“And don’t come back!” Uncle Vernon yells.
Harry thinks: this is really it. I’m really leaving that bloody house.
He makes it to Magnolia Crescent before his trunk gets too heavy and also begins threatening to fall apart. It’s secondhand, like most of the things Hagrid helped him get back in first year. Harry squints at the metal fittings on the corners and decides maybe it’s time he gets a new one.
Secondhand, though. Or Ron would throw a fit.
That would require him to get to Diagon Alley. Something Harry has no idea how to do.
God, what has he done?
Time for that later. Harry has to think of a way out of here. He’s got no Muggle money. And he doesn’t fancy explaining to the coppers why he’s out alone in the dead of night in threadbare clothes dragging a trunk full of books about magic.
Maybe he can charm the trunk featherlight, tie it to his broom, and fly to London under the Invisibility Cloak. He has no idea how to get to London.
Well, he has some idea. Following the A3 will get him close. And he read about something called the point-me charm. He’s already expelled—what’s a few more charms matter?
Just as he’s going to dig out his Cloak, Harry’s neck hair prickles. He’s being watched.
Turning a slow circle, Harry spots a patch of particularly dark shadow lurking between the garage and the fence behind him. “Lumos,” he whispers, and catches a glimpse of a hulking form and gleaming grey eyes–
Harry squeaks. It’s embarrassing.
Then his brain catches up to his legs, which are already tensed to run, and he realizes it’s just a dog. A really big dog, to be fair, but a dog, and in the shadows of his wand he can see all of its ribs.
Yeah, Harry can relate.
“Here, boy,” he says softly, holding out a hand. You’re not supposed to go up to strange dogs, he knows that, but again: he’s already expelled. He knows a couple jinxes. If it tries to bite he can deal with it.
It doesn’t try to bite. Whining softly, the dog worms up to him in a half-crouch. “Hi there. You look like you need a meal,” Harry tells it. “I’m Harry. Nice to meet you.”
The dog whuffs at his wand.
“That’s my wand. I’m a wizard. A crazy one, apparently, since I’m talking to a stray dog. Want a meat pie?”
The dog does not object to the half a meat pie Harry had squirrelled away. His stomach cramps seeing it disappear down the dog’s throat but with any luck he’ll be in the Leaky in a few hours and he can get a proper meal.
“I’m a little stuck, dog,” Harry says. “Are you a boy or a girl, anyway?”
The dog growls a bit and rolls over, proving that it is, in fact, a boy. Wait. “Can you understand me?”
The dog whuffs again.
“Okay, so… sort of? Are you a magic dog?”
Soft bark.
“I didn’t know that was a thing.”
Another whuff.
“Okay, well, do you want to come with me, magic dog? My aunt and uncle kicked me out. I haven’t got a home but I’ve got piles of gold and I reckon I could feed you. I think we both need some fattening up.”
Double bark. The dog isn’t running away. Harry decides to take that as a yes.
Now, how to get his new friend to London? Do featherlight charms work on animals? He can’t remember. Maybe his broom can carry them both. And if he’s flying at night, who would notice a dog hanging in midair? Harry could probably rig a sling out of some of his old Dudley castoffs. He’d had to help Marge do it when Ripper had a sprained paw during one of her visits and she spent the whole time carting him around on her back.
Before he can do anything, the dog suddenly turns around, biting at its flank as if in pain. He bumps into Harry and sends him sprawling backwards.
A bang shakes the quiet street and before Harry knows it there’s a violently purple triple-decker bus that just appeared out of thin air and is screeching to a halt in front of him.
The door flies open and a conductor in a purple uniform leaps out. “WEEELCOME to the Knight Bus, public transit for the floo-challenged witch or wizard! Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we’ll take you where you wanna go. My name’s Stan Shunpike, an’ I’ll be your conductor this even—”
He stops. “What you doing down there?”
“I fell,” Harry says, dusting himself off.
“‘Choo do that for?” Stan Shunpike sniggers.
“It wasn’t on purpose.” One of Harry’s knees is bleeding. Blast. He’s out of stolen bandaids.
“You comin’ or not?” Stan demands. “An’ is that yer familiar? Can’t bring pets on board otherwise.”
“Er–yes,” says Harry, who has no clue what a familiar might be. “Listen, how much would it be to get to London?”
“’Leven sickles, but for firteen you get ‘ot chocolate, an’ for fifteen you get an ‘ot water bottle an’ a toothbrush in the color o’ your choice.”
Harry digs out eleven sickles and hands them over. Stan Shunpike heaves his trunk inside and up onto a mostly empty luggage rack. The dog slinks onto the bus at Harry’s heels, ears flat back.
Instead of chairs, there are half a dozen brass bedsteads lined up along either side of the bus. A tiny wizard in the back right one mutters “Not now, thanks, I’m pickling some slugs” and goes back to sleep.
“You ‘ave this one,” Stan whispers, pointing at the bed right behind the driver. The driver’s seat was an armchair. “That’s our driver, Ernie Prang.”
Ernie Prang nods at Harry. There’s some kind of shriveled head thing hanging from the roof just inside the windshield. Harry jumps when it winks at him.
“Take ‘er away, Ern,” Stan says, sitting down on the bed next to Harry’s.
There’s another tremendous BANG and Harry finds himself flat on his back on the bed. The dog yelps as it skids across the floor and jumps up on the bed next to Harry as soon as it has traction. They’re now bowling along a completely different street.
“This is where we was afore you flagged us down,” Stan says. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?”
“Aye,” says Ernie Prang.
“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” Harry asks. “Or see it?”
“Them!” says Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen properly, do they? Don’ look properly neither. Never notice nuffink, they don’.”
“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” says Ernie. “We’ll be in Abergavenny in a mo’.”
Stan vanishes up a narrow wrought iron staircase. Harry rests a hand on the dog’s back. The bones are even pokier than he’d thought.
A faintly green witch in a heavy-looking cloak follows Stan back down the stairs. “‘Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” Stan says cheerfully, as the bus screeches to a halt in front of a little house. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she staggers out of the bus. Stan throws a bag after her, bellows “Good night!” and they’re off again, hurtling down a narrow country lane with another bang.
“Say, wot’s your name?” Stan said suddenly, peering at Harry.
“Er–Ron Weasley.” Harry says the first name that comes to mind.
“Weasley?” Stan squints. “Aint’cha s’posed to have red hair or somfink?”
Harry shrugs, and Stan loses interest.
Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he wasn’t on a bus that kept making sounds on par with a hand grenade and throwing his bed around. With one hand buried in the dog’s ratty fur, he falls back into stomach-churning worry about what was going to happen to him.
Stan had unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet while Harry wasn’t paying attention and is now reading with his tongue between his teeth. A large photograph of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair blinks slowly at Harry from the front page. He looks strangely familiar.
"That man!" Harry says, forgetting his troubles for a moment. "He was on the Muggle news!"
Stanley turns to the front page and chuckles.
"Sirius Black," he says, nodding. "'Course 'e was on the Muggle news, Ron, where you been?"
He gives a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry's face, removes the front page, and hands it to Harry.
"You oughta read the papers more, Ron."
Harry holds the paper up to the candlelight and reads:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.
"We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."
Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.
"Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it-who'd believe him if he did?"
While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.
Harry looks into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the sunken face that seems alive. Harry’s never met a vampire, but he’s seen pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looks just like one.
“Scary lookin’ fing, innee?” says Stan, watching Harry read.
“Yeah.” Harry hands it back over. “He murdered thirteen people with one curse?”
“In front o’ witnesses an’ all,” Stan says. “Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?”
“Ar,” says Ernie darkly.
Harry privately thinks a curse like that might be handy next time he runs into Voldemort.
"Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-'Oo," Stan says thoughtfully.
"What, Voldemort?" says Harry, not at all thoughtfully.
Even Stan's pimples go white; Ernie jerks the steering wheel so hard that a whole farmhouse has to jump aside to avoid the bus.
"You outta your tree?" yelps Stan. "'Choo say 'is name for?"
"Sorry," says Harry. "Sorry, I – I forgot –"
"Forgot!" says Stan weakly. "Blimey, my 'eart's goin' that fast ..."
"So – so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?" Harry prompts.
"Yeah," says Stan, still rubbing his chest. "Yeah, that's right. Very close to You-Know-'Oo, they say. Anyway, when little 'Arry Potter got the better of You-Know-'Oo –"
Harry nervously flattens his bangs down again.
"–all You-Know-'Oo's supporters was tracked down, wasn't they, Ern? Most of 'em knew it were all over, wiv You-Know-'Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not Sirius Black. I 'eard he thought 'e'd be second-in-command once You- Know-'Oo 'ad taken over. Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street full of Muggles an' Black took out 'is wand and 'e blasted 'alf the street apart, an' a wizard got it, an' so did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. 'Orrible, eh? An' you know what Black did then?" Stan continues in a dramatic whisper.
"What?" says Harry.
"Laughed," says Stan. "Jus' stood there an' laughed. An' when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic got there, 'e went wiv em quiet as anyfink, still laughing 'is 'ead off. 'Cos 'e's mad, inee, Ern? Inee mad?"
"If he weren't when he went to Azkaban, he will be now," says Ernie in his slow voice. "I'd blow meself up afore I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind you... after what he did...."
"They 'ad a job coverin' it up, din' they, Ern?" Stan says. "'Ole street blown up an' all them Muggles dead. What was it they said ad 'appened, Ern?"
"Gas ’splosion," grunts Ernie.
"An' now 'e's out," says Stan, examining the newspaper picture of Black's gaunt face again. "Never been a breakout from Azkaban before, 'as there, Ern? Beats me 'ow 'e did it. Frightenin', eh? Mind, I don't fancy 'is chances against them Azkaban guards, eh, Ern?"
Ernie suddenly shivers. "Talk about summat else, Stan, there's a good lad. Them Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles."
Stan puts the paper away reluctantly, and Harry leans against the window of the Knight Bus, feeling thoroughly relieved that at least he didn’t run into a mass-murdering wizard felon. That would be just his luck.
Blowing up Aunt Marge isn’t enough for him to go to Azkaban, is it? No, Harry assures himself, it was an accident. Probably they’ll just fine him and expel him. It’s not the end of the world. His heart aches at the thought of no more Hogwarts, but he can learn magic from books on his own all right. Maybe he can rent somewhere in disguise. A Muggle flat. Muggles could be fooled into thinking he’s an adult. Harry feels a little weird about maybe spelling some Muggles like that, but it’s not like it would hurt them, and for all he hates Draco Malfoy, he doesn’t necessarily love Muggles, either. It’s not like any of them ever did a thing about him getting beat up by Dudley or going to school in rags.
Yeah, he can do that. Live Muggle until he’s an adult. Learn magic on his own. Maybe Hermione and Ron will come visit. Or maybe not. He hasn’t heard from them all summer and he doesn’t think it’s a light-fingered house elf this time. Even in Harry’s life, that happening two summers in a row would be too weird.
Stan knocks him out of his thoughts with a cheery warning that they’re coming up on the Leaky Cauldron. Harry looks around. They’re thundering along Charing Cross Road. Buildings and benches squeeze themselves out of the Knight Bus's way. The sky is getting a little lighter. He’ll lie low for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opens, then set off – where, he isn’t sure exactly.
Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby- looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.
"Thanks," Harry says to Ernie.
He jumps down the steps and helps Stan lower his trunk and Hedwig's cage onto the pavement. The dog leaps off with evident relief.
"Well," says Harry. "'Bye then!"
But Stan isn’t paying attention. Still standing in the doorway to the bus, he goggles at the shadowy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry whips around and spies a short, very round man who looks like he thinks he’s quite important. "There you are, Harry.”
Stan shouts, "Blimey! Ern, come 'ere! Come 'ere"
Harry looks at the man as he comes out of the shadow and ice hits his stomach. He’s seen this face in the Prophet. Just a half an hour ago, actually. Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, wearing the very same lime green bowler hat he was in the picture.
Stan leaps onto the pavement beside them. Harry sees him about to open his mouth and loudly says “Sorry, Minister, I didn’t know you were waiting. You look cold, maybe we should go inside?”
“Yes, yes, very good,” Fudge says, clamping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry does his best not to flinch and grabs his trunk. “I’m very glad the Knight Bus picked you up—say, is that your dog? It’s quite large, isn’t it?”
“He’s my familiar,” Harry says, remembering Stan’s question.
“That’s all right, then.” Fudge casts the black dog a doubtful look. “Unusual familiar, but then, you’re an unusual lad, ha!”
Harry’s been steered into the pub. A stooping figure bearing a lantern appears through the door behind the bar. It’s Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.
"You've got him, Minister!" says Tom. "Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?"
"Perhaps a pot of tea," says Fudge, who still hasn’t let go of Harry. "And a private parlor, please, Tom.”
“Yes, yes, right this way, Minister.”
Fudge marches Harry along the narrow passage after Tom's lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom clicks his fingers, a fire bursts into life in the grate, and he bows himself out of the room.
"Sit down, Harry," says Fudge, indicating a chair by the fire.
Harry sits down, feeling goose bumps rising up his arms despite the glow of the fire. The dog settles itself at his feet and fixes those weird grey eyes on Fudge, who Fudge takes off his pinstriped cloak and tosses it aside, then hitches up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sits down opposite Harry.
"I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic."
None of Harry’s classes included what to say when the Minister of Magic himself comes to maybe arrest you, so he stays quiet.
Tom the innkeeper reappears, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets. He places the tray on a table between Fudge and Harry and leaves the parlor, closing the door behind him.
"Well, Harry," says Fudge, pouring out tea, "you've had us all in a right flap, I don't mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle's house like that! I'd started to think... but you're safe, and that's what matters."
Fudge butters himself a crumpet and pushes the plate toward Harry. Harry takes one automatically. Running away? They’d sent people by the Dursleys’ already, then. He feels queasy. Wizards went to 4 Privet Drive and, he guesses, put Marge to rights, but they still think he just ran away.
"Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then... You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured and her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the incident at all. So that's that, and no harm done."
Fudge smiles at Harry over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew. Harry can’t believe his ears. He’s not getting arrested?
"Ah, you're worrying about the reaction of your aunt and uncle?" says Fudge when Harry still doesn’t talk. "Well, I won't deny that they are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to take you back next summer as long as you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays."
Harry unsticks his throat. "I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays," he says, "and I don't ever want to go back to Privet Drive."
Surely the Minister of Magic can help him. Harry never ever wants to go back.
"Now, now, I'm sure you'll feel differently once you've calmed down," says Fudge in a worried tone. "They are your family, after all, and I'm sure you are fond of each other—er—very deep down."
Harry knows then that Fudge is going to be no help.
"So all that remains," says Fudge, now buttering himself a second crumpet, "is to decide where you're going to spend the last three weeks of your vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron and—”
"Hang on," blurts Harry. "What about my punishment?"
Fudge blinks. "Punishment?"
"I broke the law!" Harry says. "The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry!"
"Oh, my dear boy, we're not going to punish you for a little thing like that!" cries Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. "It was an accident! We don't send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!"
This doesn’t tally at all with Harry's past dealings with the Ministry of Magic.
"Last year, I got an official warning just because a house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle's house!" he tells Fudge, frowning. "The Ministry of Magic said I'd be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more magic there!"
Unless Harry's eyes deceive him, Fudge is suddenly looking awkward.
"Circumstances change, Harry... We have to take into account... in the present climate... Surely you don't want to be expelled?"
"Of course I don't," said Harry.
"Well then, what's all the fuss about?" laughs Fudge.
“You’re right, Minister, I’m sorry,” Harry says, thinking quickly. “I guess I’m just—tired. And worried, like you said. I probably wouldn’t have panicked and run off if I didn’t think I’d be expelled, though. Would it–d’you–the thing from last summer, it just makes me so nervous…”
He trails off and makes his eyes big.
Fudge visibly perks up. “Yes, of course, Harry, we can have that little mark knocked off your record–a house-elf, you said? Highly unusual—not to worry, though, can’t have you running off again, can we? Now, have a crumpet, while I go and see if Tom's got a room for you."
Fudge strides out of the parlor and Harry stares after him. There’s something extremely odd going on. Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he's done? And now Harry comes to think of it, surely it isn’t usual for the Minister of Magic himself to get involved in matters of underage magic?
Fudge comes back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper.
"Room eleven's free, Harry," says Fudge. "I think you'll be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I'm sure you'll understand... I don't want you wandering off into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you're to be back here before dark each night. Sure you'll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me."
"Okay," says Harry slowly, "but why?"
"Don't want to lose you again, do we?" says Fudge with a hearty laugh. "No, no... best we know where you are... I mean..."
Fudge clears his throat loudly and picks up his pinstriped cloak.
"Well, I'll be off, plenty to do, you know...
"Have you had any luck with Black yet?" Harry asks.
Fudge's finger slips on the silver fastenings of his cloak.
"What's that? Oh, you've heard – well, no, not yet, but it's only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards have never yet failed... and they are angrier than I've ever seen them."
Fudge shudders slightly. "So, I'll say good-bye."
He holds out his hand. When Harry shakes it, it’s a bit slimy, as if Fudge had been sweating from nerves.
“Well, I'll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry."
And with a last smile and shake of Harry's hand, Fudge leaves the room. Tom now moves forward, beaming at Harry.
"If you'll follow me, Mr. Potter," he says, "I've already taken your things up..."
Harry follows Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocks and opens for him.
Inside he sees a very comfortable-looking bed, some highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe—
"Hedwig!" Harry gasps.
The snowy owl clicks her beak and flutters down onto Harry's arm. She eyes the dog but doesn’t otherwise react.
"Very smart owl you've got there,” chuckles Tom. "Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there's anything you need, Mr. Potter, don't hesitate to ask. I’ll send some food up for your owl and your dog. Good to see you’ve got yourself two familiars. Every wizard needs one or two for company.”
He gives another bow and he’s gone.
Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window is changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Harry can hardly believe that he'd left Privet Drive only a few hours ago, that he wasn't expelled, and that he is now facing three completely Dursley-free weeks.
"It's been a very weird night, Hedwig," he yawns.
And without even removing his glasses, he slumps back onto his pillows and falls asleep.
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