Replay

Replay

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Chapter Two

Ancient Magic

Harry crept down the front walk of number four, Privet Drive and hoped that Tonks wasn't standing just where he needed to go; after a moment's hesitation, he saw the bushes moving frantically again, and he bolted for the pavement, running across Privet Drive as fast and as lightly as he could to reduce the possibility that he might collide with the clumsy young Auror. He tried to slow his breathing so that he wouldn't be heard.

After a minute of panic, he calmed sufficiently to begin walking along cautiously. With each step, he came closer to a Dursley-free evening, but he tried not to be distracted by fantasising about this. He needed to pay close attention to everything around him, so he wouldn't walk into someone or trip over a stray cat. (None of Mrs Figg's cats seemed to be around at the moment, luckily.) He wasn't technically breaking wizarding law, as his use of the Cloak didn't constitute doing magic, but he also thought it possible that Dumbledore would take a very dim view of his little outing.

He's never tried to spend fourteen seconds with Marge Dursley, let alone fourteen days, Harry thought grumpily.

He had soon reached the edge of the suburb of Little Whinging and continued along to the larger adjacent town of Greater Whinging, where he could get the bus. It was a depressing place, in Harry's opinion, overshadowed as it was by the hulking Grunnings drill factory. The blocky building dominated the High Street, casting a shadow over many of the small, struggling businesses on the other side of the road. A number of shops had been torn down decades ago when Mr Grunnings had built his horrid, depressing factory. In stark contrast to the rest of prosperous Surrey, this had also led to a downturn in the general atmosphere of Greater Whinging, so that it was largely a place for factory workers and their families to live now in rundown old houses that were chopped up into a number of cheap flats. In the local newspaper politicians were always saying how concerned they were about "the Greater Whinging problem," which was code for violent crime, drug dealing and unemployment. (Vernon Dursley took great pleasure in sacking people whenever the fortunes of the factory took even a temporary downturn.)

Harry shook his head, walking furtively in the shadow of the factory, making sure his Invisibility Cloak didn't slip. He didn't dare try to go to a pub here; everyone would know who he was. His exploits at the school had been far too publicised when he was young for him to blend in anonymously, and now everyone was told that he attended St Brutus's, which meant that his toughness was expected to be on a par with the other rather tough denizens of Greater Whinging.

He made his way to the bus stop so that he could go to New Stokington. He didn't know when the next bus was expected, so he leaned against a pole, trying to remember how much it would cost. Then it hit him: he couldn't pay for the bus. In fact, unless someone else showed up or he took off his Cloak, the bus driver very likely wouldn't even stop to let him board. The driver wouldn't see anyone to let on. Maybe someone will be getting off here, he thought hopefully, although this was also a depressing thought (for the other person).

At length two teenagers came walking down the High Street, arms looped around each others' shoulders so that there was no space to be seen between them. The boy looked very familiar and Harry realised, when he drew near enough, that he was Gordon, one of Dudley's friends, part of his gang. Harry had forgotten that Gordon lived in Greater Whinging, unlike Piers and Malcolm. Dudley wouldn't even have met Gordon, Harry knew, if his aunt and uncle hadn't been trying to save money by sending Dudley (and, of course, Harry) to the Greater Whinging primary school before shipping him off to Smeltings. Few other residents of Little Whinging--largely bankers, lawyers and self-employed business owners--would send their children anywhere near Greater Whinging; most of the other children with whom Harry and Dudley had gone to school had parents who worked at the factory, and that was likely to be their future as well.

Evidently, Gordon had a girlfriend, which was the last thing Harry expected. He recognised her as well, from his primary school days. Her pug-like face reminded him of Pansy Parkinson. She had too much dark makeup around her eyes, long, greasy-looking dark hair and rather a lot of spots on her face. Gordon was liberally decorated with spots as well, and he needed a shave. Both of them wore large black clunky boots, T-shirts and black jeans that had been artfully ripped and stained, which was not how Gordon usually dressed when he was with Dudley and the gang. Harry thought the girl might have a stud in her tongue, and he could see her belly-button ring, as her torn shirt ended several inches above it. Gordon was sporting a black leather bracelet with rather long spikes protruding from it; Harry did remember seeing him wear this when he was hanging about with Dudley in the play park in Little Whinging, looking for little kids to beat up. (Harry assumed that if they had hung about in any parks in Greater Whinging--if they existed--they would be the ones getting beaten up.)

As they stumbled to the bus stop, their eyes a bit glazed-over, Gordon pushed the girl up against one of the walls of the shelter, immediately shoving his tongue into her open mouth. The girl pulled him to her enthusiastically, making loud sucking noises, while Harry grimaced and turned away from them, reminded distastefully of his date with Cho, when he'd had to hear Roger Davies slurping over his girlfriend for what seemed an eternity. He hadn't minded kissing Cho himself, apart from the crying, and apart from wondering (later, when Ron brought it up) whether she was crying because he was so very bad at it, but listening to other people doing it so noisily struck him as particularly disgusting. When he was no longer looking at them, he was aware of a sweet, cloying smell that hadn't been there before they'd arrived.

The pair of them finally came up for air and Harry heard Gordon say, "Trust me, Chloe. We'll just get the bus to Harrington. My friend Clive runs the pub there. He'll let us use one of the rooms. He owes me. Safe as houses. Your mum and dad will never find out."

"Mmm, brilliant," Chloe purred; Harry turned to look at them again just as she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue (she definitely had a stud in it) between Gordon's lips. The moonlight was picking out her acne so that her face had a truly disturbing appearance, as though she had suppurating sores, and Harry turned away again, feeling like he was going to spew. Chloe Johnston. He remembered her name now. She had been just as bad as the other children when it came to siding with Dudley. No one had ever stood up to Dudley with him, not once. Only a teacher would occasionally step in, and that was only if he didn't perform some accidental magic first, which tended to unnerve them, understandably. He remembered a thin, pale girl with long dark plaits and watery blue eyes cheering on Dudley and his friends when they were chasing him round the schoolyard.

So, they're sneaking off to the pub in Harrington to shag, he thought, but then the idea of the pair of them doing that introduced a very unpleasant image into his mind, and he tried to clear his head by thinking of something else, anything else. Professor Binns, he thought desperately. Ron vomiting slugs. Blast-Ended Skrewts. Drinking Polyjuice Potion. Thestrals.

Thestrals. What he wouldn't give for a Thestral right now, to be able to fly off on an invisible steed, anywhere he wanted....

But just as he had this thought, the bus turned the corner onto the High Street, speeding toward them alarmingly fast. Harry hoped the driver would notice Gordon and Chloe, suddenly grateful for their presence. He didn't see any passengers standing on the bus, so it didn't appear that anyone was disembarking in Little Whinging. If it weren't for Gordon and his girlfriend, the bus wouldn't have stopped at all. He was suddenly quite glad of their randiness and tried again not to think about what they would be doing at the pub in Harrington. I just hope they don't have kids, he thought with a shudder, wondering whether it would occur to Gordon to take precautions against this. A combination of Gordon and Chloe. How horrid.

The bus came to a halt in front of them and the driver slowly opened the door; to Harry's surprise, it was a young woman with frowsy yellow hair, not much older than he was, it seemed. He remembered his initial surprise when he'd met Stan Shunpike, who, he realised, might have left Hogwarts after his O.W.L.s, which would account both for his youth when Harry met him and the impression he'd given of doing his job for a while. Will that be me? he wondered. Will I do well enough on my O.W.L.s to stay on? Or will I have to get a job as a conductor on the Knight Bus, or the Hogwarts Express?

Suddenly, his uncle's prediction of doom and gloom for his exam results--even though his uncle had been talking about the GCSEs--seemed far more of a sure thing than any prophecy or prediction Professor Trelawney had ever made. I'll bet my exams were incredibly funny down at the Ministry, he thought. Provided everyone with a jolly good laugh, no doubt. He no longer felt optimistic even about his Defence Against the Dark Arts marks.

Gordon and Chloe entered the bus slowly and Harry panicked, seeing how impatient the driver looked. What if she shut the door too quickly and he couldn't get on? Harry pressed his shoulder to the door, trying not to make any noise. Chloe and Gordon were still ascending the steps onto the bus and he wrinkled his nose, not having been this close to them before. He could identify the sweetish smell clinging to their clothes now: they'd been smoking weed. Around twilight, there were areas of the Little Whinging play park that absolutely reeked of it. Hmph, he thought. My family is supposed to be a gang of drug lords and it's Dudley's friends who are actually doing drugs.

Once Chloe was on the bus completely, the driver tried to close the door, as Harry had feared. Chloe was too close to him to allow him to step into the bus yet. Damn damn damn! he thought. Move your skinny arse! he silently ordered her. He felt the bus move and he leaned into it, pressing his shoulder to the door as hard as he could and grasping the edge with his fingers, through the Cloak. It was enough; the door looked for all the world like it was stuck and wouldn't close.

"Come on, you," the driver said to Chloe and Gordon. "Get out of the way. I can't close the bleedin' door."

"I'm not in the way of your bleedin' door," Chloe informed the woman, adding, "stupid cow," and swaying a little where she stood on the step.

"Well, why won't it close, then?" the driver responded belligerently.

Move move move, Harry thought desperately. He did not want to return home, or just wander about the play park in his Cloak until he felt like going to bed. Now that he was here, at the bus stop, he was determined to go through with his plan. He was going to a bloody pub and have a Coke and some crisps and watch the telly. Nothing was going to stop him; suddenly it was very, very important that he be able to do this. He'd suffered enough defeats in the last year; he was damned if he was going to let two high-as-a-kite prats, a bus driver and a bus door do him out of a small bit of escapism.

Chloe stepped up next to the driver, finally allowing Harry to climb onto the bus; Chloe pointed at the door, her finger almost touching Harry's nose through the Cloak, saying, "Look! I'm nowhere near your bloody door, so close it now!"

The driver did, with no problem at all. Harry tugged at his Cloak a little, to make sure it wasn't stuck in the door, but he'd managed to get clear in time. As the bus lurched forward (the driver slammed her foot down on the accelerator rather suddenly, obviously still quite irked), Harry was reminded again of the Knight Bus, and was glad that on this bus he could at least count on the seats being firmly attached to the floor.

He waited while Gordon and Chloe made their unsteady way down the aisle, past the mere half-dozen or so other passengers on this muggy summer evening. He didn't recognise any of the other people, and fortunately, there were enough seats for him to avoid being very near to anyone else. He chose one about halfway back, near an open window. Gordon and Chloe were in the very back of the bus, resuming their kissing. Harry was, unfortunately, forced to witness this activity again before he managed to sit.

At least it's not that little rat-faced Piers Polkiss, he thought, remembering Piers's onion breath in his ear when he had held Harry's arms behind him many times, while Dudley attacked. He hadn't allowed himself to get into a situation like that with Dudley since finding out that he was a wizard, but Harry would still never forget Piers doing this. The thing that had really stung was that Piers was new to the neighbourhood when Harry was nine years old and had, at first, seemed like he would be interested in being Harry's friend. He had pretended to be Harry's friend, for a little while. Worse than the beating that Dudley had given him when the truth came out was the realisation that Piers had betrayed him, that he'd been planning all along to make Harry think he had a friend and then reveal that he was really in league with Dudley....

Harry was glad when he was finally able to face away from Gordon and Chloe, feeling the breeze from the open window through his Cloak, speeding toward temporary freedom. Now he just had to hope that someone was getting off in New Stokington. Well, he reasoned, if no one does, I could get off in the village after that. He couldn't remember the name of it, but he reckoned that someone had to be getting off in the next couple of villages after Harrington.

When they finally reached Gordon and Chloe's destination, Harry heaved a sigh of relief. As the bus pulled away from them, a very elderly woman sitting near the driver leaned forward and said, "What stop was that, dearie?"

"Harrington, ma'am."

"So New Stokington is next?"

"Yes, ma'am. Is that where you're going?"

"Yes, yes it is," the old woman beamed. Her white hair was like a halo around her head and when she smiled at the driver her face crinkled up into a network of wrinkles that was nonetheless more cheerful than aging. Sometimes when Harry saw an old woman like her, he imagined that she could be one of his grandmothers. He'd searched the photo album Hagrid had given him, looking for but not finding anyone in the photos from his parents' wedding who looked like they could be his parents' parents. But then, Hagrid had asked people for pictures of his parents, not theirs.

He smiled at the old woman, knowing that she didn't know he was smiling at her. I have a way to get off the bus in New Stokington, he thought, beaming invisibly at her even more. Thank you for that.

They finally turned onto New Stokington High Street and came to a halt at the bus stop. Harry scuttled carefully down the aisle so that he was ahead of the old woman and ready to leap out the door first. Sure enough, as he'd expected, the driver opened the bus door when the old woman was still at the top of the steps; Harry leaped out quickly while she made her cautious way down toward the pavement, holding tightly to the rail, then the bus doors. She turned around when she'd reached the pavement.

"Thank you, young lady," she said with another wrinkly smile. The driver smiled and nodded at her before closing the door and speeding down the High Street, going on to the next village.

Harry looked around, his heart thumping quickly, wondering what to do now. He looked up and down the High Street, finally spying a large sign hanging out over the pavement: an enormous bull's head was painted on a sign hanging on noisy chains that creaked as the breeze made the sign sway. The bull's horns were picked out in gold, and in gold letters around the bottom of the sign it read The Bartered Bull.

For no reason he could name, he liked the sound of it. He looked carefully about, ducked into a dark doorway several shops away from the pub, surreptitiously pulled off his cloak and folded it neatly, placing it in his rucksack. He also touched the handle of his wand, stuck into the waistband of his jeans as usual; he liked knowing it was there and he fussed with his shirt for a moment, making certain it hid the wand.

Adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder, he stepped out of the shadows and began ambling toward the pub, whistling jauntily and feeling generally quite pleased with himself. If I can get into Hogsmeade without Dementors finding out, surely I can get out of the house to spend some time with normal people.

But at the thought of Dementors, Harry shivered for a moment, remembering that the Dementors had left Azkaban and were no longer working for the Ministry. He also remembered Malfoy saying that his dad and the others would be out of the prison in no time. Looking furtively around the seemingly-deserted High Street, Harry sped up a bit, sweating uncomfortably, and was finally standing before the dark wood door of the pub. With a deep breath, he pulled it open and stepped into its dim interior.

He found a pub that could have existed anywhere in Britain. Dark panelling lined the walls, a rowdy gang was playing darts in the rear, a slightly tarty-looking barmaid was polishing a glass behind the ancient-looking counter, and the patrons who weren't playing darts looked as though they hadn't moved from their seats in about thirty years and would probably need those seats surgically removed if it ever occurred to them to do so. The television hanging over the far end of the bar was showing a football match and Harry grinned, striding toward the bar, watching the ref give a very irate player a yellow card. It wasn't clear to him what clubs were playing, but the yellow-card-coach wasn't happy, and Harry wondered whether the player would get a red card if the coach irritated the referee enough.

Still watching the television, Harry sat on a vacant stool at the bar and started to take off his rucksack, but the barmaid quickly approached him and announced, "Sorry. That stool's taken."

Harry was jolted and looked at her in surprise. She looked nearly fifty but deep in denial about this. Her worn face drooped a bit at the edges, as though made of candle wax that was melting, and the makeup she'd applied to attempt to disguise the drooping simply made her look vaguely clown-like, and not in a good way; it was more like the evil clowns who occasionally popped up in horror films, with disturbingly constant grins and bloody butcher knives. Her clearly artificial blonde hair stood out from her head in a bushy halo, heightening the clownish effect. With some difficulty, as he'd never seen anyone who made him feel less like smiling, he turned up the edges of his mouth.

"Er, sorry. Is here all right?" he said, patting the stool next to him.

She crossed her arms. "No, 'fraid not. Those are for Gary and Bruce. No one sits in Gary and Bruce's places."

Harry looked around, prepared to be told that all of the unclaimed seating, every table and bench, was in fact traditionally used by other specific people in the community, making it impossible for a stranger to be served (or at least to sit while drinking and eating). "Erm, where can I sit without taking someone else's place?"

"Down here," the barmaid told him, to his relief, strolling to the end of the bar with the television; he'd half expected her to show him the door. "Most people think it's too close to the telly. Hope you don't mind. It's just that--"

"I understand," Harry said quickly. He'd already drawn more attention to himself than he'd intended to and sat quickly on the approved stool. The barmaid had switched the television to a sports talk show. The host was interviewing a Belgian footballer who didn't speak very much English and kept replying in Belgian before attempting pidgin English.

Belgian, Harry thought a moment later. That doesn't sound right. Is there a language called that? Or is it called something else? He thought of the GCSEs again, feeling very stupid.

"Well?" the barmaid said, one carefully pencilled-on eyebrow raised expectantly.

"What?" Harry said, blinking at her.

"I said, are you going to sit there gawping into space or order something? We don't let folks come in here just to watch the telly, I'm afraid."

"Oh, sorry. Distracted. Um, I'd just like a Coke. Oh, and some crisps, if you have them."

She made a face. "One Coke," she sneered. "And crisps. My, such a big spender we are," she added. Without any indication that she was interested in getting the Coke or the crisps, she squinted at him suspiciously now. "How old are you, anyway?"

Harry swallowed. "Eighteen," he said in as deep a voice as he could muster. Unfortunately, it sounded utterly different to how he'd just been speaking and he gave the barmaid a feeble smile, hoping fervently that she wouldn't ask him to prove his age and then kick him out.

"Uh huh," she said sceptically, her facial expression not changing. However, she did go to get his Coke now, putting it on the bar in front of him wordlessly and then going to get a packet of crisps for him.

Harry grimaced, turning back to the television, enormously grateful that she hadn't turned him out, since he doubted that she actually believed he was eighteen. So much for talking to people who don't dislike me, he thought. No one else in the pub was paying any attention to him or looking inclined to include a stranger in their conversations. Everyone present seemed to have all of the friends they needed already and Harry didn't think the barmaid would be talking to him if she didn't absolutely have to. Plus, now he had to worry about saying something that gave away his true age if anyone did engage him in conversation. Oh, well. At least I can watch the telly and be well away from Marge.

He sipped his Coke and ripped open the packet of crisps the barmaid brought him, staring at the small screen almost directly above his head. He was very quickly starting to get a stiff neck from doing this. The six stools to his left remained vacant and he began to wonder whether the barmaid was having him on when she told him that he had to sit right under the television.

He was just about to ask whether he could move over when the door of the pub was pulled open and a boisterous crowd entered. A number of men in football jerseys strode in, swearing colourfully at each other, but grinning good-naturedly the entire time. The crowd made its confused way toward the bar, and Harry was glad of his stool then, clinging resolutely to it. He tilted his head back to watch the television host struggle with his guest, pretending not to notice the newcomers.

"Right, Sadie, love," a burly, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man of about thirty said, leaning over the bar to pat her rump. "I'm taking care of the lads tonight," he informed her, slapping what looked like a couple of hundred pounds on the damp, beer-smelling wood surface. Harry's eyes widened, as did Sadie's.

"Bloody hell, Gary. How much did you have on the match?"

"I bet Lockley that we'd not only beat his mates, but that if we did it by worse than three-to-one, he'd double the bet." When he grinned, he showed that he was missing one of his upper front teeth. Harry had never seen anyone quite so muscular in person. His face was a bit frightening, with the missing tooth and a nose that appeared to have been broken and badly healed at some time in the past. He also bore numerous scratches on his cheeks and forehead; the skin around his left eye appeared to be darkening as well and he kept blinking that one, as though he had a nervous tick.

"So he clocked you, did he?"

Gary touched the skin around his left eye tentatively, wincing. "Yeah, so? He still paid. He knew he had to. If he didn't--we wouldn't let him forget that in a hurry. Would we lads?" he added, his voice going up as he turned to face his mates. They yelled slightly wild and untamed approval, making Harry wonder whether they were really human or had only recently evolved from cavemen who sometimes still tired of walking upright. They were all liberally decorated with clods of dirt (some blood, too); more than a few also had missing teeth and scratched and bruised faces; and not one, it seemed, failed to register his approval for Gary at the top of his lungs or by slapping him on the back.

Harry continued to watch the television while also watching the footballers out of the corner of his eye, should he need to duck to avoid chairs being thrown. Somehow, the presence of Gary and his mates made Harry think that a pub-brawl might be imminent, and he just didn't want to be caught unawares. His Coke wasn't as good as he remembered (he thought longingly of Madam Rosmerta's butterbeer) and the crisps were a bit wilted and stale. Altogether, he was starting to feel that this outing wasn't such a good idea after all. The grass is always greener, isn't it? he thought, wishing he'd simply rambled around the play park in Little Whinging after all. His neck was hurting from the way he had to watch the telly, the food and drink weren't very good, and he was sharing the bar with a most dangerous-looking collection of men. I have all the bloody luck.

Just as he was thinking this, Gary himself came up to him and abruptly slapped him on the back, practically making Harry go head-first into his Coke. Harry was strongly reminded of Hagrid. "Hello, mate! Haven't see you in the old Balls-of-the-Bull before."

"That's Bartered Bull, Gary! You stop that!" the barmaid complained.

Gary gave her a broad tooth-deficient grin. "Just joking, Sadie, just joking." He turned back to Harry. "So--you got a name?"

"Harry Potter," he said without thinking. Damn! Why did I say that? He'd meant to use his usual alias: Neville Longbottom. Then he remembered that, like him, Neville was thought to be someone who might have fulfilled the prophecy Trelawney had made about Voldemort....

"Harry Potter? Well, Harry, what position do you play?"

Harry frowned. "Um, you mean football position? I don't really play. We don't--I mean, didn't--do football at my school..."

Gary looked shocked. "Don't play? Don't play? That's--that's just not on, is it lads?" he shouted to his friends, who raised their glasses of ale and roared in agreement, although it wasn't clear to Harry that any of them knew what they were agreeing to.

Harry watched them, taking a sip of his Coke, which was having trouble getting past the lump in his throat. Something about this situation was suddenly saying to him Danger, danger, danger.... He was now longing for the time when the footballers hadn't yet entered the pub and no one was willing to speak to him.

"So, Harry," Gary said, his broad hand on Harry's shoulder; "where you from? Not around here, I know." He shook his head, muttering, "What sort of proper school doesn't have football, that's what I'd like to know...."

Harry swallowed. "No, not from around here."

"Where then?" Gary pressed, making Harry feel more than a little suspicious. I will not tell him that I'm from Little Whinging. Something about this doesn't feel right.

"London," he said suddenly. "Do you--do you know Grimmauld Place?"

Gary grimaced. "Nah. My uncle probably would, though. He's got the 'Knowledge,' if you know what I mean," he answered, putting his finger aside his nose as though it were some sort of secret signal that he and Harry had agreed had a particular meaning.

Harry panicked for a second. The Knowledge? Did that mean his uncle knew about magic? "Erm, 'Knowledge?'" Harry asked uncertainly, as though he didn't know about magic at all.

"Yeah, you know, what taxi-drivers have to know to get around those bloody London streets. Get lost if they didn't. That'd be useful. They have to take a ruddy difficult test and all."

Harry laughed with relief. "Oh, right. Of course. Yeah, that's where I live, all right. Grimmauld Place. Home sweet home." He forced another laugh.

Gary laughed with him and slapped him on the back once more. Harry hoped very, very sincerely that Gary would soon leave him alone. Even though he'd hardly been in the pub for any time at all, Harry had an extremely strong urge to leave now. However, having mentioned Grimmauld Place, he found himself suddenly thinking quite longingly of it. That's really my home, he thought. Not Privet Drive.

"Home sweet home!" Gary crowed, throwing his arm around Harry's shoulder. "Love it, just love it, I do. Sadie!" he called to her, even though she wasn't three feet away. "Another whatever for my friend Harry Potter here from Grimmauld Place in London. I'm buying. And whatever he wants to eat, as well." He glanced at Harry's crisps. "I wouldn't recommend eating those," he said in an undertone as Sadie went to get Harry another Coke. "Been trying to get rid of those for seven years, she has. Ask for a bacon sarnie instead, mate."

Harry grimaced, thinking of his money situation. "I would, but I need to make my money last for a while--"

"Nah, that's on me, too!" he said, draining his glass and then slamming it down on the bar so loudly that it rang. "Another one, love, and quickly. And get Harry here a bacon sarnie."

When she set the sandwich down before Harry, he picked it up gratefully; he'd been given woefully small helpings of roast beef and vegetables at dinner, and was still very hungry. Maybe this isn't so bad after all, he thought, biting into the sandwich and nodding at Gary. He'd been silly to worry. And it's just the sort of thing you'd have done, Sirius, he thought wistfully, as he chewed and swallowed.

Harry watched the telly, ate his sandwich, and gamely listened to Gary describe his own brilliant performance in their match. This was why I came, Harry thought, grinning at the way Gary cavorted while he spoke, a bundle of energy that had a specific purpose: to win at football.

Harry didn't want to think about his purpose in life: to kill Voldemort or be killed by him.

So he chewed and watched and listened, and was even feeling a little grateful toward Marge Dursley, that she'd driven him to this. If it weren't for her, he'd be in the living-room of number four, Privet Drive yet, listening to her and her brother insult him and praise Dudley. Despite Gary's slight scariness, this situation was a definite improvement.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Severus Snape's hand slipped unobtrusively into his robe pocket, finding his wand and wrapping his long fingers around it. One good hex, that's all I'd need and the world would have one less Malfoy in it.

He watched the boy, his pale, pointed face eager in the orange glow of the Muggle streetlight. He appeared to be miming, pressing his body against an invisible barrier which rebuffed him gently but firmly. Draco Malfoy was not getting through.

Beside him, Macnair was, similarly, testing the spell that protected Harry Potter. Every evening since Potter had returned to Surrey from Hogwarts, the Dark Lord's minions were positioned in a rough circle of two mile's radius around the Dursleys' house; that was the closest any of them had been able to get, due to Dumbledore's protection spell.

Except Snape, of course.

However, he could not reveal that he had no problem penetrating the barrier. If he were seen crossing over, his cover would be blown and he could no longer function as one of Dumbledore's most valuable assets: a Death Eater spy. He'd laughed with Lucius Malfoy about having fooled Dumbledore into thinking he was a spy, he'd apologized to the Dark Lord for using this subterfuge to escape prison, for his denial of his True Master, and he'd suffered for it. While Cruciatus was the Dark Lord's favourite method for keeping his servants in line, it was not his only option when someone needed to be punished....

He sighed, watching the stupid young Malfoy continue to press futilely against the barrier. Dumbledore's protection spell was the deepest ancient magic, a guaranteed protection against magical enemies, and would not be defeated by a mere boy, Snape knew. He wished he could have been anywhere else, as he was rather worried about the prospect of having to pretend to press against an invisible wall that, for him, did not exist. (While he could lie with alacrity, due to his Occlumency training, lying in his physical actions was not something to which he was accustomed.) Unfortunately, Dumbledore had given him the task of keeping an eye on young Malfoy, after the stupid whelp had snuck off to the Weasley home in Devon the previous afternoon. He'd evidently been attempting to get revenge on the Weasley girl for hexing him in Umbridge's office, when Potter and his gang had flown off to the Ministry (on Thestrals, of all things!) to rescue Sirius Black. Malfoy had hit Ron Weasley instead of his sister (the two had been playing Quidditch in an orchard near the house) and he had ended up in St. Mungo's with more than a few broken bones.

In addition to having attacked Ron and Ginny Weasley, therefore performing magic out of school, he'd let Ron Weasley see him after the attack. He even talked to him, after which he'd Disapparated. Snape counted up the serious offences in his head: underage magic, performing a spell with the intent to harm--even kill--another person; successful completion of said spell, with the result that the victim was hospitalized with a number of broken bones; illegally Apparating (no licence and underage).

However, despite a slight change at the Ministry, no charges were brought against Malfoy. It could not be proved that Weasley had fallen from his broom because of a spell; only Ron Weasley, not Ginny Weasley, had witnessed Malfoy at the crime scene, so there was no corroborating witness; and individuals who were not related to Draco Malfoy (not his mother, for instance) had vouched for him, giving Malfoy an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the alleged crime. Even testing his wand turned up nothing, but he might have borrowed someone else's wand to go to the Weasley property.

Malfoy couldn't be touched.

It didn't hurt, Snape knew, that a number of the people at the Ministry responsible for deciding whether to pursue the case had probably been on the receiving end of quite a lot of Malfoy gold before Lucius had received his one-way ticket to Azkaban. Since the news had come down that the Dementors had left the island prison, most wizards were expecting news of another escape any day. As it was, Bellatrix Lestrange, her husband and her brother-in-law had managed to escape when the Dementors were still guarding the place. What could stop her and people like Lucius Malfoy now?

Snape knew, of course, that the Ministry had set up a complicated schedule for rotating four teams of Aurors on and off of prison guard duty. Dumbledore was down one member of the Order at the moment, as Kingsley Shacklebolt was on prison guard duty for a fortnight. And after that, Tonks would be going for another fortnight, not that Snape thought she was any great loss to the Order. Her incessant change of appearance he found merely irksome and childish. At least Shacklebolt behaved like an adult.

Snape watched Malfoy and Macnair, resisting the urge to sigh. It mattered not whether he was with Death Eaters or members of the Order, he had a very difficult time feeling much respect for anyone with whom he had to spend much time. He could count on the fingers of one hand the people for whom he felt at minimum a grudging respect. Dumbledore was one, of course. McGonagall was another. Alastor Moody just barely scraped by. Kingsley Shacklebolt. And last--and certainly least--was Remus Lupin. Five. One hand.

Lupin was an excellent spy, Snape had to admit. He lurked nearby now, unbeknownst to Malfoy and Macnair, wearing an Invisibility Cloak and keeping an eye on Macnair, since Snape's chief job was to keep track of Malfoy. Lupin had studied Occlumency and Snape was sometimes able to communicate silently with him, although he had to be very careful to avoid actually delving into Lupin's mind. It had been bad enough nearly being killed by Lupin when they were in school; he didn't want to relive again and again the night that Lupin had, as a child, been bitten by a werewolf himself. Snape had seen a brief glimpse of it once, and that was enough for him. He'd had some flashbacks after that of the "prank" that Sirius Black had played on him, and had not tried to communicate with Lupin in this way for some time after. He only did it when it was absolutely necessary; exploring the inner recesses of a werewolf's mind was not something he was terribly interested in doing, no matter how talented a spy Lupin was.

He jerked his head up suddenly. Malfoy had cried out.

"I'm through! I got through! It collapsed!" He looked like he might dance a jig. Macnair looked sceptical.

"Don't be ridicu--" But Macnair put his hand where it had previously been halted, finding that the air offered no resistance. He shuffled forward on the pavement, holding his hands before him as though he was playing blindman's bluff. Nothing appeared to be interested in stopping him. Snape swallowed, apprehensive.

"Well, let's not just stand here! Let's go! Who knows if it'll close up again?" Draco Malfoy said eagerly. Snape nodded stoically at him, then sent a thought in the direction of where he knew Remus Lupin to be.

Follow us. I don't like this.

He felt rather than heard Lupin's reply echo in his brain: I agree.

So the four of them--three visible wizards, one invisible werewolf-wizard--walked into the quiet suburb of Little Whinging, preparing to go to number four, Privet Drive.

Bloody hell, Potter, thought Severus Snape as he walked quickly, to keep up with the anxious Malfoy and Macnair.

What have you done now?

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