1,973A/N: After last week's chapter, at least 25% of my reviews were simply expressing the hope that this wouldn't become a Harry/Ginny story. Last time I checked, though, Ginny hates Harry's guts. I'll check again to confirm it—Ginny does, in fact, hate Harry's guts. She hates all the rest of him, as well.
In Chapter 1, Harry needed to summon a memory that would power a patrons charm, and Ginny was Harry's original patronus memory. It makes perfect sense that he'd revert to that. But a nice memory is a far cry from making Ginny speak to him again, or the two of them becoming friends. And both of those things would have to happen before the two of them would start dating.
Since I'm mentioning reviews in this week's Author's Note, I thought I'd draw attention to a pair of reviews that I received near the conclusion of Book 4. They've really stuck with me. The first reviewer complained that Harry was totally out of character, and that I had practically turned him into a Death Eater. The second reviewer wondered why "people like me" even bother to write Slytherin Harry stories at all, because Harry was practically identical to canon, with the exception of being slightly more cynical.
Your mileage may vary?
Harry followed Mrs. Figg through the streets of Little Whinging, wand drawn. Dudley was a couple of steps back, lumbering along, but Dudley wasn't allowing himself to be left behind. Not after what had happened in the alley.
Harry could hear Mrs. Figg mumbling under her breath, cursing some person named Mundungus. With a name like Mundungus, it had to be a wizard.
"Who's that?" Harry asked.
"Mundungus Fletcher is supposed to be guarding you. That fool and his sticky fingers are up to no good, I'm sure of it…"
"Guarding me?"
"Of course," Mrs. Figg said. "You've had someone guarding you all summer. Not always the same person, naturally, but there should always be somebody here."
"Should be," Harry repeated.
"When I get my hands on Mundungus, I swear to Merlin, he'll wish that he was never born. Just wait until I tell Dumbledore, just wait…"
Mrs. Figg continued on in this manner for quite a while, and Harry was content to let her talk. She kept slipping valuable pieces of information into her mutterings. Harry was being guarded this summer, Dumbledore had organized the guard, Mundungus Fletcher was one of the guards, Mundungus Fletcher was a thief of some sort, the guards were members of some sort of Order… it was a treasure trove of information. Just the sort of things that Harry had been craving to know all summer.
Harry was sad when they arrived at Number Four, Privet Drive, because it brought an end to Mrs. Figg's mutterings. Then again, Harry's arrival meant that his soul had not been sucked out by a dementor, so there was a silver lining to that particular cloud.
"Get inside," Mrs. Figg said. "I'm going to contact Dumbledore, straight away."
Harry marched up the front steps and opened the door. He waited for Dudley to haul his bulk inside, then followed. Before Harry closed the door, he glanced back outside. There was a *pop* and a small, poorly dressed wizard appeared next to Mrs. Figg.
"Why, hello Arabella," the wizard began. Before he could complete his greeting, Mrs. Figg began swinging her purse at him, striking him around the shoulders and head.
"YOU FILTHY LAYABOUT! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"
Mundungus raised his arms and covered his head. "Oi! What's this all about!"
Harry considered standing in the doorway to watch the show, but a cry of alarm drew his attention. Petunia had discovered Dudley, and was calling for Vernon.
Harry winced and closed the front door. This was going to be bad.
The shouting began almost immediately. Vernon demanding to know what Harry had done, Dudley making thick-headed and vague statements about Harry's actions, and Petunia jumping immediately to the worst of all possible conclusions. Harry defended himself as best he could, insisting that he was protecting both himself and Dudley from a dementor.
"What's a dementor supposed to be?" Vernon demanded, arms folded over his chest.
Before Harry could answer, his aunt spoke. "One of the guards of the wizard prison," she said. Then, suddenly realizing what she had done, Petunia clamped her hands across her mouth.
"How do you know that?" Harry asked, equal parts amazed and curious.
Petunia shook her head. "That awful boy used to talk about them…"
"So you know I'm not lying," Harry said. He had a distinct idea about who 'that awful boy' was: his father.
"I know no such thing," Petunia said. "What I do know is that you are putting my family in danger."
"I'm your family!" Harry shouted. "Not that you've ever acted like it."
There was a rustling noise in the kitchen. Harry snatched his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at the kitchen, where the door was standing open. Had the dementors returned? Were they forcing their way into the house?
With an enormous screech, a brown owl flapped and fluttered its way into the foyer. It dropped a letter into Harry's hand, then beat a hasty retreat as Vernon hollered at its tailfeathers.
Harry tore open the letter immediately. It was from a notice from ministry employee named Mafalda Hopkirk, informing Harry that he was being summoned to a disciplinary hearing for violating the Statute of Secrecy. Further, he had been summarily expelled from Hogwarts for his second violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and a ministry representative would arrive shortly to destroy Harry's wand.
Harry crumpled the letter in his left hand, and seized his wand more tightly with his right. Destroy his wand? With Voldemort having returned? Over Harry's dead body, they would. Harry thought back to his escape from the Dursley's home two years ago. His main problem had been leaving at night—Harry would have to gather his things immediately, and abscond while there was still daylight. He needed to travel light, as he would be using his Firebolt for transportation. First stop would be Gringotts, to make a large withdrawal. Then, he would head south. He should be able to make it France before dawn the next day, and he would seek out Beauxbatons Academy and ask for sanctuary with Madame Maxime.
Harry snapped out of his reverie to discover Vernon shouting in his face.
"There will be NO MORE OWLS in my HOUSE!" Vernon bellowed.
Harry calmly raised his wand. "Get out of my way. I'm leaving."
"You aren't allowed to use that on me," Vernon said. "You'll be expelled from that madhouse you call a school!"
"I've already been expelled," Harry said. He shoved the crumpled letter at Vernon's face. "Get out of my way, or you'll find out what I'm really capable of."
Harry and Vernon stared at each other for several seconds, tension building. Harry began to count backward from five in his head. If Vernon hadn't moved himself by the time the countdown was finished, then Harry would move Vernon anyway. Three. Two.
There was an enormous crash from the kitchen, and both Harry and Vernon jumped with surprise. Petunia let out a small yelp. Harry pushed past Vernon and walked to the kitchen, wand still raised. On the outside of the now-closed kitchen window sat a second owl, shaking its head from the impact with the crystal-clear kitchen window.
Harry opened the window, and the owl hopped through with a letter. As Harry removed the envelope, Vernon entered the kitchen and yelled once again, "NO MORE OWLS!"
Harry ignored his uncle and began to read. The handwriting was familiar, as Harry had seen it before on dozens of his Potions examinations.
Potter,
Dumbledore has gone to the Ministry to resolve the issue of your expulsion. Perform no further magic. Stay inside the house. Surrender your wand to no one.
Prof. Snape
Harry was astonished. He had never received personal correspondence from Professor Snape before. Based on Snape's letter, there was a chance that Harry wouldn't be expelled, and that Harry could keep his wand. But if Harry performed more magic—for example, hexing his Uncle Vernon—then there would be little protection that Dumbledore could offer.
Harry sighed. It would have felt so good.
Harry turned to his purple-faced uncle. "I've decided to stay."
Vernon frowned and shook the crumpled ministry letter at Harry. "They're coming for your silly little stick," Vernon said. "Maybe you should do us all a favor and get out."
Harry shook his head, and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. "Dumbledore's gone to the Ministry of Magic to sort everything out."
"People like you have a Ministry?" Vernon said. "No wonder the country's going to pot…"
Harry glared at Vernon, but said nothing. Some statements were so stupid that no response was necessary.
A third owl swooped into the kitchen, through the window that Harry had never bothered to close. It bore an official-looking envelope of the same type as the first owl. Harry removed the envelope and tore it open. After the owl was gone, Vernon once again slammed the kitchen window shut.
Harry read through the second letter from the Ministry as fast as he could. Once again, it was from Mafalda Hopkirk, whoever that was. The Ministry had reconsidered its decision to summarily destroy Harry's wand and expel Harry from Hogwarts. Instead, both issues would be considered at Harry's disciplinary hearing on August 12th, along with the issue of Harry's (alleged) violation of the Statute of Secrecy.
Disciplinary hearing, eh? Once again, Harry seemed to be in need of a solicitor. Perhaps he should simply keep one on retainer. Harry had come to realize that simply being The Boy Who Lived presented too many opportunities for legal complications.
"Well?" Vernon said. "What now?"
"I have a hearing," Harry said. "They'll decide everything there."
"So there's still hope that you'll be expelled and that twig of yours will be snapped," Vernon said.
"Apparently," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "If that's all, I'm going up to my room."
"Your room? What makes you think that I'm going to allow you to remain in my house? You brought these dementy-thingies-"
"Dementors," Harry corrected.
"-upon my family. You're a danger to all of us. I want you out."
Before Harry could respond, a fourth, very dirty owl came barreling out of the kitchen fireplace. With every flap of its wings, it scattered soot across the kitchen.
"BLOODY OWLS!" Vernon shouted. He began to wave his arms in the air, which only caused the soot to blow about the kitchen more thoroughly.
The fourth letter was from Sirius, and the instructions were simple: Don't leave the house again, whatever you do.
Well. That was straightforward. If Sirius and Snape were in agreement on something, then it had to be important.
Harry politely opened the kitchen window, and the owl flew away. Behind Harry, Vernon was shouting once again.
"I won't have a peck of owls- I mean, a pack of owls- er, a flock of owls-"
"Parliament," Harry corrected. "A parliament of owls. Like a pride of lions, or school of fish."
"Thank you," Vernon said automatically. When he realized what he had done, he scowled at Harry. "I won't have a bunch of owls flying in and out of my house at all hours of the day and night!"
"I didn't send them," Harry said.
"What I want to know," Petunia said, "is why there was a dementor in Little Whinging."
Harry glanced at the kitchen table, where his aunt was now sitting. In the midst of his row with Uncle Vernon, Harry hadn't noticed her come in to the kitchen. She was sitting demurely, with her legs crossed and a calm, blank expression on her face. Her hands were clasped in front of her and rested on the table. Harry would have thought her the picture of composure, except he could see her foot under the table, shaking in the air.
"That's a good question!" Vernon said loudly. "There isn't another one of your kind around for miles."
Harry shrugged. "I can't explain it."
Petunia spoke again. "They guard the prison for w… you freaks. Why would they be here?"
"I don't know," Harry said. He had to admit that his uncle was right: Petunia presented a good question. The only time Harry had heard of dementors leaving Azkaban was when Sirius had escaped. Harry had been reading The Daily Prophet all summer, and there had been no mention of any escape by any inmate.
"They must have been coming to arrest you!" Vernon declared, triumphantly thrusting a finger into the air. "You're a fugitive!"
"Are you daft?" Harry said. "The Ministry has known where to find me all summer. They just sent me two letters!"
Vernon frowned. Vernon had an intense love of logic, as it seemed to leave no room for magic or wizards. But when logic seemed to support Harry, Vernon was always suspicious.
"So why were they here?" Petunia asked. Harry was beginning to grow fearful of the cold tone in his aunt's voice. Vernon was a man who got his way with thunder and bluster, but Harry had never been afraid of Vernon's implicit threat of force. A fistfight was honest and direct. If Vernon ever struck Harry, or attempted to strike Harry, then Harry's ability to defend himself was clear and unambiguous. If Vernon had been a wizard (a thought which made Harry shudder) then Vernon would have been in Gryffindor.
Petunia, however… Petunia was a schemer. If she had ever made it to Hogwarts, she would have been sorted into Slytherin in a heartbeat. Harry knew that there was something behind Petunia's questions… some subtle motive, some conclusion that she had already reached, some trap that she was leading Harry into…
Refusing to accept Harry's silence as an answer, Petunia spoke again. "Who sent the dementors?"
A chill ran down the base of Harry's spine; there was only one possibility. "It must have been him. Voldemort."
Petunia's eyes widened. Whatever she had been expecting, she had not been expecting that. Harry realized that Petunia had probably settled on Sirius Black, or some other still-free Death Eater, as the source of the rogue dementor.
"What do you mean, Voldemort?" Petunia asked. "He's dead."
Harry turned and looked directly at Petunia. Something in her expression told him that his Aunt Petunia was the only other person in the house who would appreciate the full import of Voldemort's return. However little Petunia had liked her sister and her sister's husband, Petunia knew that they had been murdered by Voldemort. The idea that the murderer had returned and was attempting to kill Harry… it was enough to break through the cloak of denial in which she so frequently wrapped herself.
"Voldemort is back," Harry said. "I saw him return, about a month ago. I escaped, but he's still out there. He must have sent the dementor."
Petunia's lips pressed together in a thin line. "Get out," she said calmly.
"What?" Now it was Harry's turn to be surprised.
"You heard me. Get out of my house. Every second you are here, you are a danger to my family."
"No," Harry said. "I'm protecting you. As long as I'm here, this house and everybody in it is protected." He knew this was true—Dumbledore had told him that. "You're safer with me."
"You brought those things to Little Whinging," Petunia said. "You know that Voldemort isn't going to stop. And when he finally gets you, it won't be in my house. I want you out."
Harry clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. "I can't believe you," he said. "I'm trying to protect us all."
"We wouldn't be in danger if it weren't for you," Petunia said calmly. "Start packing. Now. I want you out of here in an hour."
When the second owl zoomed through the chimney, it was moving so fast that it was unable to pull out of its dive before striking the floor. The owl rolled across the ground in a cyclone of feathers and talons, squawking loudly as it came to rest at Petunia's feet. Harry stepped forward to remove the letter, but the owl hopped up and took flight, zooming in a circle around Petunia's head. Clutched in its talons was a bright red envelope.
"You'd better open that," Harry said, recognizing the familiar envelope of a Howler. "Because you're going to hear it, whether you want to or not."
Petunia glared at Harry, and held out an open hand at her side. The owl dropped the envelope into her hand, then zoomed back up the chimney. Vernon followed it and snapped the flue shut.
In Petunia's hand, the red envelope had begun to smoke.
"Better open it quick," Harry said.
Petunia slowly reached toward the envelope, but she took too long. The envelope burst into familiar blue flames—foxfire, a spell that Hermione had known since her first year—and a booming voice filled the kitchen.
"REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA!"
Harry recognized the voice as Dumbledore's. But what did the message mean?
Vernon was wondering the same thing. "What was that? What did that mean?"
Petunia was looking down at her hands, which she had once again clasped on the dinner table. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
"The boy will have to stay, Vernon," she said meekly.
"WHAT?"
Petunia's head snapped up with the speed of a striking viper. "THE BOY STAYS, VERNON!"
Vernon drew back and his jaw dropped open. Harry got the impression that Petunia did not frequently raise her voice to her husband.
Petunia's head snapped around, and she fixed her eyes on Harry. "Go to your room. Stay there. You are not to leave the house, or your room. I will bring your meals."
"Wait a second," Harry said. "Why did you get a Howler from D-"
"GO TO YOUR ROOM, NOW!" Petunia shrieked.
Before Harry had realized what he had done, he was out of the kitchen and halfway up the stairs. Come to think of it, Petunia did not frequently raise her voice to Harry, either. The effect was surprising. Harry almost turned around and marched back into the kitchen to show that he couldn't be bullied or ordered around.
Harry shook his head and smiled a little. That's something he'd do if he were a Gryffindor. But Harry was a Slytherin, and he knew that discretion was the better part of valor. Harry had won the battle—he would stay at Number 4, Privet Drive, and he would remain protected from whatever dark magic that Voldemort might marshal against him. There was no reason to make Petunia second-guess her decision.
Harry continued up the stairs and into his bedroom. He flopped down atop his bed and closed his eyes, seeking the blissful oblivion of sleep.
*!*!*!*
When Harry awoke from his nap, it was already nighttime, and the Dursleys had gone to be. Trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach—he had missed dinner—Harry packed his trunk. Regardless of what Sirius and Snape said, and regardless of Dumbledore's Howler, Harry did not trust his aunt and uncle. Harry wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice, whether he was forced to leave because of eviction or attack. But packing his trunk took only a few hours, and as the late night turned into early morning, Harry realized that further attacks might not be forthcoming. Instead, the true challenge might lie in passing the time, as he was essentially imprisoned inside the house and his bedroom.
He tried to pass the time with numerous activities. Turning his thoughts toward the upcoming quidditch season, Harry did some pushups and jogged in place for a while, until Vernon stormed upstairs and began pounding on Harry's door, demanding that he "stop with all the racket!" For once in his life, Harry acknowledged that his uncle had a valid point—it was almost four o'clock in the morning, and Harry's running footsteps were rather thunderous in the house.
Harry turned toward a quieter pursuit, and wrote a few letters—to Hermione, Tracey, and Pansy. Hedwig returned with Tracey's and Pansy's letters still attached to her leg, undelivered and unopened. The lack of a reply from Pansy and Tracey was somewhat worrisome, but it was no different from every other letter that he had written them this summer. Harry didn't want to think about the implications of his friends' refusal to correspond with him. He told himself, as he had all summer, that it was Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson that were turning away the letters, or Mrs. Davis. He told himself that there was still a chance that Tracey was truly his friend. There was still a chance that Pansy really loved him.
That story was easier to believe at three in the afternoon, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing. But at four in the morning, when the world was silent and dark, and the only sound was the creaking and groaning of the house or the occasional sound of a faraway car… in the darkness, Harry wasn't doing a good job of lying to himself.
In the darkness, Harry knew that Tracey and Pansy had abandoned him.
It was the smart thing to do. The logical, rational, practical thing to do. At Hogwarts, in a house full of the sons and daughters of Death Eaters, being friends with Harry Potter was not a reasonable course of action. Harry told himself, over and over, that he had to be prepared for Pansy and Tracey to turn their backs on him at the start of the school year. But as much as he repeated it to himself in the night, the tiny surviving glimmer of hope flared to life in his heart in the morning, rising anew with the sun.
As had been the case all summer, Harry's emotions were caught in a vicious cycle.
The one small reprieve was that Hedwig had managed to deliver Harry's letter to Hermione, and even returned with a reply. Unfortunately, Hermione's response was short and cryptic. Her letter alluded to being places that Harry had never been, and meeting people that Harry had never met, and having conversations about information to which Harry was not privy. It all seemed very exciting, and Harry was terribly jealous.
Harry awoke with a start at eight o'clock, when Petunia loudly knocked on his door and announced that his breakfast was waiting on the floor outside his door. Harry had fallen asleep at his desk, resting his face on his arms, Hermione's letter unfolded beneath him. He hadn't even realized that he had been tired.
After breakfast, Harry tried to pass time by reading, but it was impossible to maintain his concentration. He could scarcely believe that he had been fighting a dementor only twelve hours earlier. Every time he tried to settle in with his book, his mind drifted to the events of the previous day—the fight, the chase, the dementor; the fight, the chase, the dementor… it was an endless cycle, running through his head again and again.
Harry eventually abandoned his book and returned to physical activity. With the noise of a normal day taking place, the sounds of his running footsteps were no longer the annoyance that they had been in the middle of the night.
Harry jogged in place and did pushups until sweat was running down his shirt. He grabbed a towel and headed toward the bathroom, only to find that his door had been locked. Harry raised his fist and began to pound on the door, loudly and repeatedly.
After a few moments, Harry heard his uncle's heavy footsteps lumber up the stairs.
"What do you want?" Vernon shouted through the door.
"I need to shower," Harry said.
"Er…"
"You have to treat me with basic decency," Harry said. "If you don't, think of what will happen when my godfather finds out."
Muttering curses, Vernon opened Harry's door. "You have ten minutes," Vernon declared.
"I'll see you in thirty," Harry said, pushing past his uncle and striding into the bathroom. Harry locked the door behind him.
Forty-five minutes later, Harry emerged from the bathroom. His shower had only taken ten minutes, but he had stayed under the running water for another half-hour, trying to rinse away the grimy sense of doom that seemed to cling to his skin.
Also, he made sure that no hot water remained for anyone else in the house.
When Harry stepped into the hallway, Vernon was scowling, but that was nothing new. Vernon pointed at Harry's bedroom door: "Go. Now."
Harry complied.
This routine repeated itself for the next two days, except that the Dursleys took care to ensure that they had all showered before Harry, rather than waiting until after. It was on the evening of the third day that Vernon announced through Harry's locked bedroom door that the Dursleys were travelling to receive an award for good lawnkeeping. Harry had never heard of any such thing, but Vernon's pride in his lawn was famous among the neighborhood.
Vernon advised that Harry was not to touch, use, move, or otherwise interact with any property of the Dursleys. Similarly, Harry was forbidden from watching anything on the television, listening to anything on the radio, reading anything in the paper, or making any attempt to communicate with the outside world.
"Have I made myself clear?" Vernon asked at the end of his tirade.
"I'm locked in my room," Harry snapped in reply. "Unless you plan on letting me out, I think you're safe."
Vernon huffed so loudly that Harry could hear it through the door. A short while later, Harry heard the Dursleys lock the front door and drive away in the car.
Good riddance. Now Harry could really spend some time getting in shape.
As the sun set, Harry worked himself until his breath was coming in ragged gasps. He had only barely finished a set of pushups when he would heave himself to his feet and begin running in place. After a mad dash, he would drop to the floor and begin a series of sit-ups, after which he would roll over and begin pushups once again.
Finally, Harry collapsed onto his bed, arms spread wide. He didn't want to stop, but there was nothing to be gained by working himself to the point of dehydration. After all, he couldn't get out of his room, so he would have to wait until the Dursleys returned to get himself a drink of water.
The door to Harry's room opened with a click.
Harry scrambled across his bed and seized his wand, which lay close at hand on his nightstand. He turned and pointed his wand at his door and the darkness of the hallway beyond. He remained there, frozen, for several moments, but nobody entered his room.
Harry drew himself up off the bed and crept forward. No sound came from the hallway. He briefly considered casting hominem revalio, a spell that he had seen Snape cast a few years earlier in the Hogwarts library, to determine who was in the house… but casting a spell would give him another citation for Underage Magic, and there was no proof that he was defending himself from imminent harm.
Harry sighed. It seemed that he would be forced to explore on his own. Harry took two quick steps forward and into the hallway, slashing his wand back and forth, ready to cast a disarming charm at the slightest hint of motion, but there was none. He was alone in the darkness… but at the end of the halls, where the stairs led down to the foyer, there was light.
And voices.
Harry moved cautiously forward. He had the high ground, and if anybody charged up the stairs, Harry would have the advantage. But there were no thundering footsteps, no shadows of advancing Death Eaters. Instead, as Harry finally approached the top of the stairs, a familiar voice called out.
"Holster that wand, boy, before you put somebody's eye out!"
"Yeah, Moody's only got one left!"
"Quiet, Tonks."
Harry had no idea who the second voice was, but the other voice was his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Mad-Eye Moody. Former professor, actually—Harry had read in the Prophet that Moody quit in order to come out of retirement as an auror, but the Ministry had turned him away. Regardless, Moody would not be teaching at Hogwarts this fall.
Harry did not lower his wand, as he had been ordered. Constant vigilance. Instead, Harry flattened himself against the wall and continued cautiously down the stairs. Until the intruders had come into view, he wasn't lowering his guard.
"Heh. Smart kid. Looks like something I taught him got through that thick skull," Moody said. "Potter! You and I had a conversation in my office last year, just before the start of the tournament. Think about that conversation for a moment."
Harry paused. Moody had pulled Harry into his office after Harry had warned Cedric about the dragons. And then Moody had badgered Harry about having a conscience, and they had talked about a hypothetical situation…
"…about a man drowning in a lake," Moody finished. "Ring any bells? Satisfy your questions about my identity?"
Harry let out the breath he had been holding, and stepped away from the wall. Harry still didn't put his wand away, but he did walk confidently down into the foyer. A crowd of wizards was waiting in the sitting room, just off the foyer—Moody, of course, was among the crowd, but also a young, pink haired witch with a heart shaped face.
"Wotcher, Harry!" the young witch called out. It was the other voice that Harry had heard, the one teasing Moody about his eye. Moody introduced her as Tonks, a Ministry Auror and his protégé.
There were several others as well; four men (Kingsley Shacklebolt, Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle, and Sturgis Podmore) two women (Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones) and one werewolf.
"Professor Lupin!" Harry shouted.
"Not any longer," Lupin said. "At least, not 'professor.' At this point, I think a simple 'Remus' will suffice."
Harry strode quickly forward, overcome by the sudden urge to hug his father's old friend, but Lupin had his hand out, waiting to shake Harry's. When Lupin saw Harry's open arms, he retracted his hand, but Harry had already pulled up short. The pair looked at one another, awkwardly, until Harry reached out and grabbed Lupin's upper arm.
"It's great to see you," Harry said. "Calling you Remus might take some getting used to, though."
"You call Sirius by his first name well enough," Lupin countered. He reached forward and patted Harry on the shoulder.
"Enough of this huggy-huggy business," Moody said. "Pack your things, Potter. It's time to go."
"Tonight?"
"Yes, tonight," Moody said gruffly. "Dumbledore sent us to get you. Your Aunt and Uncle are gone, and we have to strike while the iron is hot! Unless you'd rather wait for them to return…"
"No way," Harry said. "I'll be right back down." Harry dashed up the stairs and grabbed his trunk, which was thankfully already packed. He seized Hedwig's cage with his other hand, tucked his Firebolt under his arm, and was back down the stairs in under a minute, trunk thumping behind him.
"Already packed, Harry?" asked Tonks.
"I've been ready to go for days," Harry said.
"Good," said Moody. "We're leaving by broom. Tonks, shrink that trunk."
Before Tonks shrunk Harry's trunk for travel, Harry removed a quidditch cloak and his dragonhide gloves. Flying would be cold work at this time of night, and depending on how high they flew it might be absolutely freezing.
Outside the house, a set of brooms was floating on the lawn. They looked conspicuously out of place in the resolutely normal yard of Number Four, Privet Drive. Seeing Harry's confusion, Lupin offered an explanation: "Notice-me-not charms," he said. "Very effective on muggles, especially in the dark."
Harry nodded. As the older wizards climbed atop their brooms, Harry followed suit. His trunk, shrunk to tiny proportions and lightened with a featherweight charm, was tucked in his pocket.
"Everybody ready?" Moody called. "Be prepared for anything—we don't know if anybody has gotten wind of our plan to move Potter. If we're attacked, Potter stays with me and Tonks, while everybody else scatters."
"We get it, Moody," Tonks said. "You told us fifteen times on the way over. Let's stop wasting time!"
Moody mumbled something that, to Harry, sounded suspiciously like, "Damn kids." The grizzled old wizard pushed off the ground and rocketed into the air. Harry followed quickly, surrounded by the other witches and wizards.