Exile?

Freedom?

The same old wizard was on the boat, gazing impassively as Harry climbed over the gunwale onto the deck. He went back into his small deckhouse, and the boat began to back away from the shore. As it swung round, Harry saw the warder once more making his way back up the beach towards the fortress. The boat picked up speed, and headed out back into the open waters of the sea.

Harry felt his mind clearing once more, as they left the vicinity of the Dementors. Although it was a cloudy day, it was wonderful to be out in the open again, and he took deep lungfuls of fresh air. This reminded him, though, of how much he smelled. There had been more than one occasion when he'd lost bladder control in the presence of the Dementors, and he was still wearing the clothes in which he had arrived all those weeks – months? - ago. He was grateful too for the way he'd forced himself to exercise day after day, pushing the pain. Without the exercise, he doubted whether he'd even be able to stand upright on the pitching deck.

Soon a smudge appeared on the horizon. They were approaching land once more. What part of England – or Scotland – this was, he had no idea, save only that it had to be somewhere on the east coast. But that covered some hundreds of miles. He never allowed himself to think of what he might do if ever released – such a fantasy he'd tucked away in the very small folder in his mind marked 'happy thoughts', a folder never to be opened when Dementors were around.

It was not long before the boat was approaching the stone jetty he remembered from his arrival. The boat slowed, and came alongside. The old wizard came out of his deckhouse and jerked a thumb.

“Out.”

Harry had no wish to stay on the boat a moment longer. He climbed over the side onto the stone steps. As he stood there, the boat reversed away, the old wizard disappearing once more. Harry looked around at the empty sky and water, then turned and began climbing the stone steps onto the jetty. At the top, he stopped and took a deep breath of relief. He was free. He was out of there. But what now?

Time to take stock. He sat down on an old cast iron bollard to think. At least he could think clearly now, with his mind no longer fogged by the Dementors' presence. And he was also no longer afraid to think of things pleasurable. There was no need to hide them away, as he had forced himself to do on the island. Not that there were many pleasurable things to think about just at the moment. Let's see now, he was ... he didn't know where. He had no home to go to. He had no wand. He had no magical money. He had no Muggle money. He had no clothes fit to wear. He was filthy. He stank. So, apart from that ...

Well, he could do something about the smell. The stone jetty was deserted: he went down the steps again, and stripped off. The sea didn't look too dirty. The water was still warm from the fading summer. He scrubbed himself as best he could in cold salt water, no soap at hand. His clothes – if he rinsed them, they would take time to dry, and they'd be encrusted with salt. He compromised by soaking his trousers and underpants, mindful of the times when he had pissed himself.

He spread the clothes out in the weak sunshine to dry. Well, still no money, no food, and nowhere to sleep. Miles from anywhere. He might have exercised for hour after hour in his cell, but he knew that hadn't set him up for long distance walking. Fifteen years old. He'd have to stay clear of the Muggle police, or that would be more trouble for him. A fifteen year old wandering alone across the countryside? He'd have social workers on his case before he could blink.

But still – what else was there for him to do? Go to London? For what? And how would he get there? Hitchhike? Maybe – but he'd have to be careful. If he were picked up by the wrong sort of person ... and he was in no fit state to defend himself. He could try to get back to Grimmauld Place – at least he knew how to get in, and he knew another fugitive was there.

But Grimmauld Place was home for the Order, and the last thing he wanted now was contact with Dumbledore, with the Weasleys, with Ron or with Hermione. Partly out of a feeling of shame. Partly out of hate. He'd spent three months in Azkaban and not one of them had come to his rescue. And it wasn't even as if he had deserved his sentence. Sirius was the only person he felt kinship with now, and that was the feeling for a fellow fugitive. Certainly the Dursleys were out of the question. He was not going back there – not in his present state. He could imagine how they'd gloat. So perhaps it would have to be Grimmauld Place after all – the only option left open to him.

But first he wanted to relish his freedom, even if it had been bought at a price. He wanted to feel the sunlight on his whitened body, to feel the air blowing across him. The chill raised goosepimples, but by now he was inured to cold. He sat on the bollard, naked, with his tee shirt as a cushion. He sat until finally it became time to move. He stirred himself and dressed, then took a final look around. He'd have to strike inland until he came to a road or town or village, and then try and work out where he was.

A path wound up the grassy slope of the hill, and he set off along the jetty. His legs began to protest quite quickly. He was using muscles he had not been able to exercise adequately whilst locked in a cell. His pace slowed, but by now he had become accustomed to the pain barrier; he know when he could carry on and when he should stop. And halfway up he did stop, taking a five minute breather. But as he got to his feet, he saw a figure on the skyline, and instantly became wary. Was this a passing Muggle, or was it some Ministry official waiting to catch him out, so he could be scooped up again and returned to Azkaban for once and for all? Or worse still, some Death Eater tipped off by someone inside the Ministry?

He slowed his pace, but the figure stood on the brow of the hill, obviously watching him. This couldn't be good, whoever it was. Suddenly the man began running down the slope, stopping a dozen paces away. Harry's jaw dropped. It was Sirius.

He could see the shock in the man's face.

“My God, Harry, what have they done to you?”

Harry laughed. It was a strange experience for him now.

“You should know that.” His voice croaked from long disuse.

“Even so.” Sirius shook his head, distress written on his face. Then: “Come on. We can't be seen out in the open like this.”

Harry nodded, and began toiling up the hill again, Sirius leading the way. At the top he paused for breath. There was a copse of trees not far off, and Sirius waved his hand towards it.

“Over there. It's as good a place as any.”

Harry followed Sirius into the quiet of the trees, where they stopped. Sirius turned to look at Harry again. Harry could see the anger on his face.

“Upon my word, someone will pay for this.”

“Oh, yes,” said Harry, his voice quivering. “It's a bit late now, but someone will pay for it all right. I'll make sure of that.” Sirius frowned at Harry's words. “And I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is not to do anything rash or stupid or whatever. Well, I'll tell you something. I'm never again going to be told by people what to do ever again.” The words came tumbling out from him, impelled by weeks of anger and frustration. “I've been told what to do, how to do it, when to do it, for the past four years, and look what happened to me.”

He stopped for breath, his voice already hoarse, his throat sore. He hadn't said so many words since that day in the Ministry ...

“Azkaban really has changed you,” Sirius said quietly.

“Surprised?”

“Not really.” Sirius sighed. “Inevitable, I suppose. Well, at least you're alive and relatively sane.”

Harry gave a laugh that became a cackle. “Relatively sane? Maybe. Anyway, how did you know I'd be here?”

“Oh, one thing the Ministry's good at is paperwork. Shacklebolt saw the release papers and tipped us off. I came because – well, I suppose they thought I'd be best for the job.”

“They?” said Harry with bitterness. “They?”

“The Order.”

“Stuff the Order. Stuff them all.”

“Harry – you've no idea. We raised heaven and earth to try to get you out. But the Prophet's been muzzled, so the trial was never reported. There was nothing Arthur could do, and Percy blocked any attempts he did try to make. Dumbledore – well, he's struggling at Hogwarts as it is. The way things stand – I think Fudge is trying to get him into Azkaban as well.”

“Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?” said Harry.

Sirius stared at him. “You're dead right we wouldn't. What use would it be if both of you ended up there?”

“Yeah, maybe. Okay then, what's the plan? And don't tell me there isn't one, because there always is.”

“Well,” said Sirius cautiously, “the plan is for you to come back to Grimmauld Place.”

“Grimmauld Place? Maybe. But only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You don't tell anyone. Anyone at all. You tell them I wasn't here when you arrived, that you couldn't find me.”

“Is that what you want, Harry?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sirius shrugged. “Fine. We do it your way then. We'll have to wait until it's dark, in any case. Oh, and by the way ...” Sirius drew his wand and slowly cast it over Harry. “They've put Tracking Charms on you. They always do for people coming out of Azkaban, but they've beefed them up for you. I'll take them off – but I'd better wait until we're ready to go.” Harry nodded. “I'm sorry, but I didn't bring any food or anything like that – didn't have time.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Do you want to get some sleep while we wait? I never could get much in there.” Harry nodded again. For a brief moment, a rare emotion surfaced – he was touched by Sirius' obvious sympathy. But that sort of emotion needed fertile soil to flourish, and Harry's heart was stony ground. “I'll keep watch while you rest,” Sirius went on.

“Fine.”

Harry sank to the ground, and rested his back against a tree stump. It was good being out in the open again, but even the walk up the hill had been almost too much for him. He felt his eyelids drooping, and drifted off to sleep, but dreamed no dreams, nor felt any visions, now he was out in the bright daylight.

When finally he woke, the sun was low on the horizon, shining through the clouds in a blaze of red and orange. He must have been out for some time. Sirius was right: you never got a proper night's sleep in Azkaban. You dozed intermittently. You were woken by screams. You were woken by things poking in your mind. Dully, Harry wondered whether Dementors could feed on dreams. Without those visions, he knew he would not have got any sleep worth talking of.

He felt the tree digging into his back, the hard roughness of the ground. No longer in Azkaban, his senses were that much sharper now. The evening air was cool and fresh, the copse of trees smelt of wood, of damp, of soil. He lay back and thought.

So – was it to be Grimmauld Place then? Harry was still not entirely convinced that this was a good idea, but what other choice did he have? And it was just as well they'd sent Sirius to find him – had it been anyone else, they'd have been told to get lost – except rather more rudely. Even Dumbledore himself, the way Harry thought about him now.

He got to his feet and stretched, and could feel his muscles protesting. He was still in poor physical shape, despite his attempts at exercise in his cell. Over at the edge of the trees he could see the silhouette of Sirius, standing guard, wand in hand. He walked towards him, and at the sound of a breaking twig, Sirius turned.

“Feeling better?”

“A bit.” Harry looked at the sun, squinting at the bright light – even the setting sun was too much for him. “What's the date?”

“It's the end of October – the thirty first.”

“Halloween,” said Harry quietly.

“That's right.”

He imagined what it might be like at the Hogwarts feast, with an empty place at the Gryffindor table. Or would there be an empty place? Perhaps he'd been forgotten already. He could imagine people asking in a few months: 'Whatever happened to that strange Potter kid?' 'Dunno. Vanished somewhere.'

“You'll be back there soon enough, Harry.” Sirius had read his thoughts.

“Yeah? What makes you think I want to be back there?”

Sirius looked at him hard. “So what are you going to do then? Vanish into the Muggle world?”

“Right now, that seems a very good idea.”

“He's after you, Harry. Voldemort, that is. And he can track you down as easily in the Muggle world as in the magical one.”

“Voldemort? No such person. The Minister himself said so.”

Sirius looked at Harry as if he wasn't sure whether he was being serious or he was joking. Finally, he decided he was joking. Harry watched the sun disappear below the horizon.

“There'll be a problem when I get back,” said Sirius.

“Oh?”

“If I say I couldn't find you, there'll be hell to pay. The whole Order will start scouring the countryside.”

“So?”

“Harry!” said Sirius, exasperated. “All right, you're fresh out of Azkaban, and you hate the world. You think that everyone just left you to rot, and didn't give a damn. Well, I can tell you quite a few people have been risking their lives trying to get you out. Okay, they didn't succeed, but it wasn't for want of trying. Now, you can say you don't owe them anything if you like, but don't let them go on risking their lives if they don't need to.”

“Okay,” said Harry, a little more subdued now. “How about this? When we get back, I write a note saying I'm out, but don't bother looking for me because you won't find me. You can say you got it by owl.”

“Right. It won't stop them looking, but they'll be happier if they know you're all right. By the way, I've got your wand at home. Kingsley managed to nab it from Percy's desk.”

“What use is that? I use it once, and the Ministry'll know where I am.”

“One of the advantages of Grimmauld Place,” said Sirius. “It's Unplottable. You can use it as much as you like there, and they'll not find out. And an advantage of being with a fellow felon is that I know all the tricks. I can mask your wand so they can't trace it.”

“Okay,” said Harry, impressed despite himself.

“It'll be dark soon. We can Apparate to a nearby alleyway, then make a dash for it. Straight into the house.”

“Will anyone be there?”

“Doubt it. I'll check when we get in.”

“If there is,” Harry warned, “I'm straight out of the door.”

“Okay,” said Sirius wearily. “I'll check it out, don't worry.”

They waited a few more minutes as the twilight grew.

“I'll take those Tracking Charms off you now, then we go. As soon as I've done, grab onto my elbow, and hang on hard.”

Sirius waved his wand over Harry a few times until he was satisfied. “Right.”

Harry took hold, and then in a sickening swirl they were off, twisting and turning until they arrived in a small, dark, smelly alleyway.

“Come on,” said Sirius urgently, and they hurried out in Grimmauld Place, then to the pavement in front of where Number Twelve should be. The house appeared in front of them, and Sirius tapped the door. After loud clunkings and rattlings, it swung open. Sirius pulled Harry inside and closed the door, then stood in the hall for a moment or two.

“There's no one here,” said Sirius quietly.

“How can you tell?”

“The feel of the house. You're quite safe – don't worry.”

“Okay. Can I have a bath and some clean clothes now?”

“Yeah. You do pong a bit.”

When Harry woke the next morning, he was completely disoriented. Where was he? Why was the bed so soft? Where were the screams and the cold? Then he realised: he was out of Azkaban now. It had been Sirius that had woken him, a breakfast tray guided in front of him by his wand.

“Have something to eat.”

Harry realised he had had hardly anything to eat the day before, and he was ravenous. The breakfast tasted better than food had ever tasted, and half way through, he realised why. The Dementors of Azkaban deadened every sense: it was like emerging from a world of greys to one that was vibrantly chromatic.

“It's like that, when you get out,” said Sirius quietly, watching him.

Harry felt a sudden surge of sympathy with Sirius: he too had suffered the same, but for years rather than months. He was suddenly aware of his body: the feeling of clean sheets against his skin; his hearing seemed to have sharpened, the sense of taste and of smell more acute now.

“Yeah.”

“Your wand is on the tray.”

Harry looked at it, but didn't pick it up. Instead he polished off the food then pushed his plate away. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Sirius sat quietly on the edge of the bed, still watching him. Harry forced a smile.

Weighing his words, Sirius said, “What you're going to ask is: what now?”

Yeah, what now? He was free, but he was confined by the conditions of his freedom. No more magic, no more contact with the magical world.

“I've broken the conditions of my release already. No contact with wizards. Anyone finds me, I'm straight back in there,” he said with a small smile.

Sirius shrugged. “They'll have to kill me before they take you back,” he said, in a matter of fact tone.

“Maybe. But I know one thing – I can't stay here for long. This is the headquarters of the Order, and people will be coming and going all the time.”

“You don't want to see Dumbledore?”

“No!”

“Or any of the others? Ron? Hermione? The Weasleys?”

With a pang of guilt, again he said, “No.” Then: “Not at the moment, anyway.”

“Fair enough. What then?”

What indeed? No money, no home. He didn't count Privet Drive – there was no way he was going back there. That was a non starter. He had money enough in Gringotts, but no way of getting at it. Unless ...

“Sirius? Is there any way of transferring money from Gringotts to a Muggle bank?”

“Oh, yeah. How do you think I arranged to pay for that Firebolt? Did it all through a Muggle bank.”

“Which one?”

“There's a private bank called Coutts. Been going since 1692. It has a liaison office with Gringotts.”

“That'd be run by wizards, though, won't it?”

“Probably. Doesn't matter. Gringotts is a very private place. The goblins don't brook any interference from the Ministry. And they'll make sure Coutts won't tell. There's no way Fudge will find out.”

“There's a snag to my opening an account with a Muggle bank. I'm only fifteen.”

“I'm your godfather. I could sign any papers needed. As I say, it's a very private bank.”

“Okay. How do I go about it?”

“Write a letter to Gringotts explaining what you want to do. They have special tamper proof envelopes – if anyone but them tries to open them, the letter goes up in flames. I can get hold of those easily enough. Probably got some tucked away somewhere. Tell them to transfer whatever to Coutts, and they'll set up an account for you.”

Harry thought about that. “The sooner the better, then.”

“If you talk to the right people at Coutts, they can get you Galleons too. Mind you, it's a service you pay through the nose through.”

“It'd be worth it.”

“We can set wheels into motion this morning.”

“Thanks.” Harry changed the subject. “Is all my stuff still here? My trunk, and so on?”

Sirius nodded. “Just as you left it.”

“Good. That means my Invisibility Cloak will be here as well.”

“Yes,” said Sirius cautiously.

“I was just thinking – the Dursleys will have all the paperwork on me – Muggle stuff. I ought to go and collect it. And you can be sure someone will be watching Privet Drive, so the cloak would be useful.”

“You're thinking of going out into the Muggle world then?” Sirius asked.

“Well, it's that or staying here for the rest of my life.”

Sirius smiled. “Voldemort is bound to surface sooner or later. When that happens, all hell will let loose. You'll find everyone will be falling over themselves to say sorry then.”

“Yeah? What good would that do? Fudge and the rest of them can keep their bloody Ministry.”

“Harry, Fudge'll be gone.”

“It's not just Fudge!” Harry burst out, with a sudden surge of anger. He sat bolt upright in bed. “What about all those people in the Wizengamot who voted to find me guilty? What do you think it was like being told by Percy Weasley that I'd be going to Azkaban for 'an indefinite period'?” Sirius was obviously taken aback by Harry's vehemence. “And who was it who sent the Dementors to Little Whinging in the first place?”

Sirius sighed. “After what you've been through I'm not surprised you're angry.”

“Angry? Angry? Angry doesn't even begin to describe it. The whole bloody system is rotten from top to bottom.”

“You may be right. That's why we have the Order.”

“And what use has that been?”

“More than you think, Harry, more than you think. But let's drop it for the moment – okay?”

Harry bit back a reply. Arguing with Sirius wasn't going to get him anywhere.

“Right. Well, I'm going to get another bath and some more clean clothes, then we'll work on that letter to Gringotts.”

“Sounds an idea,” Sirius replied, standing up and taking the tray.

Later that morning, Harry investigated the contents of his trunk. It had obviously been packed very carefully for him by Mrs Weasley after he had left – and never come back. Until now. He looked at his school books and robes: the way he felt at the moment, he could not bear even to touch them. He pulled out socks, underwear, jeans and trainers, then his Invisibility Cloak. He slammed the lid on what was left, not wishing to be reminded any further of what he could no longer have.

Sirius had warned him that some members of the Order would be meeting there later in the evening. There was no way he wanted to be in the house at the same time as them. Well, there was a solution to that.

“Have you any Muggle money I could borrow – just for the moment?” Harry asked.

“Sure – why?”

“Well, if people are going to be about, then it's as good a time as any to go to the Dursleys. I'll need money for the train fare.” Sirius nodded, and gave him two twenty pound notes. “Thanks. I'll repay you when we get the account set up.”

“Whenever,” said Sirius.

So, late in the afternoon, Harry left Grimmauld Place. On his back was a small pack, and under some miscellaneous teeshirts were his wand and Invisibility Cloak. Now Sirius had removed the Tracking Charms, the Ministry would know he'd been in contact with wizards. He hoped Sirius had done the job properly - the last thing he needed now was a one way trip to Azkaban. He knew if Fudge got his hands on him again, he'd never come out of the place alive. As to bumping into Aurors, or Death Eaters, or members of the Order on the streets of London – well, he'd just have to chance it.

He took the Underground to Waterloo station, then the slow suburban train to Little Whinging. It was just as well it wasn't the rush hour. Having spent three months in total isolation, Harry found crowds difficult to take. He tried to make sure he had space all around him, but all the same, found himself being jostled continually by other passengers. He was grateful to escape them when finally he stepped off the train at Little Whinging.

It wasn't far from the station to Privet Drive. He stopped by the park - there was enough undergrowth there to slip out of sight and hide himself under the cloak for the last half mile.

He turned into Privet Drive and walked up to the front door of Number Four. He looked round, but couldn't see anything suspicious. Not that he expected to see anyone – any surveillance would be well hidden. He reached up and rang the bell: as Uncle Vernon answered the door he slipped under his uncle's arm and into the hall, then pulled the cloak off, slamming the door behind him.

“You!” yelped his uncle, backing away, and staring at him with eyes narrowed in fury.

“Me,” said Harry, wand in hand, ready to use it if need be.

“We had a letter,” hissed Uncle Vernon, “saying you'd been sent to jail!”

“Really? Well, I'm out now.”

“You needn't think you're going to come and live here again! We don't house jailbirds!”

“As if,” sneered Harry. “I just want a word with my aunt, then I'm off again.”

“You do, do you? What makes you think she wants a word with you?”

“No idea. And I don't care. But I've got this in my hand,” he said, brandishing the wand, “and this time, I'm not afraid to use it.”

Uncle Vernon looked at the wand, then back at Harry. This was not the boy he had known before. Three months in Azkaban had worked many changes in Harry, and it was obvious that Uncle Vernon no longer scared Harry in the slightest. Uncle Vernon backed away a little, which gave Harry a brief moment of satisfaction.

Aunt Petunia appeared from the kitchen. “Who is it, Vernon dear ...” - and then she saw Harry. Her eyes widened, and she clutched at her throat in alarm.

“Don't worry,” Harry told her. “I'm not staying. Just want a word, that's all.”

Uncle Vernon had obviously recovered some of his confidence. He drew himself up to his full girth, looked at the wand in Harry's hand, then, with a sneer on his face, his moustache bristling, said, “You wouldn't dare to use that thing anyway.”

This was a very bad move. Harry's eyes narrowed and he stepped very close to his uncle.

“Want to find out?” he hissed, holding the wand close to Uncle Vernon's throat.

Uncle Vernon didn't. He harrumphed. “Er, well, I say, there's no need for that - look here, come on into the kitchen where we can talk about it.”

He didn't offer Harry a seat, but he took one all the same.

“Right. What I'm after,” he said to his aunt, “is all my paperwork. Birth certificate and anything else.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all you want? If we give you your things, will you leave us in peace after this?”

“The last thing I ever want to do is to come back to Privet Drive. No, thinking about it, it's the second last place I'd like to be. But if you give me all my paperwork – complete – you'll never see me again.”

“Wait there.” She disappeared out for a minute or two. In the meantime, Uncle Vernon hovered uncertainly by the spotlessly clean sink.

“Escaped, did you?” his uncle asked eventually.

“No, they let me out.”

“What did they lock you away for then?”

Harry's smile was somewhat bitter.

“Rescuing your son from those Dementors.”

Uncle Vernon stared at him. “What?”

“Remember? That night when I dragged Dudley home? The night I saved his life? Well, they used that as an excuse to put me away. Performing magic underage and in front of a Muggle.”

Uncle Vernon frowned. “They put you in prison just for that?”

“Yeah.”

“For underage magic?”

“Yeah.”

“Seems a bit ...” - he frowned again - “... well, a bit over the top, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. But it was all political.”

Uncle Vernon really was struggling now. “Political?”

“I was there when Lord Voldemort come back. The Minister doesn't want to believe it – that he's back, I mean. Easy solution – lock me away. That way, I can't go round spreading tales.”

To his amazement, Harry saw Uncle Vernon thinking this over. For once, he hadn't dismissed Harry's story out of hand. Then he discovered why.

“Um ... Petunia ... your aunt ... was telling me about Lord Thingy.”

“Really?”

“He's the one who killed your parents, right?”

“Right.”

“And he's going to come looking for you again?”

“Most likely.”

Uncle Vernon's motives suddenly became a little clearer. “And if we give you all the stuff you want, you'll go away, and not come back?”

Harry snorted, and then, in a tone of disgust: “Yeah.”

Aunt Petunia came back clutching a manilla folder. She thrust it at Harry. “Here you are.”

He opened it and spread the documents out onto the table. Slightly to his surprise, there was a birth certificate there. He'd wondered whether his parents had bothered to register his birth with the Muggle authorities, but obviously they had. There were various other bits and pieces – school reports and the like – but it was the birth certificate he was most interested in. It had his date of birth on, showing he was still fifteen, but he reckoned he could add three years to that with a wave of his wand. His wand, which he hadn't yet got round to using. Could he pass for eighteen? The way he felt now, he thought he could pass for eighty.

He swept the papers back into the folder. “Good. Thanks.”

He stood up, and his aunt and uncle backed away slightly. He gave them a slight smile.

“It's okay. This is the last you'll be seeing of me, and I reckon we'll both be equally grateful.”

Vernon and Petunia didn't quite know what to make of that, but Harry stuffed the folder into his backpack and made for the hallway.

“Don't bother to show me out.”

They didn't. He threw the cloak over himself and walked out into the cold night air. He didn't bother looking back.