AN: I'm afraid this one doesn't have much original material. I tried, but I couldn't twist most of this around, so here you go. I promise the next chapter will have bigger changes. It was just pointed out to me recently how popular this fic has become, so thanks to the readers, favoriters, and followers who have made that happen. And I could never leave out my wonderful reviewers: Valentina Alexandrea Sparrow, Jmw, Firenze Fox, gbear605, elmoryakhan, Lady Eleanor Boleyn, Narnia and Harry Potter 4 EVER, jadely31, serialkeller, Lady Sabine of Macayhill, Loves to read books, magitech, B00kw0rm92, Books are air, MariusDarkwolf, Tellur, Beloved Daughter, Spring Raine, red-jacobson, and ElementKitsune.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise.
Harry Potter was having one of the best summers of his life. It was certainly better than the year before, when Harry hadn't even gotten any word from his friends. This summer, Harry kept in contact with all of them. Although Harry still wasn't allowed to use his owl to send letters to his friends, Hedwig was allowed to fly at night, which made her happy. Instead of communicating by owl, Harry's muggleborn friends collected letters from his other friends, and mailed them to Harry through muggle post. This made for rather fat envelopes, but receiving them never failed to cheer Harry up.
Earlier in the summer, his friend Ron Weasley had called the Dursley household, intending to speak to Harry. Unfortunately, Ron had been raised by wizards, and didn't know how to properly use a telephone.
"HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME?" Ron had shouted through the phone, startling the Dursleys and Harry, who could hear him from several feet away. "I—WANT—TO—TALK—TO—HARRY—POTTER!"
Uncle Vernon's response was equally loud, and most likely made Ron believe he was using the telephone correctly. "WHO IS THIS?" He bellowed, face turning red.
"RON WEASLEY!" Ron bellowed back.
Harry had already sensed that this wasn't going to go well, but it became worse once Ron mentioned Hogwarts. Uncle Vernon had lost it, and he seemed more than a little peeved.
"THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!" He roared.
Ron seemed to realize that he must've done something wrong, for he didn't try to call Harry again. For that matter, none of Harry's friends tried to call. Harry suspected that Ron had told the others not to bother, which was a shame, because some of Harry's muggleborn friends, like Dean Thomas and Hermione Granger, would've know precisely how to use a telephone. But Harry didn't think that Uncle Vernon would let him speak to his friends, no matter how normal they seemed.
But Harry was more than happy to have the letters. He had nicked stamps from Dudley again, but was sparing in his use of them, because all of his replies to the letters weighed an awful lot. The only thing that could have improved summer at the Dursleys was being allowed to keep his Hogwarts things with him. Unfortunately, that was where the Dursleys drew the line. Harry's broom, cauldron, wand, and spellbooks were locked away in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry's old bedroom. This made it very difficult for Harry to get his summer homework done. Fortunately, Harry had been able to pick the lock on the cupboard and take some of his books back upstairs when the Dursleys were outside admiring Uncle Vernon's new car.
And so, Harry did his homework in the dead of night, when his relatives slept. With one hand he held a flashlight over his parchment and History of Magic book, and with the other he held his quill. Professor Longbottom, a stern old woman and grandmother of Harry's friend Neville, had assigned an essay over the summer. It was the same essay all Hogwarts students received between their second and third years, with the only difference being that Professor Longbottom was actually going to grade them, unlike her predecessor, Professor Binns.
Harry had just finished a paragraph on Wendelin the Weird and how witch burning was completely pointless when he happened to take a look at the clock on his bedside table and saw that it was one in the morning. It wasn't the time itself that was so significant to Harry (he had stayed up far later trying to complete his charms essay) but the date. It was July 31st, Harry's birthday, which meant he had been thirteen years old for an hour now without realizing. He stood up and stretched, but didn't feel any different. He certainly didn't feel incredibly moody. Perhaps there was some hope for him yet.
As he looked out the window and surveyed Privet Drive, Harry noticed a strange shape heading towards his window. Looking more closely, he realized that it was Hedwig and two other owls. He moved quickly out of the way, and the trio swooped in. Upon further inspection, Harry could see that one of the owls was Percy's, a screech owl named Hermes that had been Percy's present for making prefect. The remaining owl was one that Harry didn't recognize, but he knew what it was there for. Dropping a package and a letter with the Hogwarts crest on it, the handsome school owl ruffled its feathers importantly and took off.
Hermes and Hedwig flew over to Hedwig's water dish, and Harry picked up the envelopes they had left behind. He first opened the one that Hermes had dropped off. Out fell two scraps of paper, a newspaper clipping and a letter. First, Harry scanned the clipping.
Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize
The headline of the Daily Prophet screamed. Underneath was a picture of the Weasley family, including Bill and Charlie, whom Harry had never met. Harry's best friend Ron had even managed to sneak his pet rat Scabbers into the photo, perched on top of his shoulder. Harry began to read the article.
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, "We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank." The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.
Harry grinned. He couldn't think of anyone more deserving of the money than the Weasley family, who were very nice and extremely poor. He unfolded Ron's letter and started to read.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
I'm really sorry about that telephone call. I asked Dad, and he reckons I shouldn't have shouted. The twins wouldn't stop ribbing me for it. I hope the Muggles didn't give you a hard time. It's really amazing here in Egypt. Bill showed us all the tombs, and it's one of the coolest places I've ever been. Mum wouldn't let Ginny come in the last one, some of the curses were so nasty. There were all sorts of mutant skeletons in there. In case you didn't know, the Daily Prophet Draw has a prize of seven hundred galleons. Can you believe it? Most of the money's going on the trip, but Mum said they'd get me a new wand for third year.
Harry smiled. Ron had gotten Charlie's old wand because his family couldn't afford to buy Ron a new one. Ron had been a little jealous when Neville's grandmother had bought him a new one, and now Ron would finally have a wand that was truly his.
We'll be back about a week before term starts and we'll be going up to London to get my new wand and our new books. Try your hardest to come to London. Hermione about died when I told her we were going that late. By the way, Percy's the one who suggested we use Hermes. He said Errol didn't look like he would've made it.
Don't let the Muggles get you down!
Try and come to London,
Ron
P.S. Percy's Head Boy. He got the letter last week.
Harry took another look at the photograph. Percy had pinned his Head Boy badge on his fez, looking impossibly pleased with himself.
Next, Harry opened the present Hermes had carried with him. Inside was what looked like a miniature glass spinning top. There was another note from Ron beneath it.
Harry—this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there's someone untrustworthy around, it's supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it's rubbish sold for wizard tourists and isn't reliable, because it kept lighting up at dinner last night. But he didn't realize that Fred and George had put beetles in his soup.
Bye—
Ron
Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, happy when it stood quite still and balanced on its point. Next he took the letter and package from Hedwig, which were both from Hermione.
Dear Harry,
Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to your uncle. I do hope you're alright. Lavender and I agreed that calling you probably wouldn't work out very well, even though we'd be able to talk on a telephone just fine.
I'm on holiday in France at the moment and I didn't know how I was going to send this to you—what if they'd opened it at customs?—but then Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got something for your birthday for a change. I bought your present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (I've been getting it delivered; it's so good to keep up with what's going on in the Wizarding world). The others said they'd give you their presents when we got to school. Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a week ago? I bet he's learning loads. I'm really jealous—the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating.
There's some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I've rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things I've found out. I hope it's not too long—it's two rolls of parchment more than Professor Longbottom asked for. Katie's so lucky! She's in Africa right now with her dad, and she said she's learning tons too.
Ron says he's going to be in London in the last week of the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!
Love from
Hermione
P.S. Did you hear that Percy and Penny made Head Boy and Girl? I'll bet they're really pleased. Ron doesn't seem too happy about it.
Harry laughed as he put Hermione's letter aside and picked up her present. It was very heavy. He was expecting another book on defense, like her last present had been, but it wasn't. It was a sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.
"Wow, Hermione!" Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.
There was a large jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom for long journey, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare.
Harry missed Quidditch quite a bit, although he suspected that if his friend Oliver Wood were to be in Harry's position, Oliver might just go insane. Harry wasn't allowed to play Quidditch in front of Muggles, because it would violate the Statue of Secrecy. Oliver was more than a little obsessed with the game, and he had just gotten signed to Puddlemere United, his favorite team. Oliver was at training camp right at that moment.
Harry the picked up his final parcel. The scrawl on the brown paper could belong to no other than Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Tearing off the paper, he caught sight of something green and leathery, but he couldn't get any further without the object snapping, almost as though it had jaws.
Harry couldn't help but freeze. Hagrid was fond of incredibly dangerous beasts that he thought were just cute little pets. His past interests had been in dragons, giant spiders, and vicious three-headed dogs.
Harry nervously poked the parcel again, and it snapped its jaws. Harry reached for his lamp, gripping it tightly, and pulled the rest of the paper back. A book fell out, emblazoned with the golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, and it flipped over onto its edge before scuttling sideways along the bed.
"Uh-oh," Harry muttered.
The book toppled off the bed and shuffled across the room. It seemed to like dark places, for it hid in the space under his desk. He hoped the Dursleys were still sleeping. Harry leaned forward and reached for the book.
"Ouch!"
The book seemingly bit his hand before flapping away. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward, and and managed to flatten it. He grabbed a belt from his dressers and tied it tightly around the book. The Monster Book of Monsters shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap.
Harry grabbed the card from Hagrid.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more here. Tell you when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you right.
All the best,
Hagrid
It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in handy, but he put Hagrid's card up next to Ron's and Hermione's, grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left.
Dear Mr. Potter,
Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.
Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission from to your parent or guardian to sign.
A list of books for next year is enclosed.
Yours sincerely,
Professor A. Sinistra
Deputy Headmistress
Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an entirely Wizarding village, and he had never set foot there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?
He looked over at the clock and saw that it was now two. He decided to worry about the Hogsmeade form later. For the next few minutes, he sifted through all the letters he'd received so far, not reading them, just seeing them. They were proof that maybe Harry could be a normal boy after all, one with friends who genuinely cared.
The next morning Harry went down the stairs to find all three Dursleys sitting at the kitchen table, eyes glued to the brand new television. It was a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room.
Harry was not greeted in any way, shape or form, something Harry was used to. He had never once been wished a happy birthday, and that was just the way he liked it. Harry helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict:
"…The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately."
"No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!"
He shot a nasty glance sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.
The reporter had reappeared.
"The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today—"
"Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"
Harry found highly unlikely that Black would have any reason to come to Privet drive, but he refrained from saying so.
"When will they learn," said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, "that hanging's the only way to deal with these people?"
"Very true," said Aunt Petunia, staring out at the street as though she might catch a glimpse of Black.
Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."
Harry, who had been daydreaming about the Broomstick Servicing Kit, jolted back to reality.
"Aunt Marge?" He blurted out, though he knew no other Marge. "Sh—she's not coming here, is she?"
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon's sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry's (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia's sister), he had been forced to call her "Aunt" al is life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn't often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn't bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry's mind.
Aunt Marge had gone to great pains to ensure that Harry knew she didn't approve of him. Harry had once told Lee that she was worse than Lee's Great-Aunt Mildred, his grandmother, and his Aunt Abigail combined. Lee had written back that he thought a person like that would combust, because there was no way a human body could carry that much evil in them.
"Marge'll be here for a week," Uncle Vernon snarled, "and while we're on the subject"—he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry—"we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her."
Dudley turned away from the television and smirked. Dudley loved seeing Harry be bullied by Uncle Vernon, no matter the subject.
"Firstly," growled Uncle Vernon, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your head when you're talking to Marge."
"All right," said Harry bitterly, "if she does when she's talking to me."
"Secondly," said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry's reply, "as Marge doesn't know anything about your abnormality, I don't want any—any funny stuff while she's here. You behave yourself, got me?"
"I will if she does," said Harry through gritted teeth.
"And thirdly," said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, "we've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."
"What?" Harry yelled.
"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble," spat Uncle Vernon.
Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit—it was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, including that pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.
"Well, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet. "I'll be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?"
"No," said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.
Harry had a sudden idea just as Uncle Vernon left the kitchen. Leaving his toast, he quickly followed Uncle Vernon out to the front door.
"I'm not taking you," He snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him.
"Like I wanted to come," said Harry coldly. "I want to ask you something."
Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.
"Third years at Hog—at my school are allowed to visit the village sometimes," said Harry.
"So?" snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the door.
"I need you to sign the permission form," said Harry in a rush.
"And why would I do that?" sneered Uncle Vernon.
"Well," said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "it'll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits—"
"St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon's voice.
"Exactly," said Harry, inwardly marveling at his ability to stay so calm. He had learned a lot from the twins, it seemed. "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?" roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised.
"Knocking the stuffing out of me won't make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her," He said bravely. "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."
Uncle Vernon mulled this over for a bit. "Right," he snapped 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."
Harry padded back up the stairs gloomily. He returned to his room to find that Hermes had already flown off. He carefully gathered all the letters and cards from his friends and put them in a box, stashed under a loose floorboard with his homework.
"Hedwig," He said grimly. "You're going to have to clear off for a week. Go stay with the Weasleys. Ron'll look after you. I'll write him a note, explaining. And don't look at me like that"—Hedwig's large amber eyes were reproachful—"it's not my fault. It's the only way I'll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with all my friends."
Aunt Marge arrived at the Dursleys home shortly after, and Harry vowed that he wouldn't make any smart remarks to her numerous insults. Instead, he would think of good things, like his Broomstick Servicing Kit and his friends reactions to the Dursleys.
"Do something about your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped as he reached the hall.
Harry couldn't see the point of trying to make his hair lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing him, so the untidier he looked, the happier she would be.
"Get the door!" Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.
Aunt Marge looked a lot like Uncle Vernon, except she wore clothes that resembled women's fashion from the 1950s. She was large, beefy, purple faced, and in possession of a mustache. She had a huge suitcase and a rather ugly looking bulldog.
As greetings were made, Harry thought of anything else but Marge. He thought of what Fred and George might say if they knew he was supposedly going to a school for criminals. He thought of the look on Alicia's face if she saw the drool coming out of Ripper's mouth. He imagined what Lavender might think of Aunt Marge's outfit, and what Lee would do if he had to share a house with her.
As the week went on, Harry found it increasingly easier to zone out and think of his friends instead of Marge. He had taken to reciting all of their letters. He knew everything about them by now. He knew that Oliver hated his roommates, and Dean had just been told that his people looked fantastic but his animals looked childish. He knew that Seamus was ready to die if he heard another sheep bleat, and that Parvati had puked on her first magic carpet ride. They were much nicer things to think of than Marge.
Harry congratulated himself on lasting the whole week. It was the final evening of Aunt Marge's visit. She had been drinking quite a bit, and Uncle Vernon kept offering her more. Harry was just about to excuse himself when Aunt Marge began to speak again.
"I do like to see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I'll have a spot more brandy, Vernon…"
"Now, this one here—"
She jerked her head at Harry, who quickly thought of Neville's letter detailing his newest plant.
"This one's got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred."
Harry turned to thinking of how to start his Transfiguration essay.
"It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia"—she patted Aunt Petunia's bony hand with her shovel-like one—"but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result right in front of us."
Harry couldn't seem to focus on anything at that moment except what Aunt Marge was saying.
"This Potter," said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, "you never told me what he did?"
"He—didn't work," said Uncle Vernon, eyes darting to Harry. "Unemployed."
"As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. "A no-account, good for nothing, lazy scrounger who—"
"He was not," Harry said quietly. He had never felt so angry in his life. He was trembling with the force of his fury.
"MORE BRANDY!" yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy," he snarled at Harry. "Go to bed, go on—"
"No, Vernon," hiccupped Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect)—"
"They didn't die in a car crash!" Harry shouted.
"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little—"
Aunt Marge immediately stopped talking. She couldn't seem to say anything more. She was swelling up in her righteousness, but she never stopped swelling. She began to puff up, growing bigger and bigger, every part of her expanding and bulging. She was inflating like a balloon, never stopping—
"MARGE!" yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Aunt Marge was now floating in the air, perfectly round, with her clothes popping open. Her hands and feet stuck out awkwardly. Ripper ran after her barking like mad.
Harry ran out of the room, racing to the cupboard. It burst open without him even trying to use magic. He pulled all of his things out and raced up the stairs to retrieve the letters, Hedwig's cage, and his school books from under the loose floorboard. Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, shouting obscenities.
"COME BACK IN HERE!" he bellowed. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!"
Harry kicked his trunk open and pulled out his wand, pointing it straight at Uncle Vernon.
"She deserved it," Harry said. "She deserved what she got. You keep away from me."
He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.
"I'm going," Harry said. "I've had enough."
And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig's cage under his arm.
Reply to review made by Jmw:
If I do end up going past fifth year, it would be as a seperate fic, and it would end up happening once everyone's out of Hogwarts. I honestly think that if I do HBP and DH, it would turn out very, very badly. I'll keep the pairing suggestions in mind. Thanks for reviewing!