Though he's only thirteen, he sounds exactly like James. (Maybe his voice changed recently?) It's much clearer than any memory I have. I'm so astonished that it takes me a second to register the horror in his words.
"Aunt Marge? Sh—she's not coming here, is she?"
"Marge'll be here for a week," Vernon snaps at Harry. His tone makes my blood boil. He might as well be talking to a repulsive slug. "And while we're on the subject," he adds sharply, "we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her. Firstly, you'll keep a civil tongue in your head when you're talking to Marge."
"Alright," Harry mutters, "if she does when she's talking to me."
A humorless chuckle slips from me. This script sounds too familiar. Evidently, Harry and I have more in common than I thought.
"Secondly," Vernon continues, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any funny stuff while she's here. You behave yourself, got me?"
"I will if she does."
"And thirdly, we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."
"What?"
"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble."
I'm not sure who is seething more: Harry or me. Apparently, Lily's relatives haven't gained any fondness for magic while raising her orphaned son - and it seems like they direct all that resentment toward him now. I want to barge in there and give them a piece of my mind, but I doubt that would do any good, especially considering they'd just seen me advertised as a madman on the TV.
A minute later, the front door opens, and Vernon comes waddling out, a whale of a man with a bushy mustache. He reminds me a bit of Slughorn, if Slughorn was missing his jovial nature and quirkiness - the only positive things that I'd noticed in the old Potions professor. To my surprise, Harry rushes outside as the overweight Muggle is opening his car door. My heart thumps eagerly, but I can't see much of them through the bushes, and I don't dare to creep closer and risk them spotting me.
"I'm not taking you," Vernon growls nastily, and I hold back a growl of my own.
"Like I wanted to come," Harry responds in an equally cold voice. "I want to ask you something. Third years at Hog— at my school are allowed to visit the village sometime."
"So?"
"I need you sign the permission form."
"And why should I do that?"
"Well, it'll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge that I go to St. Whatsits—"
I smile at the innocent tone that Harry smoothly slides into. I know exactly where this is going - and James would be damn proud of his son's negotiating skills.
"St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!" Vernon corrects him, swelling with anger.
"Exactly. It's a lot to remember. I'll have to make it sound convincing, won't I? What if I accidentally let something slip?"
"You'll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won't you?"
I twitch reflexively as Vernon steps toward Harry with his fist raised. He pauses – which is fortunate for the both of us, because I'm not sure I would've been able to stay hidden if he'd hit my godson.
Harry doesn't back down. Seeing him stare down his uncle so unflinchingly fills me with an equal mix of pride and fury. Clearly, he's used to being threatened like this - and I suspect, by his uncle's reddening face and trembling fist, that he's experienced getting the stuffing knocked out of him before.
"Knocking the stuffing out of me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her. But if you sign my permission form, I swear I'll remember where I'm supposed to go to school, and I'll act like a Mug—like I'm normal and everything."
There is a long moment of silence. "Right," Vernon grumbles finally. "I shall monitor your behavior carefully during Marge's visit. If, at the end of it, you've toed the line and kept to the story, I'll sign your ruddy form."
Then he slams the door of his car and drives off, and Harry stalks back inside, looking far too miserable for it to be his birthday.
I meant to continue my journey after I saw Harry, but watching that interaction between him and his uncle makes me reconsider. Though there isn't much I can do from the shadows, I'm reluctant to leave him now, especially if this Aunt Marge lady - Vernon's sister, I assume - is as bad as Harry seems to think.
So, I decide to make myself comfortable on Privet Drive over the course of the next week. As it turns out, there are a few residents here who take pity on stray dogs - and another few who tend to leave their groceries unattended in their cars for a moment too long. Plus, the thick bushes of Number Four make for a decent bed. I quickly grow accustomed to sleeping for a few hours during the day and scrounging for food at night. By the time the week is coming to a close, I'm remarkably well-fed and well-rested –more than I've been in a very long time.
Unfortunately, I don't think Harry is faring so well. His Aunt Marge, who shares his uncle's body proportions and dreadful personality, reminds me of all my nasty old relatives rolled into one person. Judging by the few conversations that I've overheard (or rather, that I've had enough restraint to fully listen to before launching into my own mental tangent), this woman is as critical as my mother, as foul-tempered as my father, and as self-centered as Lucius Malfoy. The only thing she seems to be missing is the psychopath gene from Bellatrix, though there is something to be said about the evil bulldog that follows her around. In short, she's every bit as horrible as I feared. I doubt I would've been able to put up with her nearly as long as Harry has so far. I've never been one to take direct insults very well, and Marge seems to be full of them when it comes to him.
By the end of the week, I'm seriously considering revealing myself to him and offering to break him out of this place. I have a feeling it wouldn't take much to convince him. If I was in his shoes, I might choose an alleged maniac over these awful Muggles. But I wait and stay hidden, consoling myself with the knowledge that he won't have to suffer much longer. Soon enough, he'll be rid of that horrible woman, and he'll be going back to Hogwarts.
And for the time being, I'll try very hard to ignore the growing lump of guilt in my gut.
On my last day eavesdropping on the Muggles, I decide to get some rest before I begin the arduous trek to Hogwarts. I sleep away most of the day in the bushes…until, around dinnertime, I jolt awake to the sound of raised voices. I've gotten skilled at sleeping through their rude remarks and boisterous laughter, but this time seems different. The air is thick with tension. I don't have to perk my ears to hear their conversation:
"This Potter," Marge says loudly, sounding like she's had one too many glasses of wine, "you never told me what he did?"
"He didn't work," Vernon answers shortly, tensely. "Unemployed."
Bollocks, I growl to myself. He was training to become an Auror when he died.
"As I expected!" Marge bellows smugly. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who—"
"He was not."
The subsequent silence turns my blood cold. It seems Harry's patience has finally worn thin. That tone is unmistakable; he's furious. I don't need to have experience with unpleasant relatives to know what's going to happen next.
"More brandy!" Vernon yells hastily. "You, boy, go to bed, go on—"
"No, Vernon. Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash — drunk, I expect—"
A chair shrieks against the tile; I picture Harry jumping to his feet. "They didn't die in a car crash!"
Marge is practically screaming now: "They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on the decent, hardworking relatives! You are an insolent, ungrateful little—"
Suddenly, everything goes quiet again. Unable to resist, I stand on my hind legs to peer through the kitchen window — and I feel a mix of horror and vindication. The piggy woman is inflated like a massive balloon, and she's bumping against the ceiling and mouthing wordlessly.
"MARGE! NOOOOO!"
Her brother tries to pull her down, and the evil bulldog latches onto his leg.
"ARGHHHH!"
As entertaining as this is, I'm more concerned with where Harry ran off to. I hear a couple of bangs, and I duck below the window again as Harry passes by, hauling his trunk, a pillowcase full of what seems to be books, and an empty owl cage.
Oh, bugger. He's running away?
"COME BACK IN HERE! COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!"
"She deserved it. She deserved what she got. You keep away from me. I'm going. I've had enough."
I shrink into the bushes as Harry pushes through the front door and out into the street, dragging his belongings. He doesn't look back, and none of the Muggles go after him.
I do.
Harry stops several blocks down, sitting heavily on a low wall in someone's landscaping. I keep my distance, hiding in a nearby alley between a fence and a garage. I can hear his labored breathing from here. I imagine his school trunk isn't the only thing weighing him down. Again, I shake off the urge to reveal my human self to him. That's daft. I'd scare the shit out of him.
Instead, I watch him intently, anxiously. He's close enough to the streetlamp at the end of the block that I can finally get a good look at him. Of course, I know what to expect. He looks just like James; he has since he was an infant. But he seems so frustrated and alone right now, and that stubborn scowl on his face...
Merlin, they really are identical, right down to the glasses.
Then I notice the doe-like shape of his eyes, and I remember how, the last time I'd seen him, they'd started turning bright green to match his mother's. I tell myself to focus on that detail.
It doesn't make this any easier to watch.
Slowly, I see his rage and exhaustion morph into panic. He looks frightened now - and so damn young. When I ran away from home, I was sixteen and skilled with magic, and I had good friends to rely on. It seems, as Harry stares miserably at his trunk, that he is short on those resources at the moment.
Fine, I tell myself resolutely. I'll be here for him - whether he knows it or not. It's not like I'm in much of a hurry. I can watch over him until he goes back to school. Maybe I can even get him to trust me. If only things weren't so complicated right now…
Harry gets off the wall and crouches to get something from his trunk. I take the opportunity to creep a little closer to him. Suddenly, his head snaps up, and he stares in my direction with wide eyes.
Too reckless, Padfoot, James chides me.
Like you can talk, I shoot back.
"Lumos."
I freeze as white wandlight encroaches on my hiding place. I don't think Harry can see me very well, but it seems he can see me well enough, because he looks even more frightened than before. He takes a step back and trips on the curb. His wand arm swings in an arc as he tries to catch himself. I wince as he lands flat on his back in the street.
Well, that's great. I scared the shit out of him anyway.
For a split second, I'm torn between running to him or away from him. Conveniently, fate decides for me. With a loud crack, a purple triple-decker bus appears at the end of the street, speeding toward him. Thankfully, the poor kid has good reflexes. He yelps and rolls onto the sidewalk as the Knight Bus screeches to a stop in from of him. I retreat behind the nearest house, listening as Harry stammers to the conductor. I peer around the corner as he boards the magical bus.
Then, with another thunderous sound, he's gone.
I feel a twisting inside of me, as if a piece of me disappears with him. Still, I'm relieved. At least now he'll be safe. And I'll see him again later, hopefully under better circumstances, after that rat is gone. This is for the best.
After taking a long look at the place my godson vanished from, I pad down the deserted street, grateful that maybe my presence had done something useful after all.
I'll make up for all those missed birthdays somehow...and maybe I can rig up something for that Hogsmeade form too.
