A complete rebuild of the book and partially previous (and probably subsequent) ones. Mostly with an emphasis on common sense. Not Dumbledore bashing, not Weasley bashing, not super strong Harry.

Important! This is an English translation of an old ff. The author of this wonderful ff is uninterestingguy, who for some unknown reason decided to remove it from all resources.

"What the teachers digest, the pupils eat."

© Karl Kraus

The small town of Little Whinging, located in the suburbs of London, from a bird's-eye view made absolutely no impression, indistinguishable from its brethren - small cottage villages, scattered here and there around the major cities of England. A completely ordinary place, at first glance. In some respects – even boring. Identical roofs of identical two-story houses, identical lawns, identical straight streets. It seemed that nothing interesting had happened in the town since its foundation, is not happening now, and will never happen in the future.

Anyone who would succumb to this impression would make a very big mistake. In all of England, there was probably no more remarkable place - in this very ordinary town lived a very unusual teenager named Harry Potter. However, it was now absolutely impossible to notice him from that same bird's-eye view, and, accordingly, to draw conclusions, as he was not on the street (which, it seemed, the weather encouraged), but on the second floor of house number four on Privet Drive, in his little room, busily reading a quite hefty tome, occasionally writing something down on a sheet of paper.

Therefore, the attention of a crow flying past the town was not attracted to anything. The bird made another circle, but, not noticing anything of interest to itself, turned towards London, issuing a loud disappointed "Caw".

Harry flinched, torn from his concentration by the unexpected sound and shook his head. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes – they were pretty tired. He glanced out of the window, which was left open because of the heat, and muttered in surprise.

"Merlin, it's already morning".

Once again, he hadn't kept track of time and had worked all night. But at least the material for Remus was almost ready.

Harry cast a gloomy look, which had been appearing more and more frequently lately, over his desk and came across two letters that had not been sent the previous day. The letters were intended for his friends - Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and their content evoked extremely mixed feelings in Harry himself.

Hey, mate.

Thanks for the invitation, but I doubt I'll be able to come - very busy with you-know-what. Have a rest with Hermione for me.

Harry

The letter to Hermione was longer, but not much.

Hi, Herm.

Ron sent an invitation to the World Cup final. Unfortunately, I can't go, you know why. Cover for me, please, you know Ron. Owe you one.

Harry

P.S. I don't have time to look it up now, but for future reference - do you happen to know if Ulceras is a modification of Rursus or Iactus? Can't seem to find accurate information anywhere.

Harry scowled even more. He would have loved to go to the Quidditch World Cup, where Arthur Weasley, Ron's father, had managed to get tickets, but there were circumstances beyond his control. And the anger of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon was far from the only or even the main circumstance. Since the previous autumn, Harry had not been particularly concerned about their displeasure. Much more troubling were a few other people – his, as it turned out, real father Sirius Black (also known as Padfoot) and Lord Voldemort (often not named at all).

The matter was quite delicate and involved both of them wanting to kill Harry for many years.

Lord Voldemort had tried to kill the boy three times. The first time Harry was just a year old. His mother, Lily Potter, protected her son at the cost of her own life. The boy survived, and the dark wizard lost his body. But, as it turned out, Voldemort did not die completely and, when Harry entered his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he tried to complete what he started. Then Harry survived by a miracle. In his second year, the memory of Tom Riddle (that was Voldemort's name as a child) almost killed both Harry and many other students, unleashing the school's pet basilisk.

Harry had hoped that at least in his third year of study, there would be no extraordinary events, but everything went awry even before September 1. Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, the prison for wizards. Perhaps the past year had been the darkest for Harry (and not only for him) during all his time at Hogwarts. It's not every day you find out that your father is not the person you thought he was, and the real one is Voldemort's servant who betrayed his loved ones. The end of the third year turned out to be truly horrific. A teacher died, Ron was injured, Hermione nearly fell victim to a werewolf. That dreadful night, Harry had his full share of horror. Now that the Ministry had discovered Sirius was an Animagus, Padfoot had to flee, but Harry had no doubt that he would return to finish what he started, and quite possibly, in the company of his Lord.

It's not hard to guess that Harry's own untimely end was not part of his plans. That's why he was up all night with the boring book "Introduction to the General Theory of Curses," instead of sleeping like a normal fourteen-year-old.

This book (and several others) was given to him at the end of the last academic year by Professor Remus Lupin - a friend of the Potters and, as it turned out, a werewolf, whose teeth had left their mark on Harry's shoulder and nearly on Hermione's throat. Every four days, the boy would read certain sections and sent Professor Lupin an essay on a set topic. Today happened to be the deadline for his next piece of work.

He glanced at the letters again. Perhaps it was even good that Hedwig had gone hunting yesterday, now he could send all three letters at once. In principle, he could have handed in the essay at a personal meeting, the day after tomorrow, but it was not in Harry Potter's interest to be late. It took incredible effort to persuade Remus, and it was not worth undermining his trust.

Harry stopped in front of the slightly open door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts office and peered inside. There was an open suitcase on the table, into which Professor Lupin had already packed almost everything. Only a small pile of books was left, and on the second table stood an empty aquarium, where a Grindylow used to sit.

Harry approached and knocked on the door jamb a couple of times to announce his presence. Lupin gave him a heavy look and tried to smile. It turned out, in Harry's opinion, not so good.

"I saw you coming."

The professor pointed to the Marauder's Map lying on the table.

They were silent for a while, studying each other. Now their similarity, which had been vague and undefined at the beginning of the year, had become simply screaming. The same tired looks, the same old clothes, as if taken off someone else's shoulder. And something else.

Yes, something else.

How old is the professor? Flashed in Harry's mind. He was a contemporary of his parents, he could not be more than forty. That's not an age for a wizard. But his hair is already all gray, his face is scarred. Almost an old man. And that's also Voldemort's fault. And Black's.

And what did Lupin see in Harry himself? A dark-haired awkward teenager with a too-serious look in his green eyes. A boy who saw his mother's death at the age of one, even if he does not remember it. And recently death looked him in the face again, taking a man right under his nose, and almost took him himself. No one should experience such a thing.

"Thank you," Harry finally said. "You saved us that night."

Lupin frowned.

"Harry..."

"Don't apologize," the teenager interrupted him, no longer embarrassed. "Madam Pomfrey said everything is fine. The main thing is that we survived. And it's thanks to you."

"And Professor Snape," Lupin added.

"Yes," Harry agreed after a pause. "And Professor Snape. I just spoke with Hagrid," he finally came to why he was here. "He said you're resigning. That's not true, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is, Harry."

Harry entered the office and stared at the empty aquarium as if someone was still sitting there making rude gestures at him.

"Is it because of the Ministry? Are they sure you helped... " Harry clenched his teeth, but could not say the word father. "Sirius?"

The professor shook his head.

"No, the headmaster convinced the minister of my innocence."

"Then why?"

Lupin frowned again.

"Because of that night, Harry. I'm dangerous. You, of all people, should understand this."

"But you're not to blame for who you are."

"Thank you, Harry," a strained smile appeared on the professor's face again. "I appreciate your words, but I still can't afford to stay at Hogwarts."

There was an awkward silence. Finally Harry decided to continue.

"You fought in the last war, didn't you? Along with my..." He couldn't say this word any more either. That night changed everything. Mother and... father? Mother and James? "Along with the Potters."

The surname sounded like a curse. Like someone else's. As if he was an impostor.

Lupin closed his eyes.

"Yes, Harry, I participated in the war."

"You could teach us a lot, sir."

"I'm no longer a professor, Harry, you really don't have to call me sir."

It was a refusal, and Harry understood that. For a while, he just watched as Lupin packed his books, then said,

"He'll return, Remus."

Lupin froze with a book in his hands and turned his head towards Potter.

"Voldemort," Harry clarified. "Now that everyone knows about…" He faltered again, but this time overcame his hesitation. "That my father is an animagus, it's unsafe for him to stay here. But he'll return and bring his master."

For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other. Lupin absent-mindedly twisted the book in his hands, while the boy's hands hung loosely by his sides.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes, Harry, you are."

"And yet you still won't teach us?"

Lupin sighed.

"You must understand, I can't stay at the school. Especially now that Professor Snape…"

"I'll pass that along to Voldemort," Harry interrupted, "When he comes to kill me."

For a few seconds, Lupin stood, wrestling with himself, then began unpacking the books. Just the books. He stacked them neatly, hesitated for a moment, placed the Marauder's Map on top, and closed his suitcase.

"Read this, Harry. And give me your address."

Harry's heart skipped a beat, and he blurted out, hardly believing his luck.

"Little Whinging. Privet Drive, number four."

Lupin, still looking somewhat strained, smiled.

"I'll write to you once I'm settled."

Truthfully, Harry thought this was his last conversation with his parents' friend, but he was mistaken – Remus did write back. Just four days after returning to Privet Drive, an owl flew into his bedroom window carrying a letter in which Professor Lupin mentioned he had rented a small flat on the outskirts of London, and proposed a meeting.

Remus provided him with a schedule of theoretical lessons and agreed to conduct practical sessions twice a week. Magic was forbidden in Little Whinging, and aside from Harry, there were no wizards in town. The Ministry would immediately know who to accuse of illegal magic, just like when Dobby had visited Harry. So now, the teenager travelled to London on a suburban bus every three days. Hermione would undoubtedly have deemed this reckless, but Potter did not disclose the specifics in his letters to his friends.

Harry sighed and leaned back over the book.

It took another half hour to finish the work. Hedwig had not returned yet. Harry rubbed his eyes again and cast a gloomy look out the window – it looked like a nice day was coming, it would be great to just take a walk, at least to the end of Privet Drive and back. Potter put away 'General Theory' into the stack, gritted his teeth and pulled out 'Principles of Single-Stage Transfiguration'. He thought a bit, listened and put the book aside. Apparently, all the Dursleys were still asleep, which could be taken advantage of to avoid unnecessary conflicts later.

He got out of the room and, trying not to squeak the steps, went downstairs. He went to the kitchen, quickly made himself a couple of sandwiches and, without moving, chewed them, washing them down with water from the tap. He cleaned up after his "breakfast" and went to the bathroom.

He quickly undressed and gave a gloomy look at the mirror. No, since entering Hogwarts, he had stopped looking like a concentration camp prisoner, after all, he was well-fed for most of the year, but perfection was still a long way off. And the scars acquired over these three years didn't add any beauty. The star on his hand from the basilisk's fang. The shapeless spot left by a bone broken by a rogue Bludger. Probably, Harry was the only person in history who managed to get injured at a match without being a player. And the most recent additions to the collection - longitudinal stripes on the thigh from claws and a jagged shoulder wound.

Harry ran his fingers over the teeth marks. Close to the neck, very close. Despite all of Madame Pomfrey's efforts, the bite had not fully healed yet, wounds left by magical creatures heal with difficulty. The wound still restricted his movements, causing Harry to grimace sometimes. At practice, he tried to restrain himself, but it wasn't always successful, and each time a guilty expression appeared on Remus's face.

Thank Merlin that Lupin had calmed down a bit after June 23rd. Despite the school nurse's assurances that there was no infection, the former professor was worried. But the transformation did not occur. There was pain, severe pain. Terrible, to be honest. Harry immediately remembered that night he spent in the infirmary after Lockhart's failed healing spell, but this time not just his arm hurt, but his entire body all at once. To avoid screaming - he had to bite a corner of the pillow all night. And yet - this was quite livable. In the morning, Harry concluded that he got off very easily. Compared to what Moony himself endured every month - the boy's sufferings were nothing. He wouldn't have survived if he had become a werewolf. Better to die.

Harry got under the shower and quickly washed. Unlike Dudley, who sat in the bath for half an hour - he didn't need much time. He finished just when there was a stir upstairs - the Dursleys woke up. He dried his hair, threw the towel in the basket and went upstairs before he was caught at the scene of the "crime". Since he returned, there has been a cold neutrality in the house, and Harry had no desire to change the balance of power.

In five minutes he was sound asleep, his nose buried in the 'Principles'.

"ACCIO! CAVIAS! "

The pillow, hurtling from the corner of the room straight at Harry, was repelled by a simple shield, but was sent back again by another Accio.

"CAVIAS! "

The soft projectile flew back once more.

During the first week, Harry was disconcerted. He expected Remus to teach him new spells, possibly even some dark ones, but his most formidable opponent turned out to be a pillow, and his most "combative" spell was a repulsion charm.

He had to levitate pillows, make them spin, carefully cut and sew them back together, duplicate, enlarge, shrink, and perform a thousand and one other actions, all loosely tied in the boy's mind to combat magic.

But, recalling that Remus might change his mind at any moment, he forced himself to bite his lip and remain silent. The professor knew what he was doing, after all, he was the one teaching Harry, not vice versa. Upon noticing this, Lupin just nodded in satisfaction.

The fruits of their labour began to show. First, in the form of questions. It turned out that Harry couldn't recall nearly half of the magic he'd learned over the past three years. The wand movements had been forgotten, and in some cases, even the spell formulas. Even the simplest charms were hit and miss.

Now, in his free time from studying and completing homework (which no one had cancelled), he revised the program of the previous courses, waving a pencil in the air. As a result, he lost all his free time completely. Dark circles gradually started to invade his cheekbones.

In short, while there were no significant results, a multitude of gaps had been exposed. Although Remus claimed otherwise, Harry didn't see any progress himself.

"ACCIO! CAVIAS!"

"Well, Harry, not bad at all," his teacher praised from the corner of the room.

Then, unexpectedly, he raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, and shouted.

"OMNIS LIGNUM! SUDORIS! "

The boy reacted quicker than he could think.

"PROTEGO! INCARCERO! EXPELLIARMUS! "

He croaked the last two spells, doubling over in pain and dropping his wand. Remus immediately lifted the spell. A faintly ironic smile crept onto his face.

"Pannum. Harry, do explain the theory of Sudoris to me."

"It's a dark magic spell," Potter recited textbook-like. "Third level. Causes the target to experience oppressive feelings and heavy, bloody sweating." He paused for a moment, then added, "Not real sweating."

"What is the counter spell?"

"Densitis."

"Why didn't you use it?"

The boy frowned in annoyance and glared at the corner.

"I forgot."

Remus nodded.

"What else did you do wrong?"

Harry thought for a moment and said uncertainly.

"Should I have disarmed first?"

"Exactly. And only then immobilize. But you reacted quickly, good job. Let's try again."

Harry nodded and adopted what he considered a duelling stance. The teacher shook his head.

"No, continue the lesson."

Potter shrugged and turned back to the pillow.

"ACCIO! "

"AVADA…" Harry froze, and the soft projectile, encountering no resistance, smacked him in the head. "EXPELLIARMUS."

He blankly stared at his own wand in Remus's hands. The latter also looked at it, gave a crooked smile, and tossed it back.

Harry frowned and shook his wand. Then he pointed it at Lupin in what he thought was an unexpected way and shouted

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

"PROTEGO," the teacher responded calmly and nodded. "Well done, Harry! Very good." Harry's lunge clearly pleased Remus. "But let's get back to the cushions."

Harry smiled, pleased with the praise, and turned back to the shell.

"ACCIO! CAVIAS!"

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

"PROTEGO!"

Hermione responded a day later. The letter on three sheets detailed the theory of the ulceration spell, and at the very end, written with a pen of a different color, was added, "It's a pity you won't come, but I understand you're very busy. I even envy you, Professor Lupin is a good teacher." Harry had a good laugh, looking at this letter. Hermione being Hermione. Ron didn't reply to the letter, either he was upset, or simply forgot - with such an event as the championship, Harry wouldn't be surprised. The last time England hosted the final was more than fifty years ago. Moreover, Ireland, technically a part of Britain, made it to the finals. Although, some might argue, but after last year's Downing Street declaration, there were fewer and fewer of those. However, Harry wasn't particularly interested in these issues and suspected that the Weasley family knew nothing about the Irish conflict. The wizards have their own politics.

From that day on, the nature of the lessons changed. Harry still came, took out his wand, and engaged in nonsense. But now Lupin attacked, each time choosing a moment when Harry was relaxed. And at that moment, he ceased to be the lovable Moony.

Harry, perhaps for the first time, began to realize that Remus was a werewolf. That night everything was too chaotic, and he weakly reflected on what was happening, all overwhelmed by fear. But now... Lupin's movements changed - they became angular, predatory. No trace of the good-natured relaxation he usually resided in. And he was smiling, or rather - baring his teeth.

And to his own displeasure, Harry noted that he was exhibiting this in no less degree. He was far from matching Remus, but he began to notice a certain malice in himself during the duel. The boy faced a complex dilemma - it was relatively easy to accept another person regardless of his "fluffy problem", but to notice similar signs in himself - that was a bit scary. And if one remembers that Lupin practiced dark magic - it was not good at all. So far, Harry's teacher hadn't taught him that, moreover - strictly forbade using anything that Harry read in the books, but it was clear that sooner or later it would come to that - one cannot defeat an enemy armed with a gun with a pillow.

But Harry didn't share his thoughts with Remus, the last thing he needed was to provoke his guilt again, the teacher was not in the best form today - the full moon was just two days ago. Potter was again gnawing at the pillow, whimpering in pain, while Lupin was scratching the steel door with his claws.

Harry sighed, suppressing feelings of sympathy for Remus for the umpteenth time. He opened the door and, kicking off his trainers, headed towards the stairs. Uncle Vernon, sitting in front of the TV broadcasting some financial analysis, spotted him from the living room and decided to strike up a conversation for a change. At least, that's how the Dursleys understood it.

"Where have you been all day, boy?" he asked.

Harry felt an urge to snap back but then decided that honesty would be the best policy in this case. He shrugged.

"Training."

"What kind of training?" Uncle Vernon didn't believe him, and Dudley scoffed skeptically from the neighboring chair. Harry didn't understand what his cousin was doing in front of the television; he clearly didn't have enough brainpower to understand stock market quotes.

"A friend of my mother is teaching me to fight."

"One... what?" Uncle Vernon snorted indignantly, beginning to turn red in patches. Aunt Petunia also peeked out from the kitchen at that moment.

Caught in a pincer movement, Harry thought listlessly.

"And why do you need to fight, you prat? Engaging in hooliganism?"

"I want to kill someone."

Harry met his pale aunt's gaze, shrugged, and went upstairs while the Dursleys were still recovering.

The argument was rather dull. He couldn't even get angry. By Merlin, Harry was planning to kill his own father so he wouldn't be killed by him! Uncle and aunt, with their childish claims about "normalcy", were nothing compared to that. What would they say if they found out Harry had been bitten by a werewolf? The very one who was teaching him.

He shook his head and banished the thought of his relatives. He sat down on the chair and looked around the room. His gaze fell on the Prophet lying on the bed – the owl must have brought it while he was out. Across the entire front page was a huge headline.

DEATH EATERS MARCH AT THE WORLD CUP

For a moment, Harry stared blankly at the headline, then turned to the desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment from the pile, and grabbed a pen.

Ron. The Prophet. Are you okay?

He jumped up and called out.

"Hedwig!"

Damn it. Damn it. DAMN IT! He should have gone with them!

At the moment, Harry barely realized that even if he had been at the World Cup, he wouldn't have been able to do anything; after all, he was only fourteen.

"Hedwig!"

The owl, as luck would have it, had flown off somewhere again. But then he heard the flapping of wings, and Hedwig landed on the windowsill.

"Where have you been!" Harry exclaimed in annoyance at his friend's long absence, and only then noticed that the owl had brought a letter.

Setting aside his own note, he quickly unwound the scroll from Hedwig's leg and unrolled it.

Don't worry about the Prophet. No casualties. We're okay. See you soon.

H

Harry felt such relief that his legs buckled beneath him. He slumped down on the floor by the bed and crumpled Hermione's letter in his fist. Everyone was alive. Everything was fine.

But what the heck happened? He picked up the newspaper and smoothed it out on his knee. He quickly skimmed the paragraph praising Quidditch and moved on to the meat of the article.

All of us gathered for this significant event were filled with pride and anticipation of a grand celebration. Were our hopes fulfilled?

Definitely not.

The appalling organization was evident even before the game - the Ministry had a lax attitude towards security, not even trying to adhere to the Statute of Secrecy and maintain order in the tent camp. There were even several clashes between fans, which is absolutely unacceptable for an event of this level.

However, all this is nothing compared to what happened at night after the match. A group of people, dressing up as Death Eaters, marched through the camp, causing disorder. A muggle family was taken hostage (how did muggles end up at the world championship final? Read about the Ministry's negligence on p.5), several wizards were injured trying to resist the hooligans. Many tents were destroyed, dark magic was used. And to top it all off - the Dark Mark was hoisted above the forest (about the history and significance of the Dark Mark read on p.7). The criminals apparated as soon as the mark appeared.

Not a single dark wizard was detained or identified. No comments were given regarding the march incident or the appearance of the Mark. All that the official representative of the Ministry did, who approached us some time later, was to make an unfounded statement that no one was hurt. Whether such a statement is enough to stop rumors about several bodies being carried out of the forest an hour later, time will show.

This world championship will go down in history as a national disgrace and an example of the Ministry of Magic and auror department's negligence.

Taking this opportunity, the Prophet's editorial board would like to congratulate the Irish team on their victory.

Special correspondent Rita Skeeter.

Harry read the article twice. The first time still nervously, the second time - more calmly.

What is this nonsense? Voldemort's attack? But then where are the victims? He remembered his father with a wand in his hand and shook his head. No, if it was serious - there would have been blood everywhere. It's just hooliganism. Although, these "several bodies carried out of the forest" - it was alarming. I wonder if Lupin is already in the loop?

Harry quietly cursed - really wanted to rush to The Burrow, check on his friends, but it was impossible. Although - why not? If it comes to that, then what difference does it make to him where to perform Lupin's tasks? He's not going there for entertainment. He's done more than his required two weeks here, so even Professor Dumbledore shouldn't be against it. And anyway, it's already September 1st in a week.

Harry decisively nodded to himself and, scribbling a note to Remus, began to pack. The things due to constant use were in order, so he packed in just about twenty minutes. Knocking a suitcase, he went down the stairs. Downstairs, the picture had hardly changed. The uncle and cousin were still sitting in front of the TV, and the aunt - was making some noise in the kitchen. Harry reasoned that it was better to talk to her, and stuck his head in the door.

"Aunt Petunia?"

"What do you want?" Mrs. Dursley responded gloomily, apparently still under the impression of his trick.

"I'm going to my friends," the boy tersely informed her. "Until the end of the summer, I'll be back next year."

Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, but found nothing to say and closed it again. Arguing was not in her interests, and wishing him a safe journey seemed somewhat silly, considering their relationship. Having waited for no reaction, Harry nodded and stepped outside. He dragged his suitcase to the road, pulled his wand out of his pocket, and waved it in the air. This action apparently did not count as magic.

Harry barely had time to jump aside - The Knight Bus, following its best traditions, appeared exactly where he had just stood. Still as large, purple, and with its name plastered across the windshield.

The stairs unfolded instantly, and on them appeared a pimpled, lop-eared boy with a half-eaten apple in his hand.

"Emergency transport for witches and wizards in trouble, The Knight Bus welcomes you! I am its constant conductor..." he began, but then recognized the one who had summoned the bus and toned it down, "Oh, Harry! Hello."

"Hello, Stan," Harry responded. "Help me with the suitcase."

"Not a problem!" Stan Shunpike immediately jumped off the step, grabbed the suitcase by the handle, and hauled it into the bus. Harry followed suit. This time, there was no one else inside, and instead of beds there were a pile of haphazardly placed benches. He tried to position himself so that none of them would hit him on the head during takeoff. "Where to?"

"The Burrow."

"Gotcha. Hear that, Ernie? Off we go!"

And Ernie set off. There was a loud "BANG!". Harry, already accustomed to it, grabbed the handrail, which was the only reason he didn't tumble through the entire cabin. The landscapes outside began to flicker. Stan crunched on his apple.

"Say, Harry, why so glum?"

"Read the Prophet," the boy responded.

"Ah. Yeah, the Prophet can do that," Stan drawled, adopting a thoughtful expression, then unexpectedly stated, "I was there."

"At the championship?" Potter immediately showed interest.

"Yep."

"And do they tell the truth?"

Shunpike snorted.

"You know, in general, yes. Well, except for the bodies - they're wrong about that, in my opinion, no one was even injured. Although, I wasn't paying much attention... well..." Here, for some reason, Stan blushed and chuckled. "Never mind."

"Um... okay then." Harry shrugged and shifted his gaze from the embarrassed conductor to the landscape outside the window. They were already rolling through Ottery St Catchpole. The boy tightened his grip on the handrail again.

Just in time. There was another crash, and he nearly had his arm wrenched out of its socket.

"We're here," Stan announced and hauled the suitcase out onto the street.

Harry looked at the familiar absurd tower of The Burrow emerging from the twilight, smiled, and also headed for the exit.