Disclaimer: … I think you all know what I'm going to say.
Note: Why do the Dursleys support Aston Villa? Because they were the first football team that came to mind. I do not support Aston Villa, nor do I have anything against Aston Villa. I am Aston Villa neutral.
The day that followed could be described as "an experience". It could also be described as a Train Wreck, but the phrase "an experience" left Harry feeling slightly less inclined to curse things, and so he chose to refer to it as such.
The first thing to go seriously wrong, though it was not obvious until much later, was his first encounter with the Dursleys.
When Harry first awoke it was still dark. The glowing red readout from his clock told him it was shortly after five o'clock in the morning. He had vague memories of a dream which, for some bizarre reason, centred around Professor Snape and Professor Sprout getting married, adopting Neville Longbottom and living happily ever after in the Honeydukes basement… but he chose to ignore that. Any strange dreams he had at that point could be easily attributed to stress, since he was certainly under enough of it.
Harry also refused to acknowledge being in any way disappointed that his dreams hadn't consisted of something more interesting, like, say for example, his late father or Lord Voldemort's secret plans.
As he tried to rid his mind of any lingering images of Snape and Neville at a Chudley Cannons game (complete with matching bright orange novelty hats, he hastened to add), Harry crawled out of bed. He grabbed his glasses and put them on. Hedwig was fast asleep in her cage, and Harry knew that the bright light from his bedside lamp would wake her up. He groped around for his clothing in the dark instead, hoping to let her sleep. After her performance the previous night, the very least she deserved was a nice long nap. This idiotic piece of polite and considerate rubbish led to him injuring himself no less than thirteen times in the process of getting dressed, but that was hardly the point.
He had a very simple course of action planned out in his mind: get up, go downstairs, get something to eat, and be back upstairs before the Dursleys or Aunt Marge could even open an eyelid. It was an undeniably simple plan, and yet it still made Harry frown in confusion. Perhaps it had been the categorising of Aunt Marge as separate from the Dursleys that had done it.
The woman was technically a Dursley and, as such, could technically be included in the label "The Dursleys", Harry supposed. But for some reason that didn't seem quite right to him. Perhaps it was because he'd spent his childhood referring to them as The Dursleys. Perhaps it was because Aunt Marge felt like an intruder. Perhaps it was because the thought of including that woman in his 'family' was too traumatising to deal with. Whatever it was, it didn't sit right with Harry.
Shaking his head firmly and blaming such useless thoughts on lack of sleep (and the ephemeral image of Neville calling Snape "Daddy"), Harry unburied his barricaded bedroom door and crept downstairs as quietly as possible. He didn't need a plan of action to get breakfast, for goodness sake. Defeating Voldemort, catching the snitch, avoiding Hermione when she was on the revision rampage; these things required deliberation. Breakfast did not. And so he walked downstairs, and refused to let any premeditative thoughts on the matter enter his mind.
Harry saw the kitchen light was on. He quickly tried to convince himself that the light had just been left on the previous night, in all the confusion. This optimism was quickly dashed as he heard voices emanating from inside. He wondered vaguely if it was worth hoping that the Order had come to rescue him again.
"The boy'll pay for this!" Uncle Vernon's low voice growled.
Nope. Definitely not the Order. Uncle Vernon was incapable of enunciating that clearly around wizards.
As Harry inched closer to the doorway he saw all three of the Dursleys sitting around the kitchen table, still in the pyjamas they'd been wearing when last Harry saw them. This indicated either that they hadn't gone to bed yet, as they'd been too busy bemoaning his existence, or that they had suddenly decided to become morning people. Harry's bets were firmly on the former.
Aunt Petunia appeared to be making pancake batter at the table, while Uncle Vernon fumed beside her. Dudley was sitting opposite the pair of them with such a glazed expression on his face. Seeing this expression, Harry seriously wondered if Dudley could sleep with his eyes open. It was a skill which Harry was starting to consider cultivating. Merlin knew it would help him get through encounters with Uncle Vernon.
"Setting those feathery brutes on my only sister! The little brat!" Vernon grunted. His moustache quivered as he spoke.
Harry balked at that comment. He had hardly set the owls on anyone. If he had been capable of setting them on anyone, then why the hell would he have a torso that was more scratched up than Mad-eye Moody? Idiots.
"And then smirking and running off to his room like some sort of coward!" Uncle Vernon hissed.
That comment, on the other hand, Harry was a little more inclined to agree with. Not that he'd smirked, because he was quite certain he hadn't, and not that he'd run off like a coward, because (three-headed dogs aside) he hadn't run off from anything in a cowardly fashion since he was eleven. Rather, he'd run off like someone who knew no good could come of staying and was too weary to even try by that point. But let Uncle Vernon slant it any way he saw fit. Harry didn't care. He had more important things to worry about.
He sauntered into the kitchen, the picture of health and harmony. "Morning." he greeted cheerfully.
Conversation ceased immediately, but the Dursleys seemed a little too stunned to respond for a moment. Harry used the time to go over to the bread-bin and snag a couple of slices before moving towards the toaster. A boy had to eat, after all, no matter how insane his adoptive family may be.
"Morning?" Vernon repeated slowly. "Morning? You'd better explain yourself, boy!" he snarled.
Harry paused in the middle of the kitchen and looked at his Uncle. His Uncle who was suddenly standing, and was attempting to look intimidating. Somehow, after spending the night dreaming about Professors Snape and Sprout's honeymoon album, the effect was lost on Harry. It took a lot more than Uncle Vernon to scare him after those mental images. "Explain what?" he asked, nonplussed.
He wasn't being insolent (well all right, he was being a little insolent), he just genuinely did not understand what Uncle Vernon was asking him. Glancing around the kitchen, Harry noted that Aunt Petunia looked too tired to care what was happening while Dudley was slowly coming around to the Land of the Undeniably Conscious and looking more than a little irritated about it. Ah well. Some family bonding about how much they hated Harry was in order then. How touching. There should be a Hallmark card for it or something.
Harry fought off an eye roll.
"Explain what? EXPLAIN WHAT?!" Vernon raged.
"Uncle Vernon, could you keep your voice down?" Harry asked patiently. "We do have neighbours you know." Honestly, the man was so inconsiderate. Had someone made that sort of noise in the Gryffindor common room before six AM they would've been cursed into a gelatinous substance.
Not that Harry really cared what the neighbours thought of them. The point was that endangering the Dursleys' social standing was one sure-fire way to getting them to behave. Indeed, the word 'neighbours' had hardly left Harry's mouth when Aunt Petunia abandoned her pancake mix and practically threw herself at the window to check they hadn't woken anyone up. Uncle Vernon's beady little eyes darted around nervously, as though half expecting a SWAT team to come down on upon him at any moment. Dudley, for his part, was gazing between his mother and her abandoned pancake mix with an incredulous air. Meanwhile, Harry's toast started to smell like toast rather than bread. He wished it would hurry up so he could make his escape, but Uncle Vernon seemingly had other ideas.
Ah well. He'd settled in for the long haul then. Harry grabbed a glass from one of the cupboards and went to pour himself some orange juice from the fridge. Uncle Vernon regained what little composure he could claim in the first place and began talking again, in much more restrained voice. "Just what in the blazes did you think you were doing when you set those things on Marge?" he ground out.
"I didn't set them on her." Harry told him without emotion. "I had nothing to do with it. If she hadn't started attacking them with that vase then they wouldn't have done anything to her. It was her fault."
Uncle Vernon appeared to swell, like an indignant balloon. "How dare you-" he began, taking a threatening step towards him.
Harry's toast popped up. Uncle Vernon sprang back in horror and visibly deflated.
Harry considered it a credit to his increased maturity that he didn't snigger at the man, and instead just went about buttering his toast. Though he didn't expect Uncle Vernon to be attempting to act intimidating for another few minutes. Indeed, his Uncle was trying desperately to return his breathing to normal. But, alas, Harry was never to hear what exactly it was Uncle Vernon had to say. True, he could make an educated guess, but the actual words themselves were forever lost because at that very moment, Aunt Marge could be heard thudding slowly down the stairs.
The Dursleys all looked horrified. Harry himself felt pretty horrified, but for a different reason. Firstly, it hadn't really occurred to him that he would have to face the woman whom he'd watched get thrown down the stairs by a flock of angry owls, just a few hours before. Secondly, it certainly hadn't occurred to him that he would have to come up with an explanation for the aforementioned owl incident. And thirdly, Aunt Marge always made him feel more than a little horrified just on principle.
Thud.
Down she came.
Clunk.
Another step closer.
Thud.
At least a foot and a half nearer than she was when she first made a sound. Across the room, something seemed to snap in Aunt Petunia. "Act natural!" she hissed to the room as a whole.
Harry looked himself up and down. He was already acting natural. Good for him. Apparently Aunt Petunia felt that she had not been acting natural, as she proceeded to rearrange her hairnet faster than Harry had ever seen her do so before. She then snatched up the pancake batter and dove towards the cooker, shoving him out of the way as she went. It would have been quite impressive, had she not shoved Harry directly into the countertop, winding him quite effectively. Uncle Vernon quickly sat down at the breakfast table. He grabbed a Sunday supplement magazine and began pretending to read it.
Dudley, like Harry, simply sat there looking utterly bewildered as to how one could act natural.
Just as Harry's midsection was recovering from the sudden blow, a bleary-eyed Marge appeared in the doorway, wearing a hideously striped, mustard-coloured dressing gown. Somehow, Harry felt that being winded was more fun than looking at her.
"Oh. Good morning Marge!" Aunt Petunia chirped in a faux cheerful voice as she bustled around the cooker. "Did, ah, did you sleep well?" Aunt Petunia asked. Harry noted the oddly strained way she asked the question as well as the decidedly nervous expression on Uncle Vernon's face, and realised instantly how they were going to take care of the Owl Incident. In rather the same way they had intended to take care of Harry's 'abnormality' - Ignore it and hope it will go away.
Marge, however, clearly didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. "Mornin' Petunia." she grunted, taking a seat at the table and yawning hugely. "Funny you should mention sleep though." she added, looking around tiredly.
Everyone in the kitchen, even Dudley, leant in a little at this point.
"One of the best night's sleeps I've ever had actually." Marge continued. "Some funny dreams though." Aunt Petunia visibly relaxed while the colour returned to Uncle Vernon's face. Harry, however, found himself a little disappointed that every time he taught that old battleaxe a lesson she had to go and forget it. Granted he hadn't technically been responsible for the owl incident, but that was hardly relevant. He still enjoyed watching her get knocked down to size.
"Good. That's good to hear." Aunt Petunia said loudly. "Vernon, isn't that good to hear?"
"Very good to hear Petunia." Uncle Vernon said in the same, over-bright tone.
"Dudley?"
"T'riffic." Dudley responded dully.
"And… um… dreams, you say Marge?" Petunia asked tentatively. Once again, everyone seemed to lean in. Harry was beginning to feel distinctly as though he were in a pantomime or some such. He was half expecting Widow Twanky to show up at any moment.
Aunt Marge waved her hand dismissively. "Oh some nonsense about birds or some such. And another one about Colonel Fubster's Christmas Party last year." she chortled loudly. "Oh there was a lot of booze flowing that year I tell you. In fact, this old friend of the Colonel's, Major Krip, got up on the table wearing nothing but a…" Marge cut off abruptly and looked at Dudley. "Well, eh, maybe later, eh Petunia?" she told her, as though this were something to look forward to.
Harry felt his stomach churn at the various mental images that sprang to mind. Indeed, Aunt Petunia had turned a delicate shade of vermilion at the thought, while Dudley himself was still staring off into the middle distance, not even pretending to care.
"Er… quite." Aunt Petunia said at last. "Pancakes?"
Shockingly enough, Dudley perked up at that.
"Just a couple Petunia." Aunt Marge said, looking over to the cooker where Petunia stood. Then came the moment Harry knew was coming - Aunt Marge's piggy little eyes fell on him and narrowed instantly with distaste. He turned around and pretended to be immensely interested in buttering his toast. "Still here, are you?" she snarled behind him.
Harry rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that she couldn't see him. "No I immigrated to Timbuktu in the middle of the night. Surprised you didn't hear the helicopter." he muttered under his breath. "Yes Aunt Marge." he said more loudly. Aunt Petunia had obviously heard him, but she didn't say anything. Instead she rolled her own eyes at his behaviour, seemingly more annoyed with Marge than she was with him.
Harry also noticed that she too was paying a bit too much attention to making the breakfast. Evidently, he and his Aunt Petunia had finally found their common ground: Loathing Marge Dursley. What a weird idea.
"Hmm." Marge said suspiciously. Harry could just envisage her scowling at his back. "Well. Vernon. What were you yelling about earlier? Probably woke up the neighbourhood old boy." she chortled. "Surely Aston Villa didn't lose again?"
Tension rose immediately once again. Harry mentally repeated his earlier comparison of the situation to a pantomime. It was quite comically pathetic really; every time the room gave a collective - -albeit metaphorical- - sigh of relief, Aunt Marge would hike the tension again. Or at least she did with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Harry didn't care. Nor, apparently, did Dudley.
"No, Marge." Uncle Vernon said in a would-be casual tone. "No, no. Actually they won one-nil."
"Glad to hear it. Are you making tea by any chance Petunia?"
"Certainly Marge." Aunt Petunia said without interest. Her attention was still clearly focused on ensuring that Aunt Marge didn't suddenly leap for the phone, call up the Daily Mail and inform the world that Harry was a wizard. Having a nephew who was criminally insane, that was one thing, but having one who flew on broomsticks was quite another.
"Good good." Aunt Marge said. "Come now Vernon, what had you all in uproar earlier? Woke me up it did. I think I have a right to know." she announced.
Harry was very tempted to turn around, wag his finger and tell Aunt Marge not to ask questions. The only thing that prevented him from doing so was the certain knowledge that he wouldn't eat for a month if he did, and the disinclination he had to say anything reminiscent of the Dursleys, even in order to taunt one of them. And so, while he didn't wag his finger or scold his 'Aunt', he did turn around.
He was met with the pleasant sight of Uncle Vernon gripping his Sunday Supplement so tightly the ink was starting to print onto his sweaty hands. His eyes were darting around again.
It was a joy to behold. "I… er… well… I… um…" he stammered. 'A real criminal mastermind, that one' Harry thought sarcastically.
Aunt Marge seemingly came to a similar conclusion, as she turned to face Dudley. "Dudders? Why was your daddy yelling?" she asked.
Dudley took the more direct approach and just shrugged. "I don't know Aunt Marge, I was in the bathroom." he said simply. He just passed off responsibility without any thought to his parents' dilemma. Harry respected the simplicity of his response if nothing else, as it certainly hadn't stopped Marge. Though, just for a moment, Harry thought he saw something that looked almost like contemplation going on behind Dudley's piggy eyes.
"Petunia?" she asked, more than a little suspicious by this point.
Harry took his eyes off Dudley to look at Aunt Petunia, and by the time he looked back at his cousin the glazed look had returned. Harry shrugged it off as his imagination.
When Aunt Petunia also refused to answer her, Aunt Marge decided to fill in the blanks herself. "What's the little runt done this time?" she demanded, glaring at Harry with distaste.
For reasons that he didn't quite comprehend, Harry glared straight back at her.
He'd never glared at Aunt Marge before; not really. He had made sarcastic comments, but most of them were under his breath and even when they weren't he had felt compelled to look away. Indeed, most of his interactions with Aunt Marge had either involved him fixing his gaze on a point somewhere around her left ear or him staring resolutely at the floor. But right at that particular moment, Harry gave into the urge to glare right at her.
Looking back on it, that was probably his first mistake.
Aunt Marge had looked slightly alarmed. Harry had been informed that his glare had become rather frightening in recent years and so he wasn't exactly surprised at the reaction. Aunt Marge dithered a moment before clearly deciding that it was just a fluke and not something to be too worried about. Since Harry's wand was upstairs, she was probably right. "Always causing some sort of trouble, you lot." she muttered, still glowering at him. "I don't know how Vernon and Petunia put up with you. Don't think they haven't told me about you." she said, gesturing at Harry. "They got letters home about you. Little miscreant. Even Saint Brutus's can't keep you in check."
Harry raised his eyebrows at that and shot a look towards Aunt Petunia. She had taken a sudden interest in the ceiling. Letters home? Harry thought incredulously. Umbridge had sent home letters? Or maybe they'd received letters home about him in the Triwizard Tournament. Or perhaps they had received letters about the situation with Sirius. Actually, now that he thought about it, the Dursleys probably got a lot of letters home. But still, Harry thought he should've been hearing about them before Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge who was still droning on and gesticulating at him.
"Back in the day, criminals like you would've been swinging from the gallows my boy. You'd have been in the noose before your twentieth, mark my words. All this touchy-feely nonsense is the only thing that keeps you breathing." she proclaimed loudly, slamming a meaty fist down onto the table for emphasis. "Why, if I had it my way, delinquents like you would-"
Not particularly wanting to hear what would happen to delinquents like him if Aunt Marge had it her way, Harry smacked his empty glass of orange down onto the counter. "Well!" he exclaimed loudly. "That sounds delightful Aunt Marge, really it does. Hope you enjoy your pancakes. Bye then." He strode confidently to the door in a deliberately over-dramatic manner, just to drive the point home.
He practically flew up the stairs. Behind him he heard Aunt Marge beginning to fume about the impertinence shown by teenagers today. Harry really couldn't have cared less.
He walked into his room and took one last munch of the toast in his hand, before tossing it into Hedwig's cage. She made a quiet noise of appreciation to indicate that, while she was awake, she was far from active. He then flicked on his table lamp, to illuminate the room.
Whilst there was a greenish tinge appearing on the horizon, it was hardly enough to read by. And Harry had a lot of reading to do. There was a pile of post sitting on his desk. The top one, which Hedwig had delivered, held the Ministry of Magic's seal. Harry recognised it from the previous night. Deciding he may as well get it over with, Harry took a seat at the desk and started on the pile.
Harry didn't know what he was expecting the Ministry of Magic to say to him. 'Good on you', perhaps. Or 'sorry we ignored you'. Maybe even a 'thanks for letting us know about that all-powerful lunatic bent on genocide that recently popped back from the dead to wreak terror and mayhem down upon us'. Whatever he was expecting, however, he certainly didn't get it.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We at the Ministry Of Magic felt that it was in your best interests to cease any owl deliveries to your address for a short while until measures could be put in place to ensure your safety. This cessation extended to all personal deliveries and subscriptions. All deliveries should reach you in due course, however, and if you suspect that any items are missing then please contact the Ministry as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely,
Some Prat.
Harry re-read it a few times, disbelievingly. Those cheeky gits hadn't even mentioned Lord Voldemort. They felt perfectly comfortable locking up his owl because of Lord Voldemort, but they refused to accept fault in the matter. Typical.
He tossed the letter into the bin with disgust and snatched up a letter from Ron.
Harry, I don't have much time to write this since I just found out they were hijacking your post a minute ago. Dad tried to get the Ministry to let Hedwig stay with us, but they were having none of it. Send me a letter when you get this so I can tell Hermione when we can contact you again. She'll have a fit when she finds out they're locking Hedwig up. We'll be forced to join the Protection Society for the Year-round Constitution and Health of Owls next ("It's P-S-Y-C-H-O not 'psycho'. Honestly!" I can see it now).
Write me, sharpish.
Ron.
As if reading his mind, Hedwig made an annoyed sound from across the room as if to say 'Never gonna happen'.
Harry smiled. "How about later on tonight?" he asked.
She made a clicking noise which Harry took as a yes.
When he thought about it, it was actually fortunate that he wasn't being forced to write back to Ron immediately. It would give him time to think about what he should ask him. He couldn't very well ask for the current location of Sofia Ivanova without giving Ron an explanation as to why. And until Harry himself figured out why he wanted to write to the woman, he certainly couldn't tell Ron.
The thought had actually been brewing in the back of his mind since he discovered her identity. He had the ability to find one of the people his father had been mentioning in his journal and for some reason didn't think he could pass that up. What if, for example, he wrote to her and explained the situation and she told him that everything that happened that year was deeply personal and she didn't want him reading any more? Or what if he wrote to her and she wanted to hear from him? What if she'd seen him in the Top Box and just not known how to approach him? Worse still, what if she'd seen him in the Top Box and deliberately avoided him?
Here he had a chance to get an unbiased version of what his father was like. Between Sirius, Snape, Lupin, Aunt Petunia and Dumbledore, unbiased opinions were becoming harder and harder to find when it came to his father. Everybody had an opinion on the man. Miss Ivanova, however, didn't seem the type to be easily swayed either way.
Harry had to admit that he, himself, was extremely biased because he wanted to like the man.
It occurred to him that it was quite strange to spend so much time and energy focussed on making peace with the memory of his late father, when he knew for a fact that Lord Voldemort was out there actively trying to kill him. Had Hermione been there he would have felt the need to analyse this fact, but as it was Harry just went with it.
Pushing such taxing thoughts out of his mind and pushing Ron's letter literally aside, he resolved to write his response later.
The rest of the post he'd received seemed to be composed mainly of Daily Prophets and pamphlets from the Ministry detailing how best to avoid a bloody death at the hands of the Death Eaters. Thrilled though Harry was that the Ministry no-longer wanted him killed horribly, he couldn't claim any particular interest in any of it. He'd read it later. That left a copy of the Quibbler with a note attached, and a yellowing scroll of parchment with astoundingly neat handwriting that looked suspiciously like the first note he'd received from Professor Lupin.
Harry dragged the Quibbler over first. He expected that anything Luna had to say would be easier to deal with than anything Professor Lupin had to say. Within a few short seconds he was proved to be right. While Luna's note was still held within its envelope and tied to the magazine, the cover of the publication was clearly visible. The main headline read:
BLIBBERING HUMDINGER SPOTTED IN THE SUEZ CANAL
Beside this bizarre pronouncement was a small yellow box which gave a description of the creature along with an artist's impression. While Harry didn't actually read the description, the picture was enough to make him doubt the existence of such a creature. It looked like a cross between a walrus and an ant-eater, with octopus-like suckers and cat-like whiskers thrown in for good measure. It also appeared to be a delicate shade of lilac. Additionally, there was some fairly compelling evidence to suggest that the Blibbering Humdinger in question was male; however Harry chose not to dwell on that particular aspect of the artist's rendition.
Beneath the story sighting and description of the Blibbering Humdinger was the distinctly more credible claim that Lord Voldemort had formed an alliance with the Giants, however Harry wondered just how many people would actually lend credit to that fact when it was mentioned on the same page as Blibbering Humdingers.
Shaking his head and grinning to himself slightly, he untied the envelope and tore it open carefully. The letter itself had a fairly startling appearance as it was written in white ink on black paper. However Harry soon became grateful of this fact as it was much easier to read in the limited light afforded by his table lamp than, for example, the Ministry's letter had been.
Dear Harry,
After the startling increase in sales after your interview was published alongside several other revealing articles, my father has been able to expand the magazine and increase production quality-
Harry glanced at the magazine itself. Now that he thought about it, it was looking a little heftier than it had last time. Not to mention more carefully bound and neater.
Father suggested that we send you a copy to show our gratitude.
Yours, Luna Lovegood.
P.S. There's an article on page fifty-four which I think will interest you.
Unable to deny his curiosity, Harry flicked to page fifty four. He read the headline once. And then again. And then a third time.
When at last the message sunk in, Harry burst out laughing.
Momentarily forgetting the fact that he had a letter from Professor Lupin, forgetting the fact his father's journal was there waiting to be read, and even forgetting the fact that a woman he loathed with a fiery vengeance which occasionally transferred into physical nausea was sitting downstairs, Harry settled in to read the article. The article which was headed with the phrase -
REAL LIFE TESTIMONIALS FROM THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW THE DARK LORD BEST - from his oppressive stage mother, to his experimentation in musical theatre, the Quibbler has all the details from those who knew him best in an exclusive eight page feature.
It was a good two hours before Harry finished the aforementioned, exclusive, eight-page feature. Only around half an hour of that was spent actually reading with three-quarters of his time spent laughing so hard he had trouble breathing. At one point, Dudley had walked past his room and declared that if Harry was choking to death he'd better do it quietly, because his favourite car show was on.
At that moment Harry had been reading the testimonial of Doris Purkiss (famous for her publicised romance with Stubby Boardman a.k.a. Sirius Black), who swore on her Aunt Betty's grave that "this so-called Dark Lord Chappie" was actually the tyrannical manager of the Hobgoblins, Judas Smick. Mr. Smick had apparently become a recluse upon hearing of Stubby's wrongful arrest, and had only pulled himself together upon hearing of Stubby's escape from Azkaban, at which point he swore revenge on everyone who had attempted to harm his star singer. By the time Ms. Purkiss started detailing the Dark Lord's unresolved issues with his Veela ex-wife and "problems in the bedroom if y'know what I mean, eh?" Harry had become quite certain he'd cracked a rib.
It had to be said, however, that the wizard in Islington - -who swore that Lord Voldemort was only the way he was because he'd eaten too much Spinach as a boy- - was still Harry's favourite.
By the time he was done, the sun was well up in the sky and any need he had for the table lamp had long since disappeared. Still chuckling to himself, Harry placed the Quibbler on his desk for future reading and flicked off the lamp. As he did so his gaze fell once again on the letter from Lupin. Harry felt a little torn between dread, excitement and relief at the thought of reading it, but there was nothing to be done.
He unwound the scroll carefully and proceeded to scan it. The message wasn't that long really. All it said was -
Dear Harry,
I understand that all your letters have been stopped for a short while. The Order has therefore decided to temporarily postpone its threat to descend upon Privet Drive if you do not contact them at least once in every seventy-two hour period. However I feel it is my duty to warn you that both Nymphadora and Kingsley have stated that they know the exact moment that this blockade shall cease and that if you have not contacted the Order within twenty-four hours of this point, they are coming to get you "Just for a laugh".
Whether you permit this scenario to occur is entirely up to you.
Signed, Remus Lupin.
Harry briefly considered letting Tonks and Kingsley 'descend upon Privet Drive', but thought better of it. He scrawled a quick note telling them not to bother, he was fine, and set it to one side to give to Hedwig later.
At that precise moment, however, he was rather more concerned with getting up and stretching. It was amazing what sitting down for two and a half hours could do to a person's blood flow. While he'd never been on an aeroplane, Harry couldn't imagine it as a comfortable experience. As this thought hit him it was accompanied by an image of him sitting on a tiny seat with Dudley on one side of him, Uncle Vernon on the other and Piers Polkiss behind him kicking his chair. It wasn't the first time Harry found himself deeply thankful for brooms and nor, he suspected, was it the last.
The doorbell rang loudly from downstairs, but since there were four other people in the house who were closer to it than he was, Harry paid it no mind.
He absent-mindedly began tidying up his room. Not, you understand, out of any urge to be neat and tidy, but rather out of an urge to know precisely what was on his desk in case Dudley should find himself feeling insatiably curious once again. This meant that most of his homework was tossed carelessly into his trunk. Harry doubted Hermione would've approved of flinging his carefully done homework into a chaotic box where there was a genuine possibility it would never again surface, but he didn't especially mind. Most of his books went in too, apart from his copy of Advanced Transfiguration, which had been left on the desk in a vain attempt to let the contents permeate his mind through osmosis. God knew that nothing else he tried could make that particular volume would ever make sense.
The more superfluous pieces of information found in the crate Lupin had sent him were returned to their respective chaotic box, and the unread copies of the Daily Prophet were piled in a corner of the room. Harry really didn't have much regard for the paper anymore, so they didn't deserve a box. Nor did a stray galleon he found the desk that must've been there for at least a year. He slid that carelessly into his back pocket.
The Quibbler, Advanced Transfiguration and his father's Quidditch Journal were all left on his desk, alongside Ron's letter and his written response to the Order. All in all, he thought it was terribly organised.
He took his seat with a sigh and reached for his father's Quidditch Journal. His hand hadn't even touched it when Aunt Petunia's shrill voice called up to him.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE!"
Harry wasn't ashamed to admit that he jumped about a foot in the air at this sudden exclamation, however if questioned he would vehemently deny the loud yelp. He rolled his eyes and dragged himself up out of his chair, thoroughly annoyed.
He went downstairs expecting to be ordered to do the dishes or something. He was not expecting to go downstairs to find Aunt Marge hovering in the kitchen doorway, glaring at him suspiciously, Aunt Petunia standing with her hands on her hips and a faintly weary expression on her face, and Mrs Figg standing by the front door with a sour-expression and a sinister-looking cat in her arms.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked, looking between the three very different women and feeling more than a little bewildered.
"Mrs Figg has some chores for you to do." Aunt Petunia stated. "She said she'll pay you twenty pounds if you do all of them. Do you want to?" Harry actually considered it quite strange for Aunt Petunia to ask him to go do Mrs Figg's chores, rather than tell him to, but he wasn't about to complain. Someone else was going to though.
"Don't ask him Petunia, tell the little brute. Idle hands are the Devil's Workshop!" Aunt Marge announced. "Good hard labour, that's the only way to deal with bad behaviour. Especially for someone like him."
Harry's head snapped round at the use of the phrase 'someone like him'. Did Aunt Marge know he was a wizard? How could she? Surely the Dursleys wouldn't have told her? He looked at Aunt Petunia questioningly, but she was staring up at the ceiling and clicking her jaw in annoyance.
Aunt Marge noticed his astonishment though. "Didn't think they'd tell me, eh?" she asked loudly. "Didn't think they'd tell me just what you've been up to? Or what gave me those strange dreams last night? Eh?"
"Well… I, er…"
"Well I've got news for you boy-o, Vernon tells me everything!" Aunt Marge said loudly.
Aunt Petunia let out a small noise that sounded strikingly similar to a snort. "Somehow I doubt that." she muttered, finally looking down from the ceiling. Harry gave her another questioning look but was soundly ignored. "Mrs Figg!" Aunt Petunia said loudly, cutting off anything else Aunt Marge may have had to say. "What sort of thing was it you wanted him to do?" she asked, jerking her head at Harry.
Mrs Figg had been watching the exchange with something akin to amusement. The gigantic cat in her arms also seemed quite entertained, in a manner eerily reminiscent of Crookshanks. "Oh nothing too strenuous Petunia - Mow the lawn, weed the flower beds, paint the back porch, and the like." Mrs Figg said with a frozen smile.
Standing there and watching her interact with Aunt Petunia, Harry couldn't help but think that Mrs Figg deserved an Oscar or something. In fact he found himself questioning whether she really was an associate of Dumbledore's or if the Order had brain-washed her into it, like they had with Marietta Edgecombe in Dumbledore's office. His fears were laid to rest when Mrs Figg gave him an almost imperceptible wink.
He felt oddly as though he were in a spy movie. A low-budget spy movie.
"Sure." he said. "I'll do it."
"Fine." Aunt Petunia said. "Dinner's at six, if you're not here, you're not getting any." With that, she turned and headed towards the kitchen where Aunt Marge was still standing.
Aunt Marge did not move to let her through though. She grabbed Aunt Petunia's bony arm in what looked to be a very firm and corpulent grip. "Are you sure you should be letting him keep that sort of money Petunia?" she asked in a voice which Harry supposed was meant to be subtle, but it was an unfortunate fact that Aunt Marge had only two noise levels; booming and slightly-less-booming. "Who knows how much he could get for that sort of money?"
Harry frowned. "How much what could I get?" he demanded.
His only response was a quick glare from both his 'aunts'. Deciding that whatever they were arguing about wasn't worth his time, he turned to Mrs Figg. "Give me one minute to grab a jumper." he said.
Mrs Figg nodded. Harry turned and ran up the stairs. Dudley was waiting for him on the landing, evidently trying his hardest to look superior.
"So. You've got to slave away for a mad old bat now, just for a measly twenty quid?" he asked cruelly, leaning against his doorframe. Harry was beginning to wonder if it was a genetic Dursley trait to stand around in doorways. "How pathetic."
"Hey now Big D, words can hurt like a fist." Harry said sarcastically. Dudley looked annoyed. Pleased with this reaction, Harry reached into his back pocket and pulled out a glittering gold galleon. "So… I wonder how much I could get for this?" he asked, flipping the coin up in the air and catching it.
Dudley's eyes bulged out his head as he followed it. "Is that…? That's gold." he said incredulously. "Where did you get gold?"
"Well if I told you, I'd have to kill you." Harry stated, continuing the low-budget spy movie theme. "Anyway. Must be going." he said, moving past his cousin.
"I bet you think you got away with it, don't you?" Dudley called after him.
Harry froze and turned around. "Got away with what?"
"With what you did to Aunt Marge." Dudley said harshly. "Bet you think you're not going to get any trouble for it, don't you?"
A couple of thoughts occurred to Harry at once. The first was that Dudley was comically annoyed and that he should savour it. The second was a tad more ominous. It was based mainly on the strange things Aunt Marge had been saying earlier and Dudley's new talent, discovered the previous night, for getting Harry into trouble as a result of his magical ability. Then there was the fact that Uncle Vernon would've had to come up with an excuse for why he'd been yelling at Harry… The look of something akin to thoughtfulness that had appeared on Dudley's face earlier in the day flashed in Harry's mind, taking on a suddenly malignant meaning.
"What did you tell her?" he asked cautiously.
Dudley grinned viciously but didn't answer.
"Dudley, what did you-?"
"Boy, hurry up!" Aunt Petunia shrieked from down below, sounding distinctly tart and irritated.
A still smiling Dudley turned back into his room. "Better go and earn your pittance." he remarked, slamming the door behind him.
Harry stared at it for a moment, a little surprised by vehement dislike that his cousin had just demonstrated. But mostly he was surprised at the nervousness he felt. "Don't be ridiculous." he admonished himself. "It's just Dudley. What could he possibly do?"
Shaking his head at this foolishness, Harry ran into his room and yanked on a dark grey sweatshirt. He also snatched up his wand and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans and, as an afterthought, grabbed his father's notebook and hid it under the sweatshirt, intending to read it at Mrs Figg's if given the chance. He then went running down the stairs to the front step where Mrs Figg waited, trying not to think about Dudley or anything the great idiot had to say.
He closed the door behind him.
"Everything alright dear?" she asked him in an undertone as they began to move down the garden path.
"Hmm?" Harry said distractedly. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine Mrs Figg. So, what do you want me to do exactly?"