Innocence Lost and Found

Fourteen-year-old Harry Potter shivered beneath the worn sheet that covered his bed. He did not shiver from cold, as it was summer, and the air was warm; instead, he shivered, or perhaps shuddered, from the memory of his dream.

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

Harry Potter, it had often been said, was a most unusual boy. Not only was he a wizard, but he was the only wizard who had ever survived once Lord Voldemort had decided to kill him. However, each year since his eleventh birthday, Lord Voldemort and his followers had done their level best to remedy that situation. Quite frankly, Harry was growing tired of this state of things.

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

The first time he had returned to his Aunt and Uncle's house after spending a year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had begun to suffer nightmares. He had seen his closest friend Ron die in agony, attacked by life-sized, sentient chess pieces. He had seen his other best friend, Hermione, enfolded by the tendrils of a carnivorous plant or poisoned by a vial of liquid that she had thought to be her salvation.

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

The nightmares had become both more bearable and more elaborate over the years. They were more bearable simply because he had developed a tolerance for them. Getting used to night terrors was rather like getting used to watching his cousin Dudley eat. One could build up an immunity if given enough time. They were more elaborate because each year Harry and his friends seemed to discover some new piece of information which had the potential to get them killed. Harry had seen Hermione lying petrified, unmoving and frozen; he had seen Ron preparing himself to be fed to a carnivorous sort of spider called an acromantula; he had seen enormous snakes and enchanted diaries drag the nearly-lifeless body of Ron's sister Ginny into the caverns below their school; he had seen Ron kidnapped, his leg broken, by a real live Grim; he had seen Hermione shaking with fear as she flew a stolen hippogriff high above the towers of Hogwarts; he had seen swarms of dementors threaten nearly everyone he cared about; and all of this he had seen during the course of his waking life. His dreams enhanced the feeling that everything was out of his control and melded the horrific events together into one that was more than the sum of its parts.

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

The most recent year had, in a warped sort of a way, been better than the first three. Ron and Hermione had not been in real, immediate danger, unless of course one chose to count the time they had been rendered unconscious and held captive by a colony of Merpeople. That kidnapping, though, had been sanctioned by the school and its headmaster. Many things had been sanctioned by the school and its headmaster.

Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Kill the spare.

Harry had spent less time with Ron and Hermione during their fourth year of training than he had during the first three because he had been forced to participate in a contest known as the Triwizard Tournament. The final task of the tournament had been transformed into an elaborate tool designed to draw Harry to Voldemort so that Voldemort could complete the murder he had first attempted more than thirteen years before. However, Cedric Diggory, another Hogwarts student, had been transported along with Harry. In truth, Harry had insisted that Cedric come with him, although he had not known what he had been asking for at the time. When Voldemort had seen Cedric, he had uttered the three words that most haunted Harry now:

Kill. The. Spare.

At least it hadn't been Hermione or Ron. The twinge of guilt that had not left Harry since the disastrous end to his fourth year at Hogwarts intensified. Almost instantly, he had thought, deep inside, that he was glad that the murdered student had not been one of his close friends. It had not even been one of his roommates, Neville or Seamus or Dean; not one of his Quidditch teammates, Katie or Alicia or Angelina or one of the twins; not even a Gryffindor.

He knew that he was horrible to feel relief that Voldemort's latest victim was someone he had barely known, especially because he had played a part that someone's death. He had liked Cedric, certainly; it had been rather hard not to, but Cedric had been two years older and had lived in a different house at school.

Still, Cedric had been killed for standing next to Harry. Long ago, Harry's mother had died for refusing to leave him, as well. Harry didn't need to be at the top of his class at Hogwarts, as Hermione was, to figure out a pattern there. He was almost glad that his aunt and uncle had decided that he had fabricated the story of his powerful godfather and refused to allow him to send or receive owl post this summer. The fewer connections Ron and Hermione had to him, the better.

He had, however, all but given his beloved owl, Hedwig, to Hermione. Hermione did not have an owl of her own, preferring a rather ugly but remarkably smart cat named Crookshanks. However much Hermione loved Crookshanks, though, he could not be used to send letters to her friends. Hedwig would be much happier spending the summer visiting Hermione than locked in her cage. His relatives had been pleased by the bird's absence, and had sealed his windows shut so that he could receive no post from other birds.

Harry had to admit that he missed his owl. She had been a loyal pet from the first day he had seen her in a pet shop in Diagon Alley soon after his eleventh birthday. For three long summers, she had been the only living thing that did not wince at the sight of Harry. He had never before considered that perhaps he was worthy of those winces; that perhaps Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would have done the wizarding world a favor had they succeeded in their quest to keep him away from Hogwarts.

Deciding that he had spent enough time loathing himself for the morning, Harry slipped quietly out of bed and stretched before beginning to tidy his room. It was locked from the outside, but Aunt Petunia would pull the bar back on her way down to the kitchen. Harry would be expected to join her presently, and help with the cleaning and the cooking. He had had a reprieve from these chores for his first few summers after leaving for school, but Aunt Petunia had told Uncle Vernon that she suddenly found Harry more docile, and that she wanted to use him to help her every so often this summer. ‘Every so often’ had become very often indeed, and, for the first time in his life, Harry felt that his only living blood relations were almost pleased with him.

‘I don't know quite how to explain it,’ he'd overheard Aunt Petunia telling Uncle Vernon. ‘I think that some of his-- strangeness-- has gone. You can see it when you look into his eyes. It used to be that even if he was following your instructions to the letter, it would be like he was thinking about some way to sabotage them, or thinking of some way to show that he just didn't respect us. He always had some ill-bred comment when Dudley spoke to him. Now he's quiet. Works like a robot. No smirk plastered to his face like he's just waiting to tell his miserable freak friends some story about us.’

‘None of his oddness is gone, Petunia,’ Uncle Vernon had growled. ‘Look at that hair. He must be lying in wait. But I'll admit I'm glad I haven't heard a word about wanting his books, or his scrolls, or his damn *wand*!’

‘The wand. Oh, don't even mention the word--’

‘Harry Potter.’ The real Aunt Petunia's voice over-rode the daydream Aunt Petunia's voice. ‘Are you ready to come downstairs and make breakfast?’

‘Yes.’ Harry's one-word answer was soft and hoarse.

‘Speak up.’ Harry didn't really care that, if he had spoken up, his aunt would have reprimanded him for being loud at an hour at which Dudley might still be asleep, not that anything short of the house collapsing would awaken Dudley.

‘Yes.’ Harry had to summon all of his strength to make his reply audible. He felt tired all the time now, although he didn't know why.

‘Good.’ The bolt slid out of place, and Harry stood, weaving slightly on his feet as he did so. However, his vision cleared before his aunt had finished clucking over the sorry state of his bed, which had been made with hand-me-downs from Dudley that had been in a sorry state the first time Harry had seen them. He hadn't even been able to stay asleep long enough to sweat through them lately.

Petunia turned sharply to her nephew. ‘Well, get along. Sausages. Three of them. Just a little something to go with the grapefruit.’ Harry nodded. He felt a strange sensation of liberation. He knew that once he would have cared, on a physical level if not an emotional one, that everyone in the house but he would be getting a sausage to go with his or her grapefruit quarter.

Some mornings, when he was working like this, Harry pretended to be a house elf. He knew that he was too old for ‘pretending’ games, but as no one really wanted or expected him to exist in the real world, he did not see what harm creeping into his own mind would do.

Today, though, the game felt old. He could not find anything to do with his thoughts as he sliced the grapefruit, and sweetened it with maple syrup, topping it with a cherry and running it under the broiler. His own wedge he left plain. Aunt Petunia had never specifically told him to do so, but he imagined she that she wanted it that way. It didn't matter to him. It tasted of sawdust in any case.

The sausages crackled perfectly, and he slid them onto plates just as his enormous uncle and cousin lumbered down the stairs to the breakfast table. Harry quietly took his seat, as well, carefully keeping his head down and his mouth shut. Even Sirius had told him that he should, although Sirius had only meant until the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Sirius was another person who had been adversely affected by his relationship with Harry. Sirius had been safe, and healthy, in some far-off country until he had become aware of Harry's entry in the Triwizard Tournament. Then, because of some responsibility he had felt to Harry's dead parents, he had gone to rot and starve in a cave near Hogwarts.

‘What time is Marge coming in?’ Aunt Petunia asked as soon as she was able to catch Uncle Vernon's eye.

‘Ten o'clock,’ Uncle Vernon replied from behind his bushy mustache. ‘And YOU,’ he added, jabbing a finger at Harry. ‘Do you know what this means?’

Harry assumed that Uncle Vernon would tell him.

‘Answer me, boy!’

‘I'll be quiet and behave myself.’ This had always seemed to be a good answer, although it was frequently met with raucous laughter. ‘Good answers,’ even those that he had known since infancy, seemed to elude Harry sometimes now.

‘You will. You will speak when spoken to. And we'll not have another incident like the last time, or you'll find yourself in an orphanage, as you should have years ago.’

Harry nodded. He had often thought that he would like to live in an orphanage, but he knew that Uncle Vernon's threat was an empty one, even if Uncle Vernon did not. Toward the end of the previous school year, when he had been freed from his final examinations, he had found himself reading a rather curious book about protective wards. Truth be told, he had been drawn to the book because it had been misfiled into the library's Quidditch section, but it had been most interesting. Entire chapters had been dedicated to the power of biological ties, and he realized that Headmaster Dumbledore had indeed had a reason for not allowing him to move in with the Weasley family on a permanent sort of basis. He was safer here than anywhere else, and he took a certain amount of protection with him each time he left. The Ministry of Magic would put the strongest memory charms ever devised on the Dursleys before they would allow Harry to move into an orphanage.

‘Boy?’

‘I will speak when I'm spoken to, and there will not be an incident like the last time,’ Harry repeated mechanically.

‘Right.’ Uncle Vernon stood up, having protected his grapefruit and sausage from Dudley's grasp, and cuffed Harry behind his head with an open hand. Harry's forehead struck the table, but he sat up again silently.

‘Watch it!’ Aunt Petunia snapped. ‘I'll not have you spilling things and marking up the table.’ For a wild moment, Harry thought that she had been reprimanding her husband, but then recalled that he was rather expected to resist, or duck from, such blows, and that his allowing himself to be struck could certainly be considered a kind of troublemaking. Then, though, Petunia did turn to her husband. ‘Don't leave any marks on him. If someone ends up seeing him with bruises on his face, people will talk.’

‘We'll say he got them roughhousing with Dudley.’

‘We don't want to have to say anything at all!’ Petunia's voice rose shrilly. She liked nothing better than to talk about her neighbors and nothing less than to have them talk about her.

‘They won't. I'll bring Marge when I come home for lunch.’

‘We'll be ready. Won't we, Duddy?’

Dudley grunted and nodded, and then waddled off to the living room to watch television. Harry, for his part, marched methodically through a morning of activity. Aunt Marge's inevitable arrival was no different than it had ever been. Dudley was praised, and Harry was insulted.

‘I daresay, Vernon,’ Marge said after several hours of conversation, ‘He's actually improved. He'll always be scrawny and a bit off, but he's lost some of that glitter in his eye. Not sullen and rebellious like he was. Getting hit a lot at your school?’

‘Some. Not as much as before,’ Harry answered automatically.

‘So the extreme force is working.’ Petunia nodded in agreement. ‘Is he getting to be useful at all?’

‘Useful is something he'll never be!’ roared Vernon before his wife could answer. ‘A waste of space, always.’

‘Granted, but you do have to do the best you can,’ Marge replied in what she seemed to think was a conciliatory tone. ‘Even failures can be of some service, sometimes.’

‘What are you thinking of?’

‘I've just remembered that I haven't brought enough treats for the whole time I'll be here. Can't let the poor dogs suffer for my mistakes.’ Marge had brought two dogs with her on this visit, and to Petunia's relief they were currently resting not on the kitchen floor but on the front porch.

‘We'll run right out and pick some up,’ Vernon said quickly, rising quickly from his chair is if he were eager to leave his own sister.

‘No! No, Vernon, I won't hear of it. I don't see why we can't let the runt do it. It will only be a few pounds I'll need to trust him with, and he can walk to the store a few streets down without any trouble. And if he DOES happen to step in front of a car, well, like parents, like child!’ The room erupted with laughter. Aunt Marge believed that Harry's parents had died in a car accident.

‘I don't believe that he should be trusted with something as important as your dog's treats,’ Petunia put in, but Marge waved her off. ‘It's an impossible chore to do badly. And things will be so much more pleasant without him to look at for a few minutes.’ Her statement left no room for argument, and Harry's guardians were forced to agree to the plan.

Mere seconds later, Harry was out the door, blinking in bright sunlight and clutching strict instructions and three two-pound coins in his hand. Never before had he held so much Muggle money. He stumbled dumbly to the sidewalk. While in previous summers he had done a great deal of yardwork, that had not been among his appointed chores so far this year, and he noticed that it had been a long time since he had felt sunlight on his skin. He recalled that he liked the feeling. It reminded him of his Care of Magical Creatures class, or of adventuring with Ron and Hermione on the Hogwarts grounds or in Hogsmeade.

The walk was not a terribly long one, but he decided to take it as slowly as he could, since the sunlight was clearing away some of the fog that had pervaded his waking mind lately. At night, in bed, he was perfectly able to think about his school and the dangers it was facing, in part because of him; but in the day, when he was working, he was able to forget about the finer points of his life, to forget about thinking entirely. This system had made it easy for him not to feel too schoolsick for Ron and Hermione and Quidditch and his classes and his circular dormitory and his bed with its red hangings and the common room with its big chairs and the Weasley twins' jokes and Ginny's smile and Hagrid's cabin and the shops at Hogsmeade and the large-eyed house elves and little Collin Creevey and his camera and the view from the astronomy tower at night and Cho Chang's pretty face even though Cho had gone to the Yule Ball with Cedric-- damn it!

Cedric couldn't miss any of those things any more, even though he would have been able to enjoy them had Harry not *insisted* that they take the victory cup together. Harry knew he had had a reason to drift into the waking slumber in which he had spent the first part of his summer.

His pace quickened as his anxiety heightened. He fairly flew into the store an collected the ‘Pretty Puppy Power Pills’ as ordered. The woman behind the counter favored him with a concerned glance. ‘Are you all, right, dear?’

‘Fine,’ breathed Harry, startled by the kind, direct gaze.

‘You look flushed. Have you been ill-- oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry.’

‘It's all right.’ Harry would not have wanted to pour his feelings out to this stranger even if she could have understood his problems, so he took his leave, trying to look as healthy and contented as possible.

‘Wait,’ she called after him. ‘Your change.’

‘I didn't think there was supposed to be any.’

‘We're overstocked. Having an impromptu sale.’ The liquid look in her eyes as she followed his movements made Harry wonder if she spoke the truth, but he did not bother to force the issue as he accepted ninety pence and thanked the clerk.

He had no idea what to do with ninety pence. Certainly he could buy a snack with it, but while the previous summer, the first of Dudley's diet, had been an exercise in constant hunger, he never seemed to want to eat anymore. The mere thought of food sometimes made his stomach lurch. There was always the possibility of buying a Muggle toy or trinket that Ron would find fascinating, but with each passing year Ron became more sensitive to Harry's small fortune, good only in the wizarding world, when compared to his own lack of spending money. A phone booth caught his eye, but he had no way of calling whatever phone Ron had access to, and besides, he had already decided that Ron would be better off if the two of them grew apart a little, or a lot. The same was true of Hermione, although her parents' office was probably in the directory that was perched happily inside the glass enclosure.

The pence could always be returned to Aunt Marge, but any happening out of the ordinary would make Aunt Petunia suspicious. Harry supposed he should just keep it in case he ended up lost or stranded in the Muggle world.

On his trip to the store, he had not noticed how many phone booths lay scattered along the road. Some of them were even set back from the street, and could not be spotted by someone casually turning into or out of one of the residential streets, such as, for example, Privet Drive.

His willpower ran out when he was half a step beyond the last booth. Decision made, he turned on his heel and gratefully shut himself inside the small cell. He positioned himself so that he could see all of the comings and goings of the nearby neighborhood, although there were not many. Wizards hardly ever knew anything about Muggles and the way they lived-- Ron was proof enough of that. No one would realize that he and Hermione were communicating with each other if they did not use any magic. Blood rushed to his ears and his hands shook as he fumbled through the directory, searching for an office that housed a pair of dentists named Granger.

Hermione, he knew, was spending her summer playing receptionist. She had been rather perturbed that her parents had deemed her too young to spend the summer on the continent with her boyfriend, Victor Krum, but she had eventually agreed to take this temporary job and learn responsibility. While Harry had in truth agreed with Hermione's parents that spending the summer in Europe with her older, famous boyfriend had not been the best idea he had ever heard (though he had been wise enough not to share this thought with his friend), he also thought that Hermione was far from needing to learn responsibility.

Half of him hoped that he would be unable to track down the number he needed. Aside from not wanting to encourage Voldemort and his followers to attack Hermione, he was, in a manner of speaking, slightly nervous about telephoning Hermione. He had never actually phoned a friend in his life. He had had no friends, and a distinct lack of permission to touch the telephone, as a young child; and now that he had friends who were wizards and witches, he did not need to use telephones. What would he say?

The number was annoyingly easy to find, and he dialed before he could change his mind yet again. Changing his mind now would feel uncomfortably like chickening out, and he did not want to be unworthy of Godric Gryffindor's house in addition to being a danger to the whole school.

He heard one ring and then another. Then, he heard a voice he would know anywhere, sounding professional with an undertone of boredom, inform him that he had reached Granger and Granger Dental Associates.

Suddenly panicking, he could find nothing better to say than ‘Are you accepting new patients?’

‘Well, yes. Owing to our vacation schedule, it might be difficult to squeeze you in right away. Are you calling on behalf of a firm or on behalf of an individual?’

‘An individual family.’

‘Wizards or Muggles?’

‘What?’

‘Not a very convincing 'what.'’

‘I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number--’

‘Hang up and I'll tell Hedwig on you, Harry.’

Harry dropped his game instantly. ‘Is Hedwig all right? And how did you know it was me?’

‘Hedwig is sitting perfectly happily in the tree in my backyard, or she was when I left this morning. And as for how I knew it was you, wouldn't you be insulted if I didn't?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why didn't you just say who you were?’

‘I didn't know if it was a good idea to call you at work.’

‘It's a very good idea, as it's you. How did you get to a phone?’

‘My Uncle Vernon's sister--’

‘The one you blew up?’ Hermione interrupted.

‘That's the only one. Thank God. Anyway, she decided that I've improved since the last time she saw me and she got my Aunt and Uncle to use me to pick up dog treats for her.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Pretty Puppy Power Pills.’

‘So she finally came in useful.’

‘That's what she said about me.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don't know. She said that I don't look as crafty as I used to. That my eyes are duller, and I'm not thinking demonic thoughts all the time.’

‘Are you? Is it an act? Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘You can't be fine. Not living with those people. How un-fine are you? Really?’ Anxiety rose in Hermione's voice. Harry wondered if she had a book in which she could look up causes of losing the demonic look in one's eyes open on her lap.

‘It's the same as always.’

‘Are you getting enough to eat? Do you want me to send Hedwig back with something? We've always sent you food in the summer before. Are you hungry?’

‘I'm not hungry. Trust me.’

‘You're not hungry because you're getting enough to eat or you're not hungry because you're sick and you don't want to eat?’

‘What does it matter? The first one.’

‘I don't know if I believe you.’

‘Then don't. How's your summer going?’

‘I spend most of my time working here or reading. I can't wait to go visit Ron. Are you coming?’

‘I don't think so.’

‘He's not going to take that for an answer.’

‘He'll have to.’

‘Don't you want to come?’

‘I don't really see the point. I mean, we've all done that before.’ Harry swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, but Hermione was on a mission and she missed nothing.

‘What's really wrong? Why can't you come? Your aunt and uncle won't be a problem.’

‘It's not that.’

‘What is it? Does Dumbledore still say no? Have you talked to the Weasleys at all? You haven't, have you, you haven't been writing Ron either.’

‘You have Hedwig.’

‘He said he sent Pig to you, and he came back without an answer. He's frantic, Harry, and so am I. Why won't you talk to us?’

‘I'm talking to you now. I'm kind of sorry I am, but I am.’

Hermione inhaled sharply, and Harry suddenly noticed that he had been speaking more loudly than he had intended to do. He could not see his friend, and he was not accustomed to interpreting noises over a somewhat scratchy electric connection, but he suspected that Hermione might be crying. She had always been prone to crying at the most random of times, but that didn't mean he had to like it, even if he had to find some way to end their friendship. He had to do that gradually, too, so Ron and Hermione would not suspect and do something foolish like the pigheadedly loyal Gryffindors that they truly were.

‘Are you crying?’

‘No.’ That was a lie.

‘Why are you crying? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called y--’

‘You should have. I'm glad you did. I don't you to be sorry you did.’

‘I'm not, I'm not. I was being mean. I wanted to hear your voice, that's all. I wanted to actually talk to someone, I don't know, I didn't feel this bad when I left Hogwarts--’ he broke himself off suddenly. The last thing he had intended to do was further worry Hermione or convince her that she should find some way to get in more permanent contact with him.

‘Harry--’

‘I have to go. If I take any more time they'll be upset.’ Not trusting himself to really undo the damage he had done, he slammed the phone down, and turned his feet in the direction of Privet Drive.

‘Harry!’ Sitting on the edge of the receptionist's chair in her parents' office, Hermione Granger glanced around quickly, hastily brushing tears off of her cheeks. No one had seen her outburst. She flipped the answering machine on and hastened into the exams rooms. Happily, she found her mother standing in the hallway and examining an x-ray.

‘Mum?’

‘Hermione? Are you all right?’

‘I really don't feel well. Can I go home for the rest of the day? There's no one in the waiting room but that little boy's mother.’

‘Yes, of course you can.’ She placed a hand to her daughter's forehead. ‘You're flushed. Have you been crying?’

‘No,’ Hermione lied. ‘My head just hurts. Please?’

‘I said yes. Let me finish up here and I'll drive you and come back.’

‘That's okay. You won't have a receptionist so it'll be busy enough. I can take the bus. I have before.’

The dentist nodded. ‘All right. But ring as soon as you get back so we don't worry. And take it easy.’

‘I will.’ The bus ride seemed interminable, and by the time Hermione made it to her family's large, pretty house, she was crying hysterical tears once more. ‘Hedwig!’ She hoped the owl was asleep, and not off on a hunting trip. A hoot greeted her and she went weak with relief. ‘I need you to take a letter to Remus Lupin. Quickly. I think Harry's in trouble.’ Hedwig gave her a look as if she understood perfectly. Hermione had written her note on the bus, using a page from her father's appointment book and an aged ball-point pen instead of parchment and ink, but she supposed it would make little difference.

‘Dear Professor Lupin,

‘I need your help. Harry is in trouble. I don't think that it's anything that Professor Dumbledore or the Ministry of Magic would really care about, so I'm writing to you.

‘It's not that I think You-Know-Who is going to sneak in his bedroom window. However, Harry has not been communicating with Ron or me this summer. He has asked me to keep Hedwig and he has not replied to letters sent to him with other owls. This afternoon, though, he rang me on the phone. He sounded sick, and tired, and he said that his relatives are happier with him because he doesn't think, and his eyes are dull!

‘This would be bad enough with anyone, but Harry lives with a family that does not love or want him. These people locked him in a cupboard until he came to Hogwarts! They've put bars on his windows, and he always comes back to school for the fall term underweight.

‘Can you help me find a way to see him? Or can you go see him yourself? He also claims that he does not *want* to visit Ron this summer because he's done it before. Someone who cares about more than the fact that he is physically alive needs to check on him.

‘I hope that I am not over-reacting, but past experience has taught me the at over-reacting is rarely possible when Harry is involved.

‘Respectfully,

‘Hermione Granger’

Sirius Black tore the letter from its addressee's hand and stormed across the room in one long stride. ‘There. That's it! I'm going to go see him right now.’

‘You can't,’ Remus replied as calmly as he could.

‘Watch me!’

‘I can't.’

‘Why not? Hermione knows Harry, and she's a better judge of character than most witches twice her age. If she says something's wrong, I'm willing to bet Buckbeak that SOMETHING'S WRONG!’

‘I agree with you. We have to help him. But you can't just Apparate into his room. There are anti-Apparation spells and protective wards and disorientation spells all over that neighborhood. You'd never be able to find Privet Drive. You've been using a wand and you're giving off a magical signature.’

‘Harry told me that Ron and his brothers picked him up in a flying car once. How did they manage that?’

‘Voldemort hadn't returned to power yet. The disorientation spells had been set to recognize Arthur and Molly Weasley, and the car was Arthur's. It bore his signature. The boys didn't use any formal magic-- they didn't enchant the car themselves-- so they passed through as Muggles. We also have to be concerned about the fact that you're a wanted man, and half the wizarding world thinks you put up the Dark Mark the other night. But....’

Sirius growled low in his throat. ‘But?’

‘But I have a plan.’