Uncle Vernon was accusing him of magically influencing Dudley, Harry realised. Of course. If Dudley could do no wrong, then anything he did that his parents did not like must be Harry's fault. It was a laughable thought – little though Harry felt like laughing, cornered as he was by his aunt and uncle, right there in the entrance, in front of the staircase, with the cupboard under the stairs behind his back.

"What?" said Dudley. He finally stepped away from his mother's embrace. "You don't think Harry hexed me!"

This caused the adult Dursleys a momentary halt. It was not every day that Dudley used magical terms – they were forbidden in the household, after all.

Harry drew his wand as if to display it. He regarded it as if considering the things it could do. "I haven't done anything bad to Dudley – whatever you're imagining. If nothing else, you know I'm not allowed to use magic outside of school."

"You – put that thing away!" roared Uncle Vernon. "And tell me right now what you did to my son!"

"I told you, I haven't used any spells on Dudley," said Harry, exasperated by the lack of sense his uncle was showing.

"Of course he hasn't!" said Dudley. "Just because I said some things you don't like doesn't mean I'm not myself!"

"Oh, Dudley," sobbed Aunt Petunia. "You wouldn't even know it, Popkin. Those awful people can do some horrible things—"

"Not like that. I'd be confused, I'd have gaps in my memory – Come on, Mum. You should know this!"

The tension rose at his words. Harry was not sure if his cousin realised what he had just admitted to, confidently claiming understanding of how magic worked.

"You – Dudley—" Uncle Vernon's gaze shifted from his son to his nephew. He took a menacing step towards Harry, stopping at the sight of the wand pointed at him. "I told you to put that away! You can't use it on me – you're not allowed—"

"So which one is it, then?" asked Harry. "Can I or can't I use magic? Because if you agree that I can't, then there's no spell on Dudley." The goading was in part on purpose, to take attention away from Dudley. It did not work.

"But – Dudders, what are you talking about?" asked Aunt Petunia, her face contorted into a grimace, real fear creeping in under her theatrics.

"You don't really think I'm under some spell." Dudley, seeming unaware of the change in his mother, was becoming exasperated. "Magic doesn't work that way, you should know that. You'd need some very advanced magic to influence someone in that way – not something a kid like Harry could do – and even then, you'd be able to tell something was off if you knew what to look for—"

"But, Dudley – how do you know that?" Aunt Petunia's voice was much quieter than before, but rang through the silence that had fallen.

Harry considered how to distract his cousin, to stop him from saying anything more incriminating. He found, however, that a large part of him did not want to. During all the times in the past days when he had been arguing against Dudley standing up to his parents he had felt an ever stronger urge to do the exact opposite. His cousin defending him openly would be a kind of vindication for him, that he wished for against all common sense.

Dudley was not thinking of stopping at all. "How do I know? What, and you don't? Especially after this year? Bringing up something like a possession – it's only been a few weeks—"

"How – how do you—" gasped Aunt Petunia.

"Well, not from you!" Dudley almost shouted. "You never bothered to tell me – this year or last year! Harry could've been killed, he was put in the hospital wing—"

"What did you – what have you been telling him!" thundered Uncle Vernon, turning to Harry.

"What? Wasn't I supposed to tell him about my time at – at my school?" Harry said coolly, but still remembered not to say Hogwarts – he would not antagonise his aunt and uncle unnecessarily.

He would not be the one to mention his correspondence with Dudley. His cousin could go along with him pretending that Harry had merely told him something over the summer. Dudley had already said a whole slew of things to panic his parents. Harry would not add to that, even though a large part of him now wished to reveal everything, not to hold back, to cause a fireworks display of epic proportions – and worry about the consequences later.

"You – told him – what—" Uncle Vernon, aware of his incoherence, closed his mouth, and then turned to his son. "What has he been telling you?"

Dudley began with the petrified students, then moved on to the possessed teachers. His voice rose, accusing, angry, defiant – a far cry from the usual petulant tantrums that he resorted to when he wanted to get his way with his parents. "He was in the hospital wing for days last year! They can regrow bones in hours – and he was there for days. Someone tried to kill him. And you didn't say a word of it!"

Aunt Petunia visibly cringed at hearing this, and turned her face away from her son.

Her husband was less troubled by anything resembling guilt. "When did you tell him all of this?" This was directed at Harry again.

"I wanted to know more about magic!" burst out Dudley, not letting his cousin answer. "What? Did you think I wouldn't?"

Then he told them. He was angry, angrier than his parents, and not at all interested in backing down. Dudley had never in his life been intimidated by his parents – much less frightened. He had never had any reason to. So the more agitated their retorts became, the louder he shouted back.

Without saying that it had actually been Harry who began their correspondence, Dudley told his parents of the letter writing, of his acknowledgement of having been a bully, of being eager about learning more about the magical world, and receiving gifts from Harry – unable to stop, unable to see how far the situation had deteriorated, only hearing his parents' voices getting louder, and matching them—

There is a certain joy in revealing a winning hand – especially when your opponent was convinced you were bluffing. Harry watched the horror dawn on the elder Dursleys' faces, as their well-constructed world began to crumble before their eyes, and felt an unexpected sense of relief, of vindication – of happiness, even. There would be no more hiding of his involvement in Dudley's life, no more sneaking around, pretending to loathe each other.

"Oh, how stupidly naive you've been!" Aunt Petunia exclaimed to Dudley, as the argument migrated upstairs.

Uncle Vernon rampaged through his son's room, upending every corner, looking for every item Dudley had mentioned. Having admitted to their existence, Dudley could hardly refuse to say where they were. Soon enough, Harry's letters were strewn across the corridor, followed by a couple moving photographs, the booklet Harry had given Dudley for Christmas in his first year at Hogwarts, and the quidditch poster showing the national team playing that he had sent the following Christmas.

Harry stepped past them, careful not to trample them underfoot, as he approached his cousin's room. He did not enter, but stopped as soon as he could see all three of the Dursleys, himself still a little out of sight.

"Is this it?" Uncle Vernon was bellowing. "Are you that stupid, Dudley? That easily taken in? Was that all it took to fool you?"

"Some shiny trinkets, a few stories – and for that you'd speak to us this way?" Aunt Petunia spoke with a deeply hurt voice, the tears once again close to the surface.

"You gullible fool!" bellowed Uncle Vernon. "For this riff-raff you've become that freak's personal bodyguard? Betraying your friends—"

"I'm not his bodyguard! I'm just not a bully any more!" Dudley shouted back, arguing back as well he could.

And as he did, as he tried in vain to get his parents to see that he was not being manipulated – with or without magic – but had rather chosen to change, had improved, something changed in him. With no small amount of astonishment, Harry watched as Dudley of the Crocodile Tears – who had for years now been able to manipulate his parents into giving him whatever he wanted by screwing up his face – who had not shed a real tear as long as Harry could remember – reached the limits of his sway with his parents. As he felt his arguments failing, as he saw himself losing, Dudley's breath hitched, his eyes grew red, his words faltered as he tried to control his voice.

His parents, who had up to that point never failed to indulge him, seemed to be unaware of the misery they were causing Dudley.

Harry, knowing that he caused his aunt and uncle anger by just existing, had remained in the background, so as not to exacerbate the situation further. At that point, though, he decided things had gone far enough out of hand and enough was enough. Some invisible line had been crossed as he watched Dudley fight back tears and he felt his own anger rise up in him.

"So now you're saying I manipulated Dudley without magic. I didn't. I simply decided to be fair. You hadn't been any more honest with him than you'd been with me. So after we'd both found out together what made me such a – supposedly – unsatisfactory person, I thought it'd be worth a try to have a fresh start—"

"You liar!" screamed Aunt Petunia. "Deceiving our poor, soft-hearted boy – taking advantage of his goodwill—"

"No, he didn't!" shouted Dudley. "He was nice when he didn't have any reason to be. He could've – should've – resented me. Instead, he gave me another chance—"

This led to more wailing from Aunt Petunia, and more sputtered indignation from her husband.

"Son, wake up!" implored Uncle Vernon. "You think he had no reason to manipulate you? He's made you abandon your friends, made you turn against them, so you'd defend him! He's convinced you to make up vile lies to your own aunt – again to defend him! How can you defend someone so undeserving? Don't you see how you're being taken advantage of?"

Harry felt a twinge of doubt at his uncle's words. His cousin might believe some of that. Uncle Vernon's attitude of getting one's money's worth had been taught to Dudley from infancy, after all. In all fairness, Harry had benefited more from their friendship than had Dudley—

His cousin was first to speak again, and if Harry had believed he had not been holding back until then, he found himself proven wrong. This time, Dudley really did turn against his parents, and told them in no uncertain terms that he believed them to be wrong about Harry, about his parents, about magic. That he had told Aunt Marge the closest thing to the truth as he saw it. That he was not being taken advantage of, but had instead been the one to benefit more from his friendship with Harry, because it had helped him to see that he himself was not so great. But he had improved, with Harry's help he had become a better person, he was becoming someone he could like—

The more he spoke – shouted, in fact – the more Harry felt ashamed for having doubted him. "You're forgetting brave, Dudley," he added to the enumeration of his cousin's improvements. This was one of the highest praises he could give. "You're not afraid of magic, of standing up to a whole gang of b-boys—" He suppressed the word bullies – it no longer really applied to Dudley's former group of friends. "—or anybody else." Harry did not look directly at his aunt and uncle, but they could hardly have remained unaware that he meant them.

His words created a pause, as everyone finally took notice of how Dudley had been backed into a corner – physically as well. The mention of bullies in association with them made Dudley's parents finally hesitate.

Uncle Vernon stopped shouting back about bullies being a modern wishy-washy nonsense designed to make weaklings feel better. He stopped talking about the natural order of things, about the 'true' use of the Smeltings sticks, about Dudley being taken advantage of by freaks like Harry and weaklings like Artie.

And Harry finally noticed the shifting expression on his aunt's face. She looked shaken, her lips drawn into an ugly twist, her face both devoid of colour and filled with red splotches. She was on the verge of trembling.

"Just like my parents," she near whispered. "My son, taken in by those freaks. You like them, do you? Admire their freakishness?" Her voice was strained, and far more quiet than before, her words directed at her son imploring. "Do you think they'll return the favour? Like you in turn? You'll never be like them – and that's all that matters to them—"

Aunt Petunia stood in the shambles of her attempt to pay her sister back for having magic, while she did not. Her son had turned on her, taken Harry's side, after all her attempts to give him all she denied Harry. She was bound to be seeing it as a kind of retribution brought on by her sister's son. Despite how upset she looked, however, Harry could not quite bring himself to feel sorry for her.

"I like Dudley just fine, actually," he said coolly.

"I'm not trying to be like them!" Dudley said at the same time. "Weren't you listening? I like how I am now – I like who I'm becoming. And anyway, you're wrong about them. They were mostly all nice enough to me – just that one awful Malfoy boy—"

"What?" Aunt Petunia forced past her trembling lips. "When did you—"

"When I visited Harry at Hogwarts – after he got so badly hurt last year. Did you even read the letters his school sent? Did you know about the possessed teachers? About the snake monster—"

"You – you went to – to that school—" Aunt Petunia broke off in disbelief. "They let you in—"

"Of course they did! Harry was seriously hurt! Actually, all of his classmates were surprised that you hadn't turned up. I didn't know what to tell them—"

"Snake monsters!" said Uncle Vernon. "Possessed teachers, you say? Hang on. And you – you went to that place?" His eyes darted to Dudley, bulging out of his head. "No, no, no. This has gone on for long enough. Far too long, come to think of it!

"All this abnormality we've been forced to suffer for years! Owls and their droppings, Dudley's tail, that flying Ford Anglia, and what have you! And now, to top it all off, he's – he's completely brainwashed our poor, gullible son! How he could've been deceived so easily – but we've raised him too soft, Petunia. And Marge – what she must think of us, after all that nonsense she had to hear—

"You!" he stalked towards Harry, his shirt front straining as he inflated himself. "All your fault! Then threatening me with that thing—" he nodded towards Harry's wand, still in his hand, "—in my own home! I really have had it with you! I don't know why we've been putting up with you for so long. Marge was right – we should've taken you to an orphanage right away—"

"What?" Harry finally said.

Was his uncle threatening to throw him out? He had been preparing for Uncle Vernon to devise new and creative punishments for him, ready to risk using magic if things got really out of hand, but mostly preparing to negotiate the punishment, or find ways to work around it – without Dudley's help, if necessary, to take attention away from his cousin. But being thrown out? Especially when both his friends were out of the country?

"You heard me," Uncle Vernon went on, not as loudly, but with a vicious, malevolent spark in his eyes. "You've more than overstayed your welcome, boy—"

"What?" said Dudley as well, quickly looking outraged. "No – you can't—"

"Wait," came Aunt Petunia's faint voice. "The boy – the boy has to stay, Vernon," she said weakly.

Her husband stared at her uncomprehendingly, but she would not look at him – at any of them. Her hands were trembling, Harry noticed, and she had grown very white-faced. It was a far cry from her affected crying from not so long ago.

"W-what?" said Uncle Vernon. "But – but Petunia, he…"

"If we throw him out, the neighbours will talk," she said after she had regained some control. "They'll ask awkward questions, they'll want to know where he's gone. Mrs Figg by now probably thinks the world of him." A note of her usual waspishness had returned. "We'll have to keep him."

Uncle Vernon deflated like an old tire. He tried to argue some more, but to Harry's surprise, his aunt refused to budge.

~HP~

The hours that followed the fight had a surreal feel to them. A part of Harry was elated, despite hiding out in his room, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Once the dust had settled (as impossible a state of things as that seemed at the moment – but surely they must get there eventually), he would be able to talk to Dudley – really talk to him – regardless of whether his parents could hear or not.

The reality of the situation was turning out to be somewhat lacking compared to the glorious victory either of the boys had perhaps wished for. Harry spent the next three days alone in his bedroom, with only a timely returned Hedwig for company. Three times a day, Dudley brought him something to eat – usually following another bout of shouting that reached Harry's hearing from downstairs. Being in the company of his aunt and uncle was impossible – they immediately resorted to saying the most hurtful things to Harry they could think of – especially about his parents. Not wanting to let such comments slide, but also not wanting to make the situation worse for Dudley, who invariably responded in his stead, meant that Harry himself preferred to keep to his room.

Harry suspected Dudley had it worse, based on the frequent shouting he could hear throughout the house. He had no idea how to help, though. As far as he could tell, the more he stayed out of the way, the calmer the situation seemed to become. Talking with each other – the most important improvement Harry had hoped to achieve following the fight – turned out to have become more difficult, rather than less. Dudley's parents were keeping a close eye on their son, to the point where Harry could expect to see either or both of them at his door if Dudley lingered too long when bringing his food.

Then there was the snooping. After the fight, Dudley tried to collect his possessions strewn across the floor. Harry could hear him shuffling in the corridor from inside his room. Dudley did not get very far. Aunt Petunia had followed him up and confiscated the letters Harry had sent to him. Dudley had to argue quite a bit to be able to keep the few other items.

He wondered what his aunt would make of the letters, if she would actually read them, and if so, what she might think of the contents. It made him angry, though he tried to tell himself it was no big deal. He had never actually tried to manipulate Dudley. There was nothing incriminating in those letters. They were simply private.

He wondered at his aunt's response to the whole situation, actually. She had refused to throw him out. It was not much. He was barely thirteen, a homeless orphan, and as she said, the neighbours would have noticed. And yet. Uncle Vernon did not care even that much. Despite everything, it was a sobering thought. With his magic, and with the help of his friends, he had thought to have acquired a fair amount of control over his family situation, but there was one awful thing they could still do, and he had failed to consider it before. They could decide to rid themselves of him. In fact, it was only because Aunt Petunia apparently possessed that tiny shred of decency that it had not already happened.

There had been something more to his aunt's reaction, Harry suspected. Some of what Dudley had told her had really shaken her, but it remained a mystery to him why exactly. Some of what she had said – that magical people would never like Dudley because he was not like them, for example – had sounded – odd. Like there might be a story behind. Had someone at some point told her as much? For the first time since he could remember, it had dawned on him that Aunt Petunia really was his mother's sister. It almost made Harry wish he had the sort of relationship with her that he could ask her such things.

Such thoughts had no place in the situation at hand. He was kept under constant supervision, while at the same time he was made to keep away from the rest of the family as much as possible. His door was kept locked from the outside every night, and it was only due to Dudley arguing on his behalf that the same was not happening during the day as well. Harry had heard parts of the loud argument, with lots of mentions of Mrs Figg, even though it had taken place downstairs. During the day, Aunt Petunia made sure to come upstairs often enough to make sure that Harry was staying in his room – and away from Dudley.

Worse even, Dudley was not the only one whose possessions were being pried into. Harry had discovered it on the very first day, when he had gone on a bathroom break, only to find Dudley and Uncle Vernon arguing in his doorway on his return, his cousin keeping his father from searching the room for supposedly incriminating things. With some trepidation, Harry had allowed his uncle to look through his trunk – all his more private possessions were hidden under the floorboard, after all. He had hoped this would satisfy his uncle, but he had been too optimistic. The snooping attempts during the bathroom breaks continued, with Dudley valiantly trying to stop them.

The worst thing was that Harry could no longer talk to Sirius. That first night, he had stayed up far longer than he ever had before, well aware that his godfather would be waiting for a call, worried about the delay, but unwilling to take any chances. He had been right to worry. His aunt made an attempt to search his room again, armed with a torch, and only left after Harry coldly asked her what she was looking for in his trunk. Since then, Hedwig had been forced to stay in his room at night, to act as a replacement guard dog and wake him up if there was an intruder.

Harry had only made a single call to Sirius. It had been that first night, and it had been so late that the sky had already begun to lighten. Harry had explained the barest minimum to his worried godfather – who had not only still been awake, but had also been travelling towards Surrey, to discover what had happened to his godson. Aware of every noise he was making, Harry had hastily put the mirror back under the loose floorboard, and had not touched the floorboard since then.

Harry soon had to admit that he could not keep living that way.

A few days later, when Uncle Vernon was at work and Aunt Petunia was talking on the phone, he went to Dudley's room. "I'm thinking maybe things will get better if I leave," he said. "What do you think?"

"What? Leave?" Dudley did his best to keep his voice low, despite the shock. "No, Harry, you can't run away! That's crazy! I know my parents are being insane again, but Mum won't throw you out, I promise—"

"Yes, I know. And I don't mean running away. I mean, I could leave for a few days until Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia have calmed down somewhat—"

"But Ron and Hermione – they haven't come back yet, have they?"

"No…" sighed Harry. "But they won't be back until the last week of August… I don't think I should stay here until then. I was thinking of going to the Leaky Cauldron. I could take the Knight Bus – remember when we went to London last December?"

That was such a fond memory for both boys that they felt warmed by just remembering it.

"Yeah, that sounds alright…" said Dudley, with a fair amount of longing.

"Unless you think that will make things worse for you," Harry added hastily. "I can stay here a few more days, it's not that big a deal, the summer holidays will be over in no time. But I thought, maybe—"

"Yeah." Dudley nodded. "I agree. My parents will calm down much faster without you around." He looked guilty when saying that. "But London is so far away. You shouldn't have to go. I can talk to them, I can—"

"No, no," Harry interrupted hastily. He could hear Aunt Petunia's voice becoming louder and faster, intermixed with staged laughter, as it did when she was trying to extricate herself from a conversation. Of course. As soon as she had heard voices, she wanted to cut her phone call short, so she could come and investigate. "But, listen. If you want to come along as well, we could go together."

Dudley hesitated for a long moment – until they heard Aunt Petunia's footsteps coming their way. He was clearly tempted, but then he deflated. "No, that won't do. My parents would have a fit. If we want them to calm down, I better stay…"

Harry slunk back to his room under the disapproving glare of his aunt, who had materialised on the staircase landing a moment later.

Harry spent the next several hours in anticipation. He waited for his uncle's return home, all his possessions packed and ready for departure. To make travel easier, he let Hedwig out of her cage – for the first time in days – and asked her to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron. Then he went to face his aunt and uncle.

The negotiation was easy – his aunt and uncle were perfectly satisfied with his explanation that he wanted to do his school shopping early, and would be staying afterwards to meet up with friends. Not unexpectedly, they had no objections to being rid of him. The only point that Uncle Vernon wanted clarified was how Harry intended to pay for the Knight Bus. With a sigh, Harry produced the coins. If one did not know that sickles were made of real silver, one could easily believe that the few coins in Harry's palm were very little money. After looking them over shrewdly, and having to admit that the money would be useless in the muggle world, Uncle Vernon let it go. Harry once again vowed never to reveal the existence of his vault in Gringotts to him.

The only other concern they had was that Harry not be seen, so he had to wait until it was dark, and most of their neighbours had gone to sleep, before he could leave. He explained that the Knight bus avoided nearby muggles, to forestall them following him, but there was no need. His aunt and uncle could not be bothered to see him to the door, much less follow him outside.

Dudley saw him to the door, dragging his broom and Hedwig's cage along, while Harry carried his trunk. At the door, Dudley loudly told him that he would wait for Harry's phone call, letting him know that his journey had gone well. Partly as thanks, and partly to annoy his aunt and uncle, who were valiantly pretending to be watching the television and not him, Harry gave Dudley a one-armed hug at the door before saying goodbye.

Harry went to Mrs Figg's house first. Some of his school supplies were still there, and of course he could not have gone earlier during the day. So he was forced to drop by at the late hour, with all his luggage in tow. She was thankfully still awake, and happy to help. She had been worried about him, she told him, having expected him to visit again after the week of Aunt Marge's visit was up. He had to explain some of what had happened, much to his embarrassment.

Back on the street, with all his possessions collected, Harry was readying himself to flag down the Knight Bus, when a funny prickling on the back of his neck made him feel he was being watched, but the street appeared to be deserted, and few lights shone from the large square houses around him. Carefully, he looked around, debating whether or not to risk lighting his wand. He sensed rather than heard it: someone or something was standing in the narrow gap between the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted at the dark alleyway.

As he raised his wand in front of him, readying himself for he knew not what, the hulking outline of something very big slowly stepped out of the shadows. With a lurching heart, Harry recognised Padfoot. He rushed over, not bothering to drag his trunk along.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed as loudly as he dared, as Padfoot transformed in front of his eyes.

"What am I doing here? What about you? Where else would I be, after the last time we talked! You barely spoke two sentences, and haven't called since then! I've been watching your house for days now, and I was about ready to break in—"

The worry in Sirius' voice was too much. After the week Harry had had, there was nothing to be done but throw his arms around his godfather. A part of him might have felt like berating Sirius for being so close by, for the risk he had taken, but a much larger part was simply glad to have another person – an adult – care about his whereabouts. Sirius looked surprised and no less worried after the hug.

"I was fine, it wasn't like that," said Harry, and then explained what had happened as quickly as he could.

Sirius reluctantly nodded after listening to his plans. "Alright. The Knight Bus is not the worst idea, though I have to say it's becoming a dangerous habit of yours."

"Well, you keep turning up whenever I'm about to take the bus," said Harry.

After Sirius had thought to caution him about all the dangers he could think of, they reluctantly parted ways. Harry watched Padfoot run away, wishing he could have gone along to London. But of course Sirius was known to be an animagus, and an unusual animal around Harry was bound to attract attention. Harry jogged back to his trunk and flagged down the bus.

There were bedsteads instead of seats in the bus at this time of the night, he discovered to his surprise. A much less pleasant surprise was to see his godfather's face staring back at him from the cover of a copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Scary-lookin' fing, inee, Neville?" said Stan, the conductor, who had been watching Harry read.

"Who, Black?" said Harry with affected indifference. "Last year, at Hogwarts, all the talk was about Pettigrew, actually. He was the one who fought the professors."

"The sidekick? 'E ain't got nuffink on Black! Fightin' teachers! Black killed firteen people with one curse – in front of witnesses an' all—"

"Twelve!" shouted Ernie Prang, the driver. "Pettigrew's still alive."

Harry almost rolled his eyes at their sheer wrongness. He tried again. "Why, though? Why is Black a bigger deal? Why do you think Pettigrew is the sidekick?"

Stan swivelled in his armchair next to the driver's, his hands on the back, the better to look at Harry. "Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-'Oo," he said.

"And you think Pettigrew wasn't?"

"Black woz very close to You-Know-'Oo, they say… I 'eard he thought 'e'd be second-in-command once You-Know-'Oo 'ad taken over," Stan explained grandly, happy to impart such important 'knowledge' to Harry – or Neville Longbottom, as he believed him to be. Then he proceeded to give an exaggerated – and factually incorrect – description of how Sirius had supposedly killed those twelve people.

Harry debated trying to argue some more, but then gave up, deciding it would be pointless.

Finally, they reached Diagon Alley and the bus halted in front of the small and shabby looking Leaky Cauldron. Harry thanked the driver and helped Stan lower his trunk onto the ground. He said goodbye, but Stan was not listening. Instead, he was goggling at the shadowy entrance to the pub.

"There you are, Harry," said a familiar voice.

Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

At the same time, Stan shouted, "Blimey! Ern, come 'ere! Come 'ere!"

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his shoulder to find the familiar face of Professor Dumbledore smiling down at him.

Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them. "What didja call Neville, Professor?" he said excitedly.

"Ah, of course. Mr Longbottom, do forgive my lapse. I'm afraid I may have confused you for your classmate."

Harry marvelled at Dumbledore's quick reaction, as a disappointed Stan said goodbye and the bus disapparated into thin air with a bang, just as it had arrived.

"If we could have a private parlour, please, Tom?" Dumbledore addressed the wizened, toothless landlord, once they were inside the pub. "And perhaps a pot of tea, as well, so we can chat while you prepare a room for Mr Potter."