The Floo Bill

Mr. Basil Sinclair was sat at his kitchen table, staring at the post. He wasn't Old, but he was Getting There. Years of a middle class life left him bitter and stuffy, with a growing hatred for loud noises and happy people. It was May in Torquay and unusually cold, which Mr. Sinclair despised. Though it did give him something to complain about. Still, Torquay was good to him and the Mrs. would hex him if he got too loud about it. Their owl, Tuesday, was relaxing after delivering the post. He had dropped a very nice poo on the Quibbler pages that lined his cage and dozed off. There were three bills, the latest issue of Witch Weekly, and a catalogue. Mr. Sinclair had spent the last five minutes staring in complete confusion at a scroll. There was something peculiar about the Floo bill.

Mr. Sinclair found his wife in the garden, who was oblivious to everything except her rose bushes. As Mr. Sinclair stepped into the yard, their enormous dog, Harold, barrelled inside with something large and writhing clenched in his jaws.

"Bloody dog," Mr. Sinclair grumbled. He loathed the damn thing, but his wife was mad for it and he learned long ago there was no point in arguing. Skittish about getting his shoes mucked up, Mr. Sinclair stayed on the pavement.

"Sibyll, could you come in for a moment?" She continued gardening less than ten feet away; Mr. Sinclair knew she must have heard him.

"Sibyll?" No answer. "Sibyll!"

"Anyone can fall in love, that's the easy part you must keep it going..."

"Sibyll, owl post from Barbara." Mrs. Sinclair wheeled around. Her face fell when she saw the look on his face.

"Well?"

"I need you to look at the Floo bill. Something's off." Mr. Sinclair went back into the house as Mrs. Sinclair stood up and brushed off her gardening robes. She walked in, removing her wide-brimmed hat. Mrs. Sinclair was younger than her husband and relatively good natured. Her sandy coloured hair was pulled into knots and she was red in the face from all the gardening she was doing. Many of their friends wondered what the hell they saw in each other. Then they thought about their own marriages and shut up. Mrs. Sinclair removed a small beetle from her hair and walked over to the table.

"Have you seen the Jarvey? I think there might be gnomes."

"BLOODY BUGGERING BASTARD BOLLOCKS!" As if he was cued, an overgrown ferret came limping out of the den. Harold gleefully bounded after his catch, eager to drag him around the house again. He yelped as the Jarvey smacked him across the nose. Mrs. Sinclair forced a polite smile.

"I think the gnomes are coming back. Could you take a look?"

"BLOW ME, LADY!" The Jarvey limped into the yard and disappeared from view. Mrs. Sinclair stood quietly in wonder while Harold wagged his tail. The silence was broken as he barked. Mrs. Sinclair turned to her husband.

"What's this about the Floo bill?" Mr. Sinclair passed the scroll to her and as she scanned the list of destinations, she screwed up her eyes in confusion. "Well, this can't be right. Who do we know at Hogwarts?"

Harold choked on his bark.

"I don't. That's why I figured you'd know something."

"Well, there's nothing I can do about it, Basil. Owl the Ministry; they probably just sent us the wrong one."

"That's not all," said Mr. Sinclair. Mrs. Sinclair held the scroll out to her husband.

"It is right now, Basil. There's gardening to be done and I've got to get these roses in before they go."

"We don't have an S. Black living with us, do we?" Mrs. Sinclair stared at her husband, then back at the scroll.

"Good grief. Someone's not being very discreet, are they?"

"Clearly."

"Basil, you do remember to set the alarm charm before we go out, don't you?"

"No, I'm rather keen on burglars. I only set it against encyclopaedia salesmen."

"I'm only asking because you're getting so old and you know your memory is going."

"Yes, dear."

"I mean, just yesterday, you'd used the toilet and hadn't flushed. Thought it'd take me all day to get the smell-"

"Lovely! What are we going to do about the bill?"

"Well, owl the Ministry, of course. Someone must be having a go at us." She turned to go back to the garden, but paused. "Hang on. Says here this Black fellow used the Floo yesterday. You can double back to see if anyone on the other end knows." Mr. Sinclair looked horrified at the suggestion. Mrs. Sinclair put the bill back on the table and moved to put her hat back on.

"I can't go in there!" Mr. Sinclair sputtered. His wife gave him a Look as she tied the sash under her chin.

"Don't be ridiculous. You use the Floo all the time."

"I've just showered. Besides, you're dirty already." Mrs. Sinclair raised an eyebrow and her husband immediately realised his error.

"Is that why you called me in?"

"Erm, no. You're just good with this sort of thing."

"Barging into people's business so I can sort out my post? Is that it?"

"No, you're...good at talking to people and liking people..." Mr. Sinclair mumbled. He stuck his chin out, trying to assert some kind of authority.

"It's long-distance. I won't spend twelve sickles because somebody buggered up our bill."

"Try it again."

"You are an eloquent speaker and I trust your judgement more than my own since I am prone to temper and insults. You are also a charming young witch who is far more intelligent than I or any Ministry official will ever be."

"Well done."

Mrs. Sinclair plucked the pot of Floo powder from the cupboard and moved towards the fireplace. Harold seemed torn between running her over or chasing after the Jarvey. He settled for sitting quietly, but twitching often. Grabbing a small amount of powder, Mrs. Sinclair thrust her open hand into the fireplace. The grains fell on the charred logs and burst into terrific green flames.

"Praevius locus!" she cried and stuck her head in the fire. A brief moment of nausea, ashes and green fire passed as the back of the fireplace turned into a large room of red and gold. The only thing that took her attention from the brilliant colours was a dark haired boy in one of the squashy chairs. He looked startled.

"Hullo!" Mrs. Sinclair said, beaming in an attempt to assure him she wasn't dangerous. The boy shifted nervously.

"Hullo."

"I'm Mrs. Sinclair. I don't think we've met, but that's not important." Mrs. Sinclair began to ramble, not giving the boy any room to interrupt.

"Am I correct in assuming this is Hogwarts? It certainly looks like it. Gryffindor, I think."

"Erm, yes."

"Really? My goodness, the place has changed. They didn't have such nice chairs when I was at school. Rather hard things that were supposed to help our posture. I just got back spasms. Thought I'd never see the outside of the infirmary.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh, yes! So sorry. We've just been going over our Floo bill, and it says here there's an S. Black using the fireplace to contact someone at Hogwarts." The boy turned a brilliant shade of white and came close to wetting himself.

"Would you happen to know who this person is?" He shook his head furiously.

"Cos the only S. Black I can think of is Sirius Black, but what would he be doing in Torquay?" The boy could have fainted. "I mean, really, it's such an obvious place to go if you're an escaped murderer and on the run. Maybe that's his intentions, but I don't know. If you really want to stay hidden, you should go somewhere like Wales. I mean, there's nothing there, but I've only seen it in pictures so I mustn't make assumptions like that." She stared intently at the boy.

"You look very familiar." The boy, lost in thought, jumped when she addressed him.

"I'm sorry?"

"I think I've seen you somewhere. You're not Harry Potter, are you?"

"Um, speaking."

"Really? Fancy that! Of all the people I could have spoken to, I get the Boy Who Lived! Talk about luck."

Suddenly, a large shaggy dog head plunged through the fire next to Mrs. Sinclair, barking madly. Mrs. Sinclair was too busy shoving Harold back through the fire to notice Harry was shooting a murderous look at the dog. Mrs. Sinclair turned back to Harry once Harold was back on the other side.

"I'm so sorry about that. He just gets very excited when there's company." She laughed. Harry joined her, a little too loudly and a little too shrilly.

"I really mustn't keep you. Don't slack for your OWLs. They're very important. Lovely talking to you. Good luck now!" She waved and as she disappeared from the flames, Harry threw his Potions work aside to write a long and scathing letter. The idea of responsibility was foreign to him, but he knew enough to put his godfather in his place.

~#~

Mr. Sinclair retired for the night around midnight. Harold made sure his masters were asleep before he hauled ass out the dog door. The Jarvey, who was out for a late smoke, saw the large shaggy dog become a large shaggy man. As he scrambled over the back wall, the Jarvey called to him.

"Where the hell is you off to?"

"Wales!"