CHAPTER 2

When he arrived back at the Dursley's it was nearly noon, and Petunia met him at the door with an envelope and a stiff lip that bespoke untold levels of hardship. When Harry turned over the yellowed parchment and saw the curling script, it told him everything he needed to know.

Up in his room, Harry opened the letter with no small amount of trepidation. Did news make print so quickly? Had Dumbledore already found out about his little excursion?

Dear Harry,

I hope this note finds you well. I had hoped to pay you a visit today, but it seems my timing is rather poor as usual, and I seem to have missed you. If you would, please let me know when you might have some time to discuss a few pressing matters.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry slowly crumpled the letter and sat down on his bed. He was asking for time to discuss pressing matters? A bitter part of Harry wondered why this had been so difficult last year. Certainly there were pressing matters to discuss then. In fact, he couldn't really imagine anything more pressing than 'Oh by the way, there's a prophecy about you, and it's pretty much up to you to save us all.' He clenched the letter harder within his fist, gritting his teeth. When he looked down and saw the way the air was rippling around his hand, he realized he needed to calm down.

With a sigh, he relaxed his grip, and let the ball of parchment fall to the floor. He was acting like a child. Just because he was angry with the old man didn't mean he should put other people in jeopardy. Until this was all over, the truth of the matter was, his life was not his own. Maybe Dumbledore had a plan, or at least some advice.

Reluctantly, he reached down to retrieve the letter. Smoothing it out, he read it over again. It certainly was more succinct than what Harry had come to expect from Dumbledore. Maybe the old man had just been in a hurry. Harry reached for a quill, shaking his head. Scratching out a quick reply—tomorrow at noon—he called softly to his owl. "Hedwig."

She swooped down to him in a rush of air, blowing the fringe of his hair away from his face. "You pretty bird," he murmured, ruffling the feathers around her neck as one might a dog. She didn't seem to mind, since her big eyes slid partway closed and she leaned into it. "Want to take this to the old man?" he asked her, tying the note to one downy leg. She chirruped, and he carried her to the window. "Off you go."

He watched her wing away into the gathering storm, a dash of white against the distant rain. When she had disappeared beyond the gusting downpour, he turned away and stared at the floor, thinking.

He needed help. Obviously his problem was beyond his limited talents as a researcher. He frowned. That was really something he needed to work on—a few epiphanies a year didn't seem to be giving him enough practice, and anyway, those epiphanies had usually been heavily ushered in by Hermione. With a resigned twist of his mouth, he pulled out parchment and quill and drew a chair over to his battered old desk by the window.

Hermione,

The quill tip hovered over the page, and he wrestled with himself. He wanted her help, but only hers. Could he trust her not to discuss his situation with others? What about Dumbledore? How often did the Headmaster check up on Harry's friends? He tapped the laden quill against the page for a moment, heedless of the spots of ink. Hang it all, he thought. He'd just have to ask.

Hermione,

I hope your summer is going well so far. Thank you for writing to me; I appreciate what you said in your last letter. I've been better, but you probably already knew that. Ron mentioned heading to the Burrow at the end of the month. Are you going? I'll try to find out whether I'm allowed to or not—hopefully tomorrow, when I talk to Dumbledore.

Your friend,

Harry

P.S. I was wondering if you could help me with a little problem. It's nothing drastic, but before I give you any details, I really want to make sure this stays just between us. I hope that's okay—if you don't feel comfortable about it, please let me know. I'd just rather not discuss this with a committee, you know? Let me know as soon as you can, since it's kind of a time sensitive issue. Thanks!

He read over the note again, hoping it sounded casual enough. He didn't want her thinking it was an emergency, but he also hoped she took his plea for secrecy seriously. He hoped adding it in as an afterthought made it seem less important, and tried to ignore the fact that the postscript was just as long as the main letter.

Rolling his shoulders uneasily, he pushed the parchment away, to be dealt with when Hedwig returned. He'd mail it out tonight, if the storm let up enough. Otherwise, the poor owl would probably be half drowned when she got back, and Harry was already beginning to regret sending her out in the first place.

He stood abruptly, and began to pace. The excitement of the encounter at Diagon Alley had yet to properly work its way out of his system, and the idea of sitting and waiting while things were happening was slightly maddening. He wanted to help; he wanted to be a part of the solution.

He glanced outside again as the thunderclouds flashed and rain came down in a torrent. The tiny room suddenly felt suffocating. While he was stuck here in suburbia, there were people out there fighting for their lives. He had to consciously restrain himself from throwing open his school trunk and digging out his Firebolt. Clenching his fists reflexively, he reminded himself that in suburbia, one did not fly around on broomsticks. On top of that, it was likely unwise to tempt fate with all the electricity in the air.

He burrowed his fingers in his unruly hair, and began to pace again, before recalling his purchases from this morning. Digging the little books out—and trying not to imagine Hermione's smug approval if she could see him—he glanced around for his wand. Unsure of where he'd tossed it, he simply muttered, "Accio." He was rewarded with a smart thwack in the back of the head as his wand came zipping up from the floor.

He caught it grumpily, tapping the two books so that they jumped back to normal size, and then froze. He'd just performed a summoning spell. He was underage. His eyes darted around, waiting for hell to break loose. All he heard in response was the heavy pattering of rain on his window.

No howlers. No owls bearing missives demanding his expulsion. He swallowed, hardly daring to hope that his magic had gone unnoticed. This wasn't the same as a bit—a bit! he scoffed to himself—of wild magic. This was a Ministry regulated spell. Surely that would bring the hounds.

When he waited another full minute, and there was no punitive reaction, he began to relax. Should he push his luck and try another spell? He hefted his wand thoughtfully, teetering on the brink, before shaking his head and snorting at himself.

One might almost think he liked getting in trouble.

Hoping for a distraction, he sprawled out on the bed with his new books, and was soon immersed in the surprisingly fascinating world of competitive spellsmithing. He only went downstairs once for a snack of celery with peanut butter (celery, carrots, and sugar-snap peas being the only things he could find in the fridge that weren't some form of condiment). The Dursleys apparently had gone out for the evening—Harry vaguely remembered Dudley talking about a new Batman movie had recently been released… Batman Forever? Batman Returns?—leaving him to his own devices in a rare show of trust. Or, more likely, simple negligence.

Either way, Harry was happy to be rid of them, and he stayed up reading into the wee hours of the morning, pausing only when a bedraggled but otherwise happy Hedwig stopped in just long enough for a snack—and some effusive praise from Harry for her quick delivery—before departing again with his letter to Hermione.

The next morning, Harry didn't roll out of bed until eleven-thirty. It was a Saturday, and the Dursleys had yet to make an appearance. Harry didn't know whether to be worried or overjoyed by this piece of luck. Had the Dursleys taken an impromptu vacation, and just forgot to tell him? He combed the house for clues, but he didn't find a note explaining their absence, nor any obvious clothes missing, and the matched luggage was still stowed in the attic. Even the cars were still parked in the garage, and though it was entirely possible that the Dursleys had taken a taxi to their destination, it was this more than anything that had Harry worried. Uncle Vernon hated taxi drivers as much as he hated letting other people drive—which was quite a lot.

Much as he wanted to deny it, Harry was concerned. Maybe he could go over to Mrs. Figg's to see if she knew anything (he had slept in rather late, after all, and might have missed them). Just as he reached for the door, someone knocked from the other side.

He jumped, before mentally berating himself. Easy, Potter. He really was wired to snap, and took a moment to compose himself before pulling the door open.

"Profess—?"

He nearly choked on his tongue. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in a slick black suit with silver pinstripes. A black fedora in one hand, and an ebony cane in the other, accompanied the familiar long silver beard and hair, the half-moon spectacles, and the long crooked nose. It was Dumbledore all right, but he was wearing muggle clothes.

Dumbledore had always worn robes, as long as Harry had known him. Always. Harry tried again. "Professor?"

Dumbledore gave him an amused smile. His stature wasn't diminished by the trim suit exactly, but it did make him look a bit frail—like a cross between Mr. Crouch and Gandhi. "You look rather surprised to see me, Mr. Potter. You did receive my message?"

"I—" Harry began, blinking. "Yeah… I did… please come in." He stood aside, and couldn't help but stare as Dumbledore made an appreciative noise and stepped past him into the front hall.

They settled into the living room, and Harry couldn't help but comment. "Nice suit. Uh, sir."

Dumbledore looked rather pleased with himself as he straightened a sleeve. "Isn't it, though? Custom job. Had to have the stripes match my beard, you see."

Harry nodded in understanding, though in truth he didn't understand at all. Dumbledore had never bothered with Muggle clothing before. To Harry it had always seemed like a statement of pride. Dumbledore was the epitome of what a wizard should be, and wizards wore robes, not three-piece suits. It wasn't even garishly colored or patterned, but instead a sober and entirely classy scheme of black and silver. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Harry asked, "So what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Professor?"

"Ah, straight to business then, I see." Dumbledore favored him with a fond smile. Harry returned it hesitantly as the professor pulled out a folder from the jacket of his suit. Ah, that explained the lump Harry had noticed. "Do you have your wand with you, Mr. Potter?" he asked offhandedly.

"No, it's in my…" Harry waved a thumb in the general direction of his room. Then he jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, Professor, I completely forgot—would you like some tea?"

Dumbledore looked up from perusing the files. "That would be splendid, if you don't mind."

Harry hurried for the kitchen, battling with his acute embarrassment, and a vague sense of unease. He wasn't sure what it was. Something just seemed a bit off, and it wasn't just the suit. He took the time preparing tea to comb through his murky impressions. It wasn't much, but… Dumbledore had called him 'Mr. Potter' instead of Harry. He hadn't inquired about dreams or Harry's scar yet, and usually those were the first topics of conversation. In fact, he hadn't really asked Harry how he was coping at all. Was this all part of treating Harry like a capable member of the Order? Had their relationship cooled to formal greetings and polite discourse? Harry felt a pang of loss at the idea. Maybe he was just imagining things.

He returned to the living room with a loaded tea tray, and set it down on the coffee table, within easy reach of them both.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said graciously, setting the papers out.

"Harry." Dumbledore looked up at him in question, and Harry shrugged. He wanted his professor to know that things were not so bad between them. He'd been angry at the end of school, true, but he didn't blame the old man anymore. Not really. He had himself for that. It wasn't quite an apology, but he tried to convey what he was feeling anyway. "You can still call me Harry, you know."

An unreadable expression passed over the old man's face, and he nodded. "Harry."

Harry relaxed, and gestured to the papers. "So what's all this?"

"Your godfather's will."

Harry felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

"He left you quite a substantial amount after he died," Dumbledore went on, oblivious to Harry's reaction. "As your guardian in the magical world, it has been left to me to oversee this transaction. This first form—" he waved a parchment in the air and made sure he had Harry's attention, "—is a document meant simply to verify that you are who you say you are."

Harry swallowed, trying to quash the roiling mass of grief and shock. He had no idea he would have to deal with something like this so soon. He had never expected Sirius' death to come up so casually. It was like being blindsided by a train. "Sorry?"

"It's quite simple," Dumbledore explained, leaning forward. "We just need a small sample of blood, enough to fill this vial—"

Harry's hackles rose as the old man continued to speak. The sense of wrongness had returned with a vengeance. Blood magic? It sounded reasonable enough, but courtesy of Hermione, Harry had enough passing knowledge to know that you didn't give out your blood. Too many things—powerful, binding things—could be done with the possession of someone's blood. He took the opportunity to study the old man more closely as he went on pointing out boxes of text and explaining them.

What was it? Dumbledore looked up at him briefly before continuing, and Harry realized he looked tired. Or faded. But that still wasn't quite it.

"With me so far?" Dumbledore queried gently, breaking Harry out of his reverie.

"Yes, sir."

The Headmaster gave him one of those smiles, before pulling out another sheet. Harry stiffened. That was it! It was in his eyes! Something was different about them. By all rights, those bright blue eyes should have been twinkling. Harry had been on the receiving end of that piercing gaze often enough to know. This was like looking at a cup of water where there used to be a jar of lightning. There was no twinkle. This wasn't Albus Dumbledore.

He might have laughed at condemning someone for lacking a twinkle if the matter weren't so deadly serious. But now he was sure. There was a man in his house who looked, spoke, and acted remarkably like the man Harry had once trusted above almost all others. But he was an imposter. It was like watching someone else dance around in the Headmaster's skin. And this man wanted… well, Harry wasn't entirely sure what his aims were, but they began with his blood, and it couldn't go anywhere good from there.

"Professor," Harry said softly, every sense preternaturally focused on the old man. He recalled the almanac sitting innocently on his desk upstairs. "What year did you come up with that Hydro Vortex spell? You know, the one you used at the Ministry, against Voldemort?"

Dumbledore paused, looking up, and studying him intently for the first time. "Sometime in the fifties, why?"

The decade was wrong, and Dumbledore hadn't used that spell in the Ministry battle. Harry felt his mind clearing, as his muscles tensed. One more try. "What about that Slingshot charm?"

Dumbledore gave an easy laugh. "Caught your eye, that one? That was a much more recent addition."

Accio, Harry thought with all his might, hand slightly open at his side. A flicker of consternation jumped into the imposter's eyes just as Harry felt the reassuring weight of his wand slap into his open palm.

"I should think so," Harry replied, standing slowly. "Seeing how I thought of it just this morning."

They both moved at once.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cast, before pitching himself to the side to avoid a simultaneous "Reducto!"

A picture frame and the better part of the wall behind the couch rained down. Harry hooked a foot under the glass coffee table and upended it, growling, "Engorgio," causing the table to stretch until it spanned the space from floor to ceiling. With a vicious flick, Harry banished it across the room, intending to smash the imposter.

The man had managed to hang on to his wand, and made a slashing motion, which was accompanied by a blazing orange scythe that neatly lopped the giant table in two.

Harry dashed out of the way of the blazing crescent, and it bit into the entryway behind him, gouging out a smoking black scar.

"Reducto," Harry shot at the table halves, shattering the glass. "Wingardium—" He was too slow, and the imposter managed to hiss another spell, aimed at the floor, before Harry could finish his charm. "—Leviosa!" The multitude of shards obediently rose in the air at the same time the wood floor beneath Harry's feet simply melted.

He swept his wand arm out, sending the shards pelting toward the old man, and then immediately set about freeing his sinking feet from the boiling muck.

The man, in a shocking display of acrobatics, chucked a chair into the air as a shield and twisted away, but some of the glass shards still found their mark, slicing through the pinstripe jacket.

"Duro!" Harry cast at the melting wood, and immediately regretted it. The surface hardened quickly, just as he'd intended, but locked him in up to his knees. He swore, and twisted his upper body away from an incoming curse that looked like nothing so much as an indigo bolt of lightning. He could hear it crackling away into the kitchen as he struggled with his feet.

"Protego!" he gasped, and the next curse fairly sizzled against his shield, dissipating outwards like water droplets across hot oil. Desperate, he pointed his wand at himself and murmured, "Reducio!" At first he was afraid that nothing had happened, but then the pressure against his shins loosened.

The imposter actually paused in blatant surprise as Harry slowly shrank behind his blazing shield. Then the man seemed to realize what Harry was doing because he shouted, "Finite Incantatem!" just as Harry pulled himself free.

Harry's shield puttered out and the spell hit. He shot up to his normal height, now free of his confinement. Why thank you, he thought flippantly, and took the opportunity to fire off several dazzlingly bright stunners. While the air was full of light, he rolled sideways toward the door, hoping to catch the imposter off guard. "Petrificus—"

He was too slow, and the old man shot out a pair of bludgeoning curses. Harry dodged the first, a massive distortion in the air, but the second clipped him in the arm. He bit down on a shout as his arm was whipped back, dislocating his shoulder.

He held it close and cast a sticking charm to hold it in place against his chest, grateful that it hadn't been his wand arm. The pain was making it hard to think, and anger boiled up unchecked. Like an explosion in his mind, something snapped.

Who did this man think he was? Traipsing into his home, pretending to be Albus Dumbledore of all people, invoking Sirius' name, and blowing the place to kingdom come—Harry had had enough.

"Reducto!" he snarled, and the fireplace exploded in a fountain of brick and ash."Reducto!" he shouted again, this time blowing out the windowpanes. The imposter threw up physical barriers left and right as more debris rained down. "Reducto! Reducto!" Soon the living room was drowned in roiling dust and destruction. "Accio ceiling," Harry ground out, and gave a physical tug when his magic latched on to something. With satisfying alacrity, the entire living room shuddered, and the ceiling—fixtures and all—wrenched loose. A terrific roar filled the air, and the whole assembly came down with a deafening crash.

Harry stood, panting, while the dust cleared, and realized that Dudley's bedroom had also been relocated to the ground floor. The four-post bed slipped just a bit in the ensuing silence, settling against the remains of the fireplace.

As the adrenaline drained out of him, Harry began to shake, and the pain in his arm became more insistent. Impatiently, he cast a numbing charm on his shoulder. He would sort himself out later. He didn't want to think about what kind of trouble he'd be in when people—anyone, really—found out about this, but at the moment he had a more pressing concern.

Steeling himself, he cast a hovering charm on the solid slab of architecture. It crumbled slightly as he moved it, and little bits of furniture and drywall tumbled off. His brow broke out in beads of perspiration, but he managed to levitate the whole thing toward himself, looking for any sign of the other wizard.

There he was, near the back wall. Knocked out cold, at best. Harry felt a chill when he considered the worst.

When the wreckage was far enough away from the dusty figure, Harry let it down with a sigh and a loud thud. He wondered detachedly what the neighbors were thinking at this moment, while he picked his way over to the far side of what used to be the living room. A glance upward proved surreal as Dudley's bedroom door swung out into empty space from the upstairs hallway.

You lost it a bit there, Potter. "Mobilicorpus," he muttered, trying not to contemplate how many ways he had screwed himself. The old man's body was limp, but not in an 'obviously dead' kind of way. He swallowed his dread and moved the man into the kitchen.

The appliances had all gone haywire, and there were black lines zigzagging across the floor and cabinets—no doubt from that pleasant looking blue lightning earlier.

He set the old man down gently on the linoleum, grimacing at Dumbledore's familiar visage, now bloodied at the mouth and covered in soot and dust. There was a trickle of blood coming from his silver crown of hair, and Harry forcefully reminded himself that this was not Albus Dumbledore.

At least, he dearly hoped that was the case.

He felt for a pulse, brushing the long beard out of the way. It was unnerving. Harry had never been comfortable with personal contact, and the fact that this was basically Dumbledore—all-powerful, untouchable—lying on his kitchen floor made it even stranger. Harry pressed his fingers into the wrinkled throat. There was a pulse! He could have shouted for joy.

Harry sat back on his heels, unsure of how to proceed. He didn't know any medical spells, but it looked like the man would live. To be honest, he had expected Ministry owls at the first sign of trouble. For that matter, he had expected one last night, for the summoning charm, as well. Why had none appeared? He certainly could have used backup when this whole thing started to get out of hand. Who was this bastard, anyhow?

It could only be Polyjuice potion. There was no way it was the real Dumbledore—no way that the Headmaster might have been victim to the Imperius curse. Transfigurations were out as well—they could only go so far, and whoever this was, he seemed to have memorized the Headmaster's mannerisms. Harry would just have to out-wait the potion. Mind made up, he cast a body-bind on the imposter, and an Incarcerous charm for good measure.

Standing, he scrubbed his good hand through his hair and studied the tied-up and petrified figure with equal parts confusion and weariness. How had this happened? Shaking his head, he turned and began firing off Reparo charms at everything he could see. The least he could do while he waited was try to fix the damage.

Two hours later, Harry had made some progress—he'd managed to piece together most of the furniture and knickknacks from Dudley's room, but the ceiling remained firmly on the floor. He doubted he had the strength necessary to put the house back together. The result was a bizarre scene in which the room had obviously caved in, but the furniture all stood out of the way as if the ceiling had waited for the room to clear. It was inexcusably unnatural. Harry shook his head in frustration. He should have simply left it the way it was, and stuck with fixing up spell damage.

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, he turned to the kitchen to put the burn marks to rights, but the sight of his prisoner stopped him cold.

Albus Dumbledore had remained, quite stubbornly, Albus Dumbledore. Harry stared at the old man, uncomprehending. It had been at least two hours since the imposter—a word that sounded shakier all the time—had ingested any potion. "Bloody Hell!" Harry exploded.

At that moment, an owl banked in through the window, and for a split second Harry imagined that the Ministry had been waiting for just the right moment to spring on him. But it was only Hedwig, and he slumped in relief as she alighted on his shoulder, offering him the note attached to her downy leg.

Shaking slightly, Harry shot a glance at the figure of the old man bound up on his kitchen floor. A quick scan told him the letter was from Hermione, but at the moment, that little problem had taken the back burner to the present situation. Hedwig hooted indignantly as he tossed it to the counter and lunged for a pad of paper. Despite his jerky movements, she managed to keep a grip on him, fluttering her wings for balance and cuffing him in the head.

He didn't even bother to berate her—he probably deserved it—and hastily scrawled out a note to the first Order member who came to mind. He needed help, and fast.

Tonks,

I've got a problem that needs some magical assistance. It's nothing terribly important, but time sensitive. If you have a minute, could you pop out here and give me a hand? Thanks,

Harry

P.S. Could you also make sure to say hello to Professor Dumbledore for me?

Harry rolled the note up as quickly as he could and tied it to Hedwig's leg while he carried her to the patio door. "Quick as you can, girl!" he told her urgently, and the snowy owl took off like a rocket.

He waited in the kitchen as the minutes crawled by, tapping his foot impatiently and watching his conked out charge. He had half a mind to rennervate the bastard and get some answers out of him, but with his Polyjuice Potion theory losing its legs, Harry became more and more fearful that he'd made a terrible mistake.

But no, he shook his head slightly. Dumbledore—the real Dumbledore—would never lose so easily to a lightweight like Harry. Although, it was possible that the old man had been holding back for some reason. But if that were the case, he wouldn't have used the types spells that he did—none of them had been gentle by any stretch of the word.

On top of his doubts about the Polyjuice potion, Harry was beginning to wonder about the validity of that last verbal exam he'd given the man before taking action. Maybe, for the first spell Harry had asked about, Dumbledore had simply forgotten the details. It probably was difficult to remember exactly which spells he'd used in every duel. Harry himself couldn't—well, no; Harry could easily remember which spells he'd used in his fights. However, Harry wasn't anywhere near as old or experienced as Dumbledore.

But the second question—Harry had asked him about the Slingshot charm, which was just an idea that Harry had been thinking about. He hadn't come across anything quite like it, and so was reasonably sure that it was a fresh concept. But it was also true that Harry hadn't read about every spell invented ever. It was possible that Dumbledore had already come up with something like it.

Harry shook his head again, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes. It made no sense! A guffaw from the floor drew his attention to the Dumbledore look-alike.

The old man's eyes were glittering, but it was the kind of expression that would never belong on the Headmaster's face. Those eyes burned with a kind of malevolence that Dumbledore wouldn't turn on even his greatest enemy.

Harry found his anxiety draining away under the weight of that evil gaze. He leaned closer to the old man and said, "You're just proving me right, you know."

The man blinked, and Harry leaned back, watching him closely for any change in appearance. They stared at each other that way for several moments.

A series of crackling pops at the very limit of his hearing roused him to attention. It had sounded like someone Apparating—several someones. He frowned, moving toward the dining room windows and wondering if Tonks had brought along some help. Something didn't feel right. He was learning to trust his gut.

Turning back toward the kitchen, he saw that the old man's expression had morphed into something like glee. Harry's blood chilled. I guess that means the cavalry is here.

He didn't have time to wait for Tonks anymore. He knew his limits, and he'd reached them a long time ago.

He froze as his thoughts splintered in every direction. What could he do? What did he have time for? He dashed for the notepad a second time, and scrawled out a message as quickly as he could.

Hoping it was legible, Harry tossed the note to the counter before rather aggressively levitating the old man and dashing out of the kitchen. The Dursleys didn't have a basement, and the attic was so full of Dudley's old toys that they never even bothered trying to put things up there anymore. There was only one other place to hide the man.

The imposter's eyes widened as Harry threw open the little door to the cupboard under the stairs . Harry's nerves were about ready to abandon him—the man's backup had to be nearly upon them—and he flipped the mattress of his old cot out of the way with more force than was necessary. He tossed the old man into the drooping springs, making sure he was face down so he could breath through the coils, and tossed the mattress back on top before backing out and bolting the door.

Hopefully Tonks would understand the hints he had left.

He could hear voices approaching the front walk. They must have been instructed to step in after a certain time. Harry's heart was racing. He had to get out now but there was no way to mail the letter, with Hedwig already en route, and he couldn't let these new arrivals see it. Inspiration struck, and he dashed to the kitchen. Pulling out his wand, he transfigured the paper into a little refrigerator magnet that looked like a black dog. If she didn't figure that out, then he'd done his best, hang it all. Just before he turned to leave, he added a charm that made the dog's eyes light up green if someone passed by, and then carefully placed the magnet just at the foot of the refrigerator. Leaving it out in the middle of the counter was too obvious.

The latch on the front door clicked, and voices sounded in the hall.

With a silent prayer for things to work out, Harry did what no witch or wizard would have ever expected: he slipped out the patio door and took off running.