Disclaimer: Well colour me stunned… turns out, Harry Potter? Belongs to some chick called "Joan Rolling" or something like that. Seriously, who knew, I ask you? Who?
Note: I love my fantastically safe Toyota. I'm just making fun of Aunt Marge and all the "Buy British" people… because that's basically my purpose in life.
Harry glanced at the alarm clock by his bed. It was coming up for nine o'clock at night and he wasn't even vaguely tired. He was thirsty though. And, if he was being honest, starting to feel cravings for a quick game of Quidditch. Though he supposed that was to be expected, given his chosen reading material and all.
A course of action popped into his head, as they often do when it doesn't really matter what you do anyway. Give him the task of facing down a Hungarian Horntail or breaking into the Ministry of Magic and he'd just get on with it. But getting a glass of water, that required thought and consideration.
He paced his room a couple of times to get his blood flowing properly again. It was a problem Hogwarts students rarely mentioned, but when you went home for the holidays you often found yourself getting restless. You had the urge to walk places, and do things. The reasoning was very simple: When you had to walk half the length of a castle to get to your morning cup of tea, you sort of built up a resistance to it. To be fair, Harry only noticed this fact when he'd seen a couple of first year Slytherins looking half-dead after having to run up to the Astronomy Tower in time for their lesson. A jaunt which, as Ron pointed out, he could do in his sleep.
He moved over to the door and crouched down into an incredibly awkward position, in order to listen through the door. From downstairs, Aunt Marge's voice rang out ominously. From what Harry could gather, she was yelling at the News Headlines. Why anyone would feel the need to do this, he wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't like yelling at a Quidditch referee or something; it was utterly useless. With a shrug he got up and moved his trunk out of the way.
Employing every trick he knew to stay quiet, Harry slunk out into the hall. He grinned slightly as a few of his night-time escapades at Hogwarts floated into his mind. The most prominent, for some reason, being the run in with Fluffy in his first year. However he wasn't honestly comparing Aunt Marge to a three-headed Beast intent upon eviscerating him and his friends…
"Bloody Japanese and their technology! Making the world more complicated every bloody year! Why would anyone need that many airbags anyway?"
Nope. At least Fluffy could be considered cute by certain people. Even if the certain person in question happened to think giant, homicidal spiders were just misunderstood.
Creeping carefully down the stairs and jumping the bottom steps (just for safety's sake… he wasn't paranoid or anything), Harry finally managed to get into the kitchen.
"All this for a drink of water." he muttered, reaching up to grab a glass from the top cabinet.
Outside, the sun was still casting a warm glow on Little Whinging. There were a few kids playing with a Golden Retriever at the other end of the street and Mark Evans (no relation) was, surprisingly enough, talking to a group of girls around Dudley's age. All of whom were laughing a bit too loudly at something he'd just said.
Seeing it, Harry grinned to himself. It would probably irritate Dudley to no end, seeing a kid of that age get more attention from girls than he could ever dream of. Particularly a scrawny little kid like Mark Evans, who reminded Harry quite distinctly of Fred Weasley in his approach to life. It was certain to be driving Dudley up the wall. And, with that happy thought still in mind, Harry shut off the tap and turned to go back upstairs. They'd all have to go inside soon enough, because even the British summer sunlight wouldn't provide enough light for them much longer.
As he walked past the living room he carefully peered inside, careful not to be spotted. Aunt Marge was still gesticulating at the television, Uncle Vernon was chuckling good-naturedly along with her and Aunt Petunia looked as though she wished nothing more than to be sitting at the kitchen table with a gossip magazine. Dudley was Missing In Action however. Without too much concern as to his cousin's whereabouts, Harry tiptoed his way back upstairs.
His biggest concern, at that exact moment, was whether or not the letters to Aunt Boyka would be archived or not. That quickly changed, however, when he heard noises coming from his room. Within even thinking, Harry shifted the glass of water to his other hand and extracted his wand from the back of his jeans. The only reason he hadn't yanked out the wand at top speed and gone tearing in there, throwing the glass at whatever he found, was because it might have been Hedwig. The only noise was of paper rustling and Hedwig did occasionally go rifling through his things in search of an Owl Treat.
Then he supposed it could've been the Order again. But in all honesty, they could probably all defend against any curse he could throw out at the moment. And they could most-certainly defend against a wayward glass of water.
Slowly approaching his bedroom, Harry listened even more carefully. He frowned. Was that… muttering?
"This is all you get at that stupid school of yours? Homework?"
Dudley.
Anger flared in Harry's mind. Dudley was looking through his things. That stupid, idiotic, insolent son of a… Harry took a deep breath and calmed himself. That gigantic idiot had to suffer for this. But how?
'Just stand around and smirk.' His father's advice came back to Harry quite suddenly. It wasn't especially helpful really. But it might unnerve Dudley, and that was always fun. With shrug, Harry decided that it was as good an approach as any. He took a sip of his water and started twirling his wand nonchalantly. Then he meandered towards his door.
He leant on the doorframe casually, arranged his features into a smirk and watched his cousin continue to go through his desk, completely oblivious to his presence. Downstairs Marge and Vernon were discussing something or other and occasionally roaring with laughter. It was hard to tell which one was chortling at any given time but it didn't really matter.
Dudley, however, was going right through everything. He discarded Lupin's note without reading it and was reaching for James's diary when Harry finally spoke up.
"Spot anything interesting Big D?" he inquired blithely, before taking another sip of his water.
The sip of water was only taken to disguise the large grin that had come to his face as he watched his cousin yelp in alarm and jump about a foot in the air.
"Wh-what are you…" Dudley's eyes drifted down to where Harry continued to twirl his wand. Harry's false-smirk became a real one. A real one which, frankly, wouldn't have looked at all out of place on a Malfoy.
"I asked you a question." he told Dudley simply. "Did you find anything of interest?" another elaborate twirl. "I mean I'd hate for you to go to all the trouble of sneaking into my room, going through my things and exerting yourself so far as to actually read something and to have it all be for nothing." He performed another trick with his wand and nearly dropped it. He managed to cover it up though. Deciding that it would probably be in his best interests not to drop it though, he pointed it squarely at Dudley and demanded, "So what did you find?"
"You can't… you can't use that thing." Dudley stated confidently. Or it would have been confident if it weren't for the way his eyes darted about and his voice trembled ever-so-slightly.
Harry grinned. "Funny. That's what you said last year, and yet I used it without any trouble then didn't I?" Harry silently prayed that there was no Ministry of Magic Personnel listening in.
"B-but, you did get in trouble." Dudley pointed out.
"Ah yes. Put up in a London townhouse with all my friends and a servant to cater to my every whim. That was one severe punishment, Dud." True, the servant in question occasionally tried to kill him, the friends in question had been on edge around him the whole time and the townhouse in question was about as close to hell on Earth as it was possible to get. But Dudley didn't need to know these things.
Dudley's hand was still hovering ridiculously over his father's notebook. It annoyed Harry if he was honest. The great idiot shouldn't be near it at all. He tried to convey as much with the glare he sent Dudley.
"Well fine," he snapped. "If you're not going to have a decent conversation then get out of my room." Dudley didn't move. Harry tightened his grip on his wand. "Dudley. Get. Out." he repeated in a low and dangerous voice.
Dudley didn't even remove his hand. He stuck his jaw out and demanded, "I want to know what you've been doing up here."
Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Do you really?" he queried. "Well, that's nice for you Dudley. Now get the hell out."
"Have you got a girlfriend?" Dudley asked with a frown. Harry nearly choked.
"Have I…? You are out of your tiny little mind." he stated in bemused amazement. "Seriously, you're completely starkers. Are you honestly telling me that the only reason that thick head of yours can come up with for why I'm in here is that I've got a girlfriend?" Dudley didn't answer but he was still eyeing Harry suspiciously. Harry shook his head in awed disbelief. "Completely, bloody, mental." he commented. "There are rocks with better deductive reasoning skills than you."
"Well then what is it? What are you doing in here?" he demanded.
Involuntarily, Harry's gaze flickered to the notebook. Just for a second. But it was enough for Dudley to spot it. His beady little eyes lit up with malevolent delight. "What's this then?" he asked tauntingly. "Got a Diary here Potter?"
Harry opened his mouth to inform Dudley that it wasn't a Diary, it was a 'Quidditch-Journal-thing' when he realised how completely insane he'd have to be before he said that. "You don't want to touch that Dudley." he warned his cousin instead. "Trust me on that one."
"Oh no? What are you going to do to me then?" Dudley asked. Harry wasn't sure what he'd do, but he was absolutely positive it would be violent.
"Don't do it Dudley." he stated once again, in a cold tone. Dudley didn't listen.
He reached out his chubby little fingers and seized the notebook gleefully. Harry started towards his cousin, barely noticing as the glass that had been in his hands seconds earlier shattered against the door of the Guest Bedroom.
"Dudley…" he bit out harshly, intending to follow it up with a threat of his cousin's extremely timely demise. But despite Harry's every intention of making good on his threat, he was slightly surprised to see Dudley freeze and his eyes widen in horror.
Harry stopped in his tracks.
"What did you… what did you do?" Dudley asked him in horror. Harry frowned. He hadn't done anything. Had he? Accidental magic was pretty common but he sort of figured that if he'd done something bad enough to get that look from Dudley then he would've at least noticed it. Even Wingardium Leviosa left a sense that you'd done it. A sort of… post-magic afterglow typed thing.
But there was nothing.
Dudley's eyes widened even further (further than Harry would have thought possible). He started convulsing, moaning in agony. Harry leapt over to him. "Dudley! Oi! What is it? Dudley you prat, if you don't tell me what's wrong…"
Harry's eyes fell to the notebook still clutched in his cousin's hands. He rolled his eyes. "Stupid, paranoid, idiot father's going to get me grounded for life." he muttered vehemently under his breath. Reaching out, he grabbed the notebook and tugged it roughly out of Dudley's grasp.
His cousin toppled backwards onto Harry's bed and stared up at him in horror. Harry sent him a glare that could've left Voldemort trembling. "Next time I tell you not to touch something, you don't touch it. Are we clear?" he demanded coldly. Dudley didn't respond. Harry pointed his wand and narrowed his eyes. "Are we clear?"
Dudley nodded fervently. He held up his hands in front of his face to examine them, and Harry saw they were red raw. It was almost as though they'd been burnt, but there was no sign of scarring at all. Harry figured the curse, whatever it was, was only supposed to imitate the effects of burning or lacerations or whatever that was, without causing any lasting damage. Hermione would have a field day figuring out how this one worked.
Finally satisfied Dudley got up and started to move over to the door. "I… I'm telling. You're not allowed to do magic." he said warily. Harry scoffed.
"I didn't. You were just idiotic enough to pick up a magical object after I expressly told you not to. Shortly after sneaking into my room to do it, might I add."
"I'm still telling." Dudley stated. Harry rolled his eyes in irritation and started straightening out his desk. He'd had a system damn it, and then Dudley had gone and ruined everything.
"You know what Big D, you go ahead. I'm sure Aunt Marge would love nothing more than to hear all about how the big bad notebook reduced to a quivering wreck." he stuffed his wand into his back pocket again and stooped to pick up Remus's note. "Oh, and in case I haven't mentioned… get out."
Without looking over at Dudley again he sat down and grabbed the first letter that came to hand. He thought he heard his cousin vacating the area but he didn't know for sure. Nor did he care.
- -
To my Darling Parents,
How long has it been since last I spoke with you? Since last we dined together? Since last you held me in your arms?
Memories of your laughing faces and happier times dance through my mind, as a stark reminder of what I left behind. I do not know how long I have left before my Captors find me, but I know for certain they will and that when they do, their wrath will be terrible. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the small satisfaction I glean by covertly taunting and insulting them. I am usually subtle enough to go more-or-less unnoticed, but I do not deny that I have been found out on more than one occasion. And when that happens, the consequences are great.
I thought I knew terror. I thought I knew pain. But that… that was before I came to the Little Champions International Training Camp. This place holds tortures of which I could not dream. Though the daily routine is excruciating enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Every morning, when the sun is barely approaching the horizon, I am viciously torn from my slumber by an inhuman trumpeting far in the distance. It falls to me to assemble my troops, my accomplices, my only support. I must get them up and ready to face another day of unequalled torment, though the guilt I feel for subjecting them to such a fate is unimaginable.
Every day, before daylight has even taken hold, I am subjected to their diabolical Water Torture. A short burst of ice cold water springs forth from the device they laughingly and condescendingly refer to a 'shower'. The frozen liquid lashes my tender flesh, leaving my vulnerable form soaked, shaking and frigid while my susceptible flesh valiantly attempts to shed it's red and wounded condition. I watch with desolation as my comrades in arms escape, trembling and frightened from the very same hell I myself have just lived through and offer hollow words of assurance that the worst is over. They cannot dare to believe me. But then… I hardly believe myself anymore.
Our Captors file us into the Dining Hall in our individual groups. We are placed at a table and given our morning meal. I have often found myself thinking longingly of the tales of Victorian England I once read, tales from the Work Houses where the starving hoards were fed nothing but gruel. Gruel, sweet glorious gruel, that slides satisfyingly down your throat and warms you from the inside. It would be a vast improvement upon the rubbery substance we are forced to consume. When, twenty minutes later, we are thrust out of the dining hall, I suspect once again that the food was not food at all, but rather a Muggle-made compound. Once again I suspect that it will pass through my system unchanged, leaving my aching hunger to linger on.
We, the eldest prisoners, are offered some mild respite from this harsh and exacting routine. We are told to 'set up' for the next stage in our torment. This involves organising our unsuspecting inferiors into ranks and ensuring that they are all well enough to continue. Those that are not healthy enough to be considered 'useful' are sent to an even deeper circle of hell, one which I dare not contemplate. They call it the Medi-Hut. I myself have yet to fall prey to this inauspicious cabin of Death, though the thought alone is enough to haunt my dreams.
Though this activity they call 'setting up' is by far preferable to any other pursuit in this Fortress, even it is tinged with ill-intent. Throughout, I am subjected to the inane ramblings of a South African lamiae. She pretends to be one of us, but I can see through her flimsy façade. Her step is too light, her voice is too cheerful and her complexion to bright for her to really be one of us. She is nothing more than out Captor's flunky, a mindless drone and informant. It has been clear to me from the very beginning that her never-ending prattle is little more than a half-hearted attempt to rob me of my sanity. Within my first few days I had already developed a suitable method of tuning her out. Clearly, her superiors have underestimated me.
It is only then, after lulling us into a false sense of security, that the real cruelty begins however. In a psychologically perverted attempt at turning my comrades against me, they have me subjected them to the unparalleled trauma of 'Basic Flight Manoeuvres'. Though I pray that my troops see through this sadistic charade, I do sometimes wonder…
After five, torturous hours of this, we are released to once again frequent the dining hall. The substances served to us at noon defy imagination, and description. Though I don't for a second believe that it is food, I can do nothing but devour it and be grateful for the fleeting relief it offers me.
Then we are once again set free, to amuse ourselves and 'train our teams' in anticipation of the life or death tournament that will signal the end of this torment. My partners in crime are more than willing to set aside any animosity they may have felt towards me throughout the day in order to make the most of this time before the next knock to our egos is endured.
After yet another horrific trip to the Dining Hall we are forced to go through the worst and most excruciating torture method ever devised by man: Campfire Nights.
In a mocking and blatant disregard of the burning heat that plagues us day by day, our Captors light up a bonfire and force us all to sit around it like glazed swine at a barbeque. We take it in turns to be interrogated for useless and humiliating information and answer questions of such pathetically sub-par calibre that even I am unable to remain immune to their deleterious effects on one's brain cells. After nearly an hour of cold-heartedly demanding such pointless information as 'What did you want to be when you were little?' and 'Do you have any pets?' I was, at last, free.
Free to collapse into my cold, hard, (surprisingly itchy) bed and drift into blessed unconsciousness. But even then I know, that in a few short hours I will be forced to start all over again…
Desolately yours,
James Potter.
P.S. Quidditch results, Voldemort/Ministry or Morons news and copious amounts of coffee all greatly appreciated. Try not to let the pain of my absence bring you down too much.
To My Nearly Forgotten Son,
As I sit here, a cool breeze rustling my hair and a fine Chateaux Blanc tickling my taste buds, I think almost longingly of my dearly departed son…
Then I remember what a melodramatic little prat he was, and the feeling swiftly disappears.
Besides, didn't you hear? We've got a NEW son. One who is distinctly more handsome, one who has hair that actually stays in place on occasion and one who (Shock! Horror!) does chores of his own free will. His name is Sirius, I'm not sure if you're familiar with him or not.
For reasons that are entirely beyond my ken, my Beloved Wife misses you. She seems to think that life would be improved by your presence. This, to me, is a sign that she doesn't remember what it's like having a trouble-maker such as yourself around the house.
Despite my own personal relief at having finally got rid of you, I have been instructed to (erroneously) inform you that you are missed. I am also instructed to tell you that recent League Quidditch games have been cancelled after an investigation by the Department of Games and Sports. It's quite upsetting. I wanted to take my new son to see a game… He does seem so depressed. Apparently missing some friend of his or something. I try not to pry.
And for the last time: You are not allowed to refer to the Ministry of Magic in that manner. The fact that they don't consider Voldemort a threat does not make them morons. The fact that they sent you to Australia for helping Sirius escape does not make them morons. The fact that… oh bloody hell, why do I bother? Yes, all right, fine, they're morons. But you're in Australia. So nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah.
Coffee enclosed. Your mother sends it with her love. I don't. I never liked you. I like Sirius better.
Smugly yours,
The handsome, funny and intelligent James Potter. (So there.)
- -
Laughing slightly at the interaction between his father and his grandfather, Harry leant back in his chair. He looked around the make sure Dudley was gone and then grabbed an abandoned trainer off the floor. He flung it at the door, sending it swinging shut with minimal input from him.
He realised that he was still a little thirsty but he didn't really see it as worth going downstairs over.
Harry took out his wand and prodded the notebook experimentally. He didn't want Dudley to see that he was at all alarmed by what the notebook had done which was why he'd simply continued reading. But in all honesty, it worried him slightly. Not that he thought the journal would harm him or anything, the very notion was ridiculous. But he was a little worried about what it would do to others.
But then, he supposed, that when you compared it to certain other diaries Harry was acquainted with, the protection measures on this one were nothing short of quaint. After all, he really didn't expect to be possessed by the spirit of James Potter and start running around Hogwarts, randomly cursing Snape and messing up his hair…
Harry frowned. And with THAT exceptionally bizarre image still firmly in his mind, he flipped open the sheet of paper in his hands and took a look.
- -
Hey Hagrid,
Oh wow. Names. Er… Hang on. (I'm allowed to be thinking about this since we're going over proper broom maintenance. Who doesn't know how to polish a broom I ask you? I've met muggles who could tell you without batting an eye-lid.)
Max? Fang? Butch? Baskerville? (That's funny if you've ever read… never mind. I'm just nuts.) Well I guess it depends on the dog anyway, doesn't it? It would hardly do to get your hands on a vicious, anti-social wolf of a dog and then call it 'Snuggles' would it?
Now that we've established that: What rumour might affect me? There's a rumour that might affect me? Why? What did I do? I bet you Sirius did it too, if I did it. Does he know what it is? How about Remus, he's a prefect so he should know. Why? What is it? What could I have done that warrants talking about during the holidays? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
Aww Christ. You've got me all cracked up. Damn you Hagrid!
Tell me!
James.
Dear James,
I'm not saying nothing.
And those puppies are due in about a month. After that my friend wants to wait a couple of weeks before giving me them. So you'll get to meet the little feller before I name him and have your say.
Try not to be so crazy Potter.
Hagrid.
- -
Harry yawned and stretched. It was nearly ten o'clock. The Dursleys would be going to bed soon. And, if he was honest, he was pretty far beyond knackered himself. But there was only one more envelope left, so he could hardly stop then. He vowed to read it and then go to bed. Just one more envelope.
That meant that the letter to Aunt Boyka wasn't included though. Harry was tempted to skim ahead and see if it was in amongst the next batch of letters but he, once again, saw Hermione's disapproving scowl float into his mind.
Stifling yet another yawn he acceded to going to bed as soon as he was done with the heavy parchment letter in his hands.
After all, how much could be written in one envelope?
Tipping it open onto the cluttered desk, he mentally kicked himself for asking that question. A bona fide cornucopia of multi-coloured paper fluttered out of the envelope. Harry blew out a breath and set about looking for the relevant sheets.
James's letters were all written on regular muggle paper. Harry tracked down two pieces that matched that basic description and, after a quick glance over them, realised that they were indeed written in his father's neatly rounded scroll. Another quick hunt through the pile and he discovered a few pieces of parchment that were a match to the envelope. He saw a multitude of handwriting, both on the parchment and on every other piece of paper there.
For the sake of his sanity, Harry started reading his father's two short letters first.
- -
My Dear fellow-Marauders,
War has been declared on me and my brood. I did not start this war, nor did I encourage it, and yet it was declared. By a thick-skulled prat with no neck and no talent besides leering at every post-pubescent female in sight.
So, you see, I have no choice but to destroy him completely. It is in his own best interests to be obliterated. Annihilated. Exterminated. I want to make him cry like a little girl. (Yes, it is still in his best interest.)
The target is Duane McLaggen and his cabin. But mostly Duane McLaggen. The kids may not be harmed. Merely… humiliated and scared. I'm not being cruel, they attacked my kids. And there are six of them and they're all ridiculously muscular nine year olds while my four kids are small, unhealthy and have an average age of seven and a half. The main target is still, however, Duane McLaggen.
The war is barely underway however. True, I did make him cry. True, I turned his cabin luminous orange. But personally, I don't feel that covers it. Do you? Now, whilst I am more than capable of destroying McLaggen on my own, I am completely incapable of destroying McLaggen AND teaching four kids how to play first class Quidditch so that we can win that too. So, I need your help. All three of you.
And no holds barred, please. This. Is. War.
Yours, Prongs.
Oh and Sirius, stop threatening Evans family members. I'm not THAT desperate for her attention. And before you even start, I'll know if there were any remarks made at my expense in reference to that last sentence and I will respond accordingly just as soon as I'm back in the same hemisphere.
- -
Dear Ms Evans,
My mentally unhinged best-friend has always been completely barking. It's part of his innate charm, and neither I nor anyone else would change it for the world.
I have, however, politely requested that he stop threatening your family members. After all, turning your sister into a gecko is entirely unacceptable behaviour. Having met her, I would go with a vulture. Maybe a cricket or insect of some kind… You see vulture matches her personality but it's a little higher up on the food chain than I personally would like to see her.
By the way, my mute little friend isn't. Mute that is. She's perfectly capable of speaking English. And Bulgarian actually. And swearing fluently in both apparently. But, having taken your advice (at great personal risk might I add, as she's a scary seven year old and if I'd been wrong she may have hurt me) I can safely inform you that she is more than willing to talk now. Well… perhaps 'willing' would be an overstatement of the facts. But still, a guy takes what he can get.
And, as much as I would like to use your name as a pawn to further my attack on the Troglodyte, I'm afraid that I refuse to do so until such times as I know why you strike fear into his heart. You see I refuse to say something like "Be careful McLaggen or I'll do what Lily Evans did to you!" until I know for certain that what you did wasn't date him and break up with him in public. Because I'm not prepared to have that much damage done to my image.
So if you'd be as accommodating as to write back then I'd very much appreciate it.
(quite pathetically so, by this point) Yours, James Potter a.k.a. Your very favourite stalker.
- -
Harry smiled a bit at the way his father signed his letter to Evans, er Lily, er his Mother. (The notebook would not brainwash him, the notebook would not brainwash him, the notebook would not brainwash him…)
He grabbed the rather lengthy parchment reply and was surprised to see his mother's handwriting once more.
- -
Dear Mister Potter,
We (Sirius, Remus, Peter and I) have decided to join forces in your battle against Duane McLaggen. We have done so, not out of the kindness of our hearts as you may be tempted to believe, but rather out of the insatiable need to amuse ourselves.
Them, I suspect, because you're not here to amuse them. Me, I know, because my sister is planning her wedding and it's driving me up the wall. Besides, the demented and unhinged best friend of yours referenced in our last correspondence showed up at my front door asking to use my bedroom as a base of operations. "Since Mister and Missus Potter don't know what James is up to." I agreed under the condition that they cursed my soon-to-be brother in law. I feel it works for everyone.
As I write this, I am perched precariously on my window sill, hoping that the patio below isn't quite as solid as it appears. You see, every inch of my room has been covered in 'battle plans'.
Oh good lord. Remus just burnt a hole through my wall. I can't believe I let this lot near my potions ingredients. I can only hope you people don't do this in your dormitory, for the sake of the House Elves.
Remus has now been ordered over to my bed and is transfiguring something or other into something else which, I don't doubt, will be horrendously ingenious and baffling. For his sake I'm hoping it's not another one of mum's lamps since she became fairly hysterical when Sirius transformed that last one into a grass-snake. Sirius himself is pacing the room, muttering about ways to 'really get the bastard' (UNHINGED I tell you!). And Peter is sprawled out on the floor figuring out methods of making sure you don't get caught. I'm observing all this from a safe distance and occasionally throwing in helpful suggestions. I personally feel this is the most comfortable position I could possibly be in and probably the one most pertinent to my continued physical and psychological well-being.
Hmm. Do I want to know why Sirius Black just conjured up a fondue set? No. No I don't. Forget I asked. Anyway.
Inside the envelope we will be sending this, there will be a piece of bright yellow paper. That piece of bright yellow paper will have a copy of a song on it which Peter wrote, to be sung to the tune of Walking in a Winter Wonderland. There'll also be a charmed paper aeroplane attacked to it. Do not, I repeat DO NOT touch this aeroplane with your bare hands unless you want to find yourself wearing nothing but a pink, glittery bustier and panty-hose, singing the song on the yellow piece of paper at the top of your lungs.
And no, it wasn't my idea no matter what Peter may tell you, so don't even comment. Incidentally, the bustier et al will disappear after an hour or two of him singing. And the only way to stop it, or the singing, is for you or someone else to join in and sing along with them. The clothes he was originally wearing, however, will be more or less a lost cause.
Harry paused to search for a piece of bright yellow paper. He finally found it next to a diagram of a fairly evil looking teddy bear which he chose to ignore. He cringed as he read it, wondering if Duane McLaggen would ever manage to live it down if he'd been forced to sing it in public. It read:
Lacy things… my mum is missin'
Didn't ask… her permission
I'm wearing her clothes, her silk pantyhose
Walking round in women's underwear!
In the store… there's a teddy
Little straps… like spaghetti
It holds me so tight, like handcuffs at night,
Walking round in women's underwear!
Round the corner there's a guy named William, he pretends that I am Murphy Brown
He'll say: "Are you ready?" I'll say: "Whoa man… let's wait until our mums are out of town"
Later on… if you wanna
We can dress… like Madonna
Put on some eyeshade, and join the parade
Walking round in women's underwear!
Lacy things… she's still missin
Still don't have… her permission
I'm wearing her clothes, her silk pantyhose,
Walking round in women's underwear!
Walking round in women's underwear!
Walking round in women's underwear!
- -
Despite being mostly written in Peter Pettigrew's small, untidy handwriting, Harry couldn't help but notice that the bridge (as it were) was quite clearly written in his mother's script. Surely she couldn't be so cruel after her disdain at James's actions towards Snape? If she was, what on Earth had Duane McLaggen done to her to merit such behaviour? And, more to the point, where on Earth had they come up with that idea!
With a feeling of extreme disquiet as to his parents sanity, Harry reached back towards the original parchment letter that his mother had written.
- -
Sirius and Peter have also come up with a creation which I personally consider to be evil incarnate. It's a teddy bear. And evil, horrifying, baby-eating Teddy Bear which has no place in the world outside of nightmares. Seriously, it's like having Satan in a Soft Toy. I feel like I'm in a Karen Black movie or something. I'm waiting for it to pick up a tiny little spear and start stabbing me to death.
Anyway, the basic idea is that you take this little abomination and let it loose in McLaggen's cabin, letting mayhem and chaos reign. The bear is pre-programmed to attack McLaggen and his 'allies' (read: cabin). It has scarily sharp little teeth and it runs way too quickly to be safe in my book. And it pounces at your face like some sort of psychotic, serial-killing cat. If you want to change it's target, or make it say some sort of catchphrase whilst it brings about terror and destruction, or even if you want to make it dance the Macarena, you can figure out how to do it from the enclosed diagrams. Which are on the pale blue sheets of paper by the way.
Hmm. Lets see, what else… Oh! In the lilac envelope there are about thirty pictures of McLaggen falling off his broomstick in second year after being attacked by a sparrow. It's more fun to watch in person, but the picture still communicates most of the highlights. If you want a more complete version of events, just picture him screaming like a girl the whole time.
There's a crystal phial filled with a colourless, odourless, mostly tasteless liquid (apparently tastes slightly of citrus but not so anyone would notice). This is a potion which will basically make McLaggen (or anyone who ingests it really) lose any semblance of control over their bladder. The effects will last for about twelve hours straight. During this time it occurs to me that you may want to keep the subject away from anything silk.
The phial doesn't have a colour or an envelope. It's quite upsetting. Hang on. There. Now it's got a dark purple ribbon. Much better.
I think that's about it. Wait, Sirius is glaring at me…
Oh ALL RIGHT! Grr. Stupid jumped up, gecko-threatening jackass. Included in the envelope (which at this rate will have to be magically reinforced, I mean honestly) are eight pieces of dark green paper. Except they aren't paper. They're a test which I made up last year when I got bored in Potions.
It's basically based on the Litmus test… which you have no idea about, right. Magical upbringing. Okay, you don't need to know what a Litmus test is. The fact is that if you tear a tiny (and I do mean tiny, couple millimetres in diameter should do it) piece of this stuff and put it in anything you're about to ingest. Food, drink, even toothpaste. It'll evaporate in a puff of smoke. If this smoke is the same green colour as it was when it was 'paper' then the food, drink, or whatever is safe to eat. If it evaporates in a puff of bright blue smoke then there's a potion in it, if it evaporates in a puff of bright red smoke there's a poison in it, and if it evaporates in a puff of red smoke there's a non-harmful, non-magical foreign compound in it.
If this foreign compound is something like, I don't know… salt. Then it won't show up. If it's something like an extra-strength laxative or powdered maggots then it'll go red. If it goes up in white smoke then there's more than one of these categories in your food, drink or whatever and you should basically run like hell.
Please note, these are my very last ones and I won't be able to make anymore until December because of the length of time it'll take to brew all the component parts.
In the grey envelope, Peter has compiled a selection of alibis for you along with medically proved reasons why you couldn't possibly have played a part in anything we've said so far. It also has a few things to get you, or anyone in your cabin, out of your daily duties without actually having to see a medical professional. He's quite diabolical in his approach to getting out of trouble really.
Right. That's all. I think.
Oh no, Sirius has another last minute addition…
Yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck, that's disgusting! What sort of lunatic comes up with that sort of thing? I mean seriously. UNHINGED! Completely and utterly deranged. Crazy. Insane. Mad. Psychotic. Maniacal. Bananas. Totally and utterly whacko. The man is nuts. And bolts! And dangerous. And is never getting near my food again. Gross, gross, gross.
Your (UNHINGED) Best Friend has devised a 'party trick' as he calls it. He has just demonstrated how easily a flubberworm dipped in melted chocolate can be made to resemble a marshmallow dipped in chocolate. Personally, I could live a long and happy life without ever seeing him do so again. His logic is that with a quick Discernment Charm and an Incandescent Incantation, you will be able to see which is which while nobody else can.
He's shrunk everything you need and included diagrams (on the orange paper) in the envelope.
In other news, I've sworn off fondue. And marshmallows. And chocolate. Okay, maybe not chocolate. But that other stuff definitely. Because that was just… unwholesome.
Right. Nothing else I've been ordered to transcribe by these interlopers. Hmm. Suppose I should actually respond to your letter to me now that they've all shut up. (And started cleaning up if they know what's good for them.)
Ha. You know if the vulture comment wasn't true, I'd have to curse you for it. Regrettably, however, it is. Just be thankful you don't have to live with her. Or her impossibly wide fiancé.
Anyway, I'm glad that the girl isn't completely incapable of talking. And also that she can swear fluently in two languages. It comes in terribly handy. Then again, if she really is as scary as you seem to think she is then she wouldn't have much need for it either way.
Regrettably, I can't tell you why McLaggen is afraid of me. Well, I suppose I could but I'm not going to. Mainly because that would count as written evidence and that's just not something I'm prepared to risk. Though I can absolutely assure you, that ape never got within twenty feet of me.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I actually intend to shower sometime tonight and the only way I'm going to do that is if Remus fixes that hole in the wall.
Signed:
Lily Marie Evans (Who is apparently not going to be showering tonight.)
Sirius Cygnus Black (Who is NOT "unhinged"!)
Remus John Lupin (Who is inclined to agree with Ms Evans on the Teddy Bear thing…)
And Peter Pettigrew (Who sort of wishes he had a middle name now.)
- -
Trying his very hardest to ignore the last signature on the page, Harry leant back in his chair yawning hugely.
It was coming up for ten to eleven. The Dursleys, who were rarely up that late anyway, were making very obvious 'Going to Bed' noises. Deciding that they had the right idea, and that he'd perform the arduous task of actually thinking about the letter his mother penned the next day. After a good night's rest (hopefully) and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast (assuming he managed to get to the kitchen when there was no one else in there). In that same theme, he tidied away the papers to peruse them again the following morning.
Harry checked outside quickly, to make sure Hedwig wasn't waiting to be let in. But no, she still hadn't been allowed back. He mentally insulted the Aurors or Order Members (which ever) that were responsible for her absence, but he was too tired to put much venom behind it.
Stifling yet another yawn, he kicked off his trainers and yanked off his socks. Outside in the hallway he heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wishing Aunt Marge goodnight on the landing. Dudley, he presumed, had just gone to bed then. Once again, he didn't especially care about his cousin's comings and goings. He yanked off his t-shirt and was just about to pull off his jeans and glasses when he heard an almighty crash, just outside his bedroom door.
His hand immediately slipped to his wand as he burst out into the hallway. Aunt Marge was on the floor writhing in agony. The other Dursleys were nowhere to be seen. If they were being attacked it was from outside, surely since there wasn't enough room in the hallway to… Uh-oh.
Harry cringed. They weren't being attacked. Aunt Marge was on the floor in a puddle of water, surrounded by the remnants of his discarded glass. He managed to shove his wand into his back pocket again before Petunia and Vernon appeared out in the hall, closely followed by a scared-looking Dudley. The wand wasn't completely hidden, of course, since he didn't have a t-shirt on, but it was better than nothing.
"What happened? What did you do?" Uncle Vernon demanded threateningly. Harry rolled his eyes.
"I didn't do anything. She slipped."
"A likely story!" Vernon bellowed. The man was like a cartoon, Harry thought disdainfully. Over in the corner, Dudley's beady little eyes landed on the broken bits of glass and water on the floor. He looked back up at Harry and grinned maliciously. Harry suppressed another eye roll and bent to help Aunt Marge up.
"Did you cut yourself?" he asked in a bored voice, silently hoping that she had and would therefore think Privet Drive to dangerous to stick around for.
"Don't be silly boy!" Aunt Marge snapped as Harry threw all his weight back in an attempt to haul her ample frame back into an upright position. He semi-succeeded but he couldn't help but think it would've been a lot easier for Dudley or Vernon to do. Heaven forefend they actually do something useful, he thought sardonically. "I've taken worse spills than that you stupid little- Oh!"
Aunt Marge had tried to push Harry away, overbalanced and gone crashing to the ground again. Harry dearly wanted to leave her in a crumpled heap down there, but the glare he received from Uncle Vernon dissuaded him. Bracing himself, he bent down again and heaved with all his might. Aunt Marge finally got in a vaguely upright position. Though Harry couldn't help but think that, with her girth, the only way you could really tell she was upright was because of where her head stuck out of her rotund body.
He was just about to excuse himself and go back into his bedroom when Dudley, in the most innocent tone imaginable, said "How did you fall Aunt Marge?"
Harry glared at his cousin, who wore and expression which clearly stated he would've fluttered his eyelashes angelically if he thought he could get away with it and keep his reputation intact.
"I just took a tumble!" Marge announced stoutly. "Nothing to worry about Dudders!"
Dudley cocked his head to one side, and Harry resisted the urge to punch him. "Really Aunt Marge? I thought you slipped on all that water." he commented.
Vernon, Petunia and Marge all glanced down at the floor in one movement. Harry was actually amazed that the woman hadn't noticed it before. After all, when he landed in a large puddle of water he usually didn't need someone else to point it out to him.
"Well I'll be. What the devil is water doing all the way over here? The bathroom's at the other end of the hall." Uncle Vernon queried. Harry raised his eyes skyward and clenched his fists as Dudley spelled it out for his father.
"Say, Harry, didn't you have a glass of water when you came upstairs?" Dudley asked guilelessly.
There was a moment of silence before, "I knew it! I knew it! The boy's dangerous! He could've killed me!" Aunt Marge yelled. Harry raised his eyebrow at her.
"I thought you said you weren't hurt?" he pointed out.
"I said no such thing! I'm in agony!" Aunt Marge hollered. Harry sighed as the rest of the family started yelling about his dangerous tendencies too.
"Delinquent!"
"Trouble-maker!"
"Good for nothing-"
"Foolish-"
"Brainless-"
"Useless-"
"Son of a drunken-"
As the abuse continued to be hurled at him, Harry was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was half naked in a hallway with a group of people who quite categorically detested him. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply.
"All right would you all just Shut Up!" he yelled. Surprisingly enough, everyone did. Probably out of shock rather than out of some urge to bow to his wishes, Harry knew, but he'd take what he could get. "Look, I did throw that glass away and I did forget to clean it up. I admit it. It's not like I went and pushed you down the stairs though."
"Oh really. And just what were you doing that was so much more important than cleaning up a potentially dangerous spillage of water!" Aunt Marge demanded.
Looking straight at Uncle Vernon and leaving no doubt as to his meaning, Harry said "Homework." Despite turning a very interesting puce colour, Vernon didn't say anything. Aunt Petunia glared at him while Marge scoffed derisively.
"You expect us to believe that you, you little idiot, were so absorbed in your- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"
Harry spun to look at his Aunt who was… er… mental. She had dropped to her knees and adopted what could be easily referred to as the 'Brace Position' on an aeroplane. Harry frowned and looked around blindly, trying to spot something that would elicit such a reaction. For the life of him he couldn't see anything that would make someone scream like a banshee though.
He did, however, see that Hedwig had returned and had apparently entered through the hall window. "Hi Hedwig!" he grinned broadly as the snowy white owl hooted in a dignified manner before landing happily on his shoulder. Which, given his current state of undress, was actually quite painful. She had two letters attached to her leg, one he recognised as being written in Ron's handwriting and the other which held the Ministry of Magic's official seal.
Still grinning, he turned back to try and figure out what Marge was yelling about. He was met with a volcanic looking Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge pointing at him in horror while mouthing wordlessly.
"Ooooooooooooooh." It dawned on Harry that having a large Snowy Owl swooping into one's hallway might be a little odd for some people. He tried to urge Hedwig into his room but she was rather resolute about staying put. Harry started inching into his room himself when, from down the hall, the sound of wings was quite distinctly heard.
Harry frowned in confusion before remembering his Daily Prophet subscription. "Uh-oh." he muttered dumbly.
The past fourteen days worth of Daily Prophets came hurtling down the corridor at them. Each with it's own individual owl from the looks of things. And a few other pieces of mail as well.
Aunt Marge screamed so loud, Harry's ears rang. Dudley attempted to back into his room but simply succeeded in smashing his head off a wall. Aunt Petunia yelped in alarm and ducked her head, while Uncle Vernon lunged straight for Harry.
"Vernon! Vernon! You know how I feel about birds Vernon!" Aunt Marge whimpered while swiping uselessly at the birds. Harry ducked out of his Uncle's way and forcefully shoved Hedwig into his room, yelling at her to stay in there, for fear of her safety. He held the door open, trying to entice the birds into his room rather than having them flap around their heads in the hallway.
The owls were having none of it. From the looks of things, they'd been held in rather rough conditions for the past two weeks and were relishing their freedom once more. Several actually seemed to be taunting Aunt Marge by flying near to her head and evading her, now fairly frantic, swipes.
"You did this on purpose boy!" Vernon bellowed.
"I bloody well did not!" Harry bellowed back, ducking under yet another one of Vernon's attacks. Aunt Marge had got a hold of a vase from Aunt Petunia's sideboard and was now waving it at the owls and letting out some sort of battle cry. "Oi! Don't do that!" Harry told her in alarm as she connected with a medium sized barn owl, sending it to the floor with a thump.
Aunt Marge's eyes took on a manic gleam as she regarded the owl on the floor. Aunt Petunia yelped once more and started ushering Dudley away from the bedlam currently taking place in the hallway. When that didn't work, she attempted to shield him from view. Had Harry not been quite so preoccupied, he would have certainly found this amusing. Regrettably, the owls seemed to have taken Marge's attack as a sign of ill-intent and were becoming quite overtly hostile to the humans in the hall.
"You'll pay for this you little-" Harry didn't hear the rest of Vernon's threat, as a large Eagle Owl attempted to claw his eyes out.
Ducking and weaving as best as he could, Harry darted over to Aunt Marge and grabbed a hold of the vase in her hands and attempted to wrestle out of her grasp. "You're just getting them angry you moron!" he grunted, pulling valiantly, but he doubted she heard him over her continuing howls of aggression.
A horned owl attempted to claw at Harry's forearm, momentarily preventing him from his continued wrestling match with Aunt Marge. He grunted in pain and gripped the broken skin, glaring at the owl in question. It circled above him before making to attack again. From behind him, Harry heard an outraged shriek.
He spun around just in time to see Hedwig dive down on the Horned owl, pinning it to floor looking murderous. Harry grinned slightly and returned his attention to Aunt Marge. She was watching the display with wide eyes. He took the opportunity to snatch the vase out of her clutches and toss it into the Guest Bedroom, away from all the owls.
Aunt Marge snapped back and yelled again, making a fairly obvious dive for him. On Harry's left Uncle Vernon, who had obviously dealt with his Eagle Owl, was making a similar noise. Five years of Quidditch training with the Weasley twins, however, had made Harry well aware of how to duck two large objects intent on killing you horribly. He leapt through the pair of them and came up in a large swarm of around twelve infuriated owls.
Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon collided with a loud crash which sent Marge reeling back into a wall, while sending Vernon toppling over. He landed in the puddle of water still on the floor and went skidding directly over to Aunt Petunia and Dudley. The three of them hurtled into the sideboard at the end of the hall, a tangle of limbs letting out some fairly creative expletives.
Harry, however, had no time to enjoy any of this given the dozen angry owls currently around him. "Couldn't have just left the t-shirt on, could I?" he snapped in irritation, as yet another owl attempted to shred any bit of skin it could reach. Within a second, Hedwig was over beside him screeching aggressively at any bird who attempted to harm him. Harry may have been imagining it, but he also got the impression she was scolding him for getting himself surrounded in the first place.
"It's not my fault you know!" he told her defensively. "It was either this or getting crushed to death by the Dursleys, would you have liked that better?" Hedwig gave him a slightly affronted look before returning to clawing at any owl that came within a metre of him.
Marge was back on her feet and trying to kill every living creature in the hallway. "Nothing more than flying vermin! That's what you are!" she yelled hysterically.
Harry growled in frustration, raised his hands to protect his head and ran headlong into Aunt Marge's stomach, sending her flying. Without even looking to see how she landed, he grabbed his wand and raised it into the air.
Every owl there immediately stopped their attacks and landed on the floor, eyeing it warily. Hedwig fluttered over and sat on his shoulder once again, with a satisfied sort of air about her. She even gave a smug little hoot of victory. Harry found he didn't mind her claws digging into his should so much this time and, in fact, found it nothing short of comforting when compared to the damage that had been done to the rest of him.
He pointed the wand to indicate his room. "Leave your deliveries in there, then get out." he ordered impatiently. The owls moved for his room obediently. Harry tucked his wand away once more and turned to see what had happened to Aunt Marge. She was sprawled out, seemingly unconscious at the top of the stairs. At the other end of the hall, the Dursleys were cowering in fear, all appearing a startlingly similar ashen grey.
Harry watched as the owls began to exit his room. Flying in formation, every single one of them swooped down on Marge, grabbed a hold of her clothing and carried her a few feet forwards. They let go and dumped her limp form at the bottom of the stairs before darting out the hall window and flying into the night.
Harry closed his eyes and let out a breath before turning to face the quivering Dursleys. The looked up at him with eyes like saucers…
Harry grinned brightly at them. "Well. Goodnight!" he called cheerfully.
Then he turned and legged it into his room as fast as was humanly possible. As soon as he entered the room, Hedwig fluttered over to her perch gratefully. For his part, Harry slammed the door shut behind him and heaved his trunk in front of it. He once again considered pulling his bed in front of the door as well but decided against it.
After all he'd be sleeping there and he probably wouldn't be able to sleep if he moved the bed.
That said, he moved every other bit of furniture in the room to block his doorway. "So…" he started casually as soon as he was finished. "Welcome home Hedwig."