Harry Potter and the Phantom of Hogwarts

Harry Potter and the Phantom of Hogwarts

Chapter Two

The Red Scarf

It was a dark room; in fact, there was only one tiny window in the whole room. The only light came from the occasional lightning strike from the thunderstorm a few miles away. The room had only a few bare furnishings: a table, a cracked wall mirror, and a broken cuckoo clock. The only thing extravagant in this room was what appeared to be a solid gold throne, decorated with emeralds and carvings of snakes. If it were possible, there seemed to be an extra concentration of darkness on the chair, like if there were something especially evil residing there.

If someone thought the room was empty, just thinking that the only thing in the room was the radiating feeling of evil, they would be wrong. There were, in fact, two people in the room. Specifically, one person was more monster than human at this point.

From the throne, a pair of slit eyes the color of blood appeared. Yes, something definitely evil was sitting in that chair.

The other person in the room was leaning slightly on the table. He was short and bald with a long, rat-like nose, and seemed to be ill. He was shaking, and his silver hand twinkled, even though there wasn't any light for it to reflect. His watery eyes looked at the throne fearfully.

"Wormtail," came a high pitched voice from the throne, "have you sent out Nott?"

The man called Wormtail flinched at the voice of the man. "Y-yes, my Lord. He left for Surrey at sunrise."

"Very good," the voice hissed. "We may not be able to get at Potter, but there are other ways to get to him."

Wormtail-if it were possible to see him-looked confused. "My Lord?"

The voice sounded frustrated. "How incompetent are you? We cannot touch Potter while he is at his relative's home, but we can strike fear into his heart. By the time we finish with him, Potter will be begging for mercy."

Wormtail laughed nervously, as if he were doing something he shouldn't do.

"Yes," the voice drawled musingly, "Potter will bring his downfall onto himself. But just in case...Wormtail!" the voice said sharply.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Have you obtained the Rose yet?"

Wormtail stuttered. "I have the Rose. It is not with me, though."

"What?" the voice said harshly. "Where is it then? Do you lie?"

"My Lord, I would never lie to you! Malvagito has it already; I have sent him to do as you wish."

The seemingly disembodied voice chuckled. "Excellent. You do not lie, Wormtail? You know I know when you lie, and I don't like lying."

Wormtail flinched. "Oh, no, My Lord! I would never lie to you!"

The voice laughed once again. "Of course not...you know what happens when someone disobeys me...Crucio!"

The man called Wormtail shrieked and fell to the floor, twitching, shaking, and screaming. The voice laughed. "Scream all you want, there is no one to help you."

The man finally stopped screaming, and slowly sat up, panting and shaking. "Just so you know never to even think of lying to me," the voice said.

"Y-y-yes M-my Lord," the man stammered.

"Very good. Now, did you have any trouble obtaining the Rose from the Muggle museum? It was in Rome, correct?"

Wormtail took a deep breath and said slowly, "Correct, My Lord. One security guard gave us a spot of trouble, but we modified his memory."

"You didn't just kill him?"

"No, My Lord. There would have been too many questions. No one will know, I promise you."

The voice chuckled again. "Very good, Wormtail. I am happy with you. You said Malvagito has the Rose? He will take it to the boy?"

Wormtail nodded. "Yes, My Lord. He will bring it to the boy in the disguise of a birthday gift. The boy will feel compelled to use the Rose; he will have no choice. Nothing can go wrong."

The voice tutted. "You should know not to say that, Wormtail. Something could go wrong -I'll be the first to admit that-however unlikely. You did very well, Wormtail, and you shall be rewarded. Come here."

Wormtail flinched and walked over to the throne. A sickly-looking white hand, with amazingly long fingers, appeared from the shadows, a wand in it. The hand waved the wand around, and a shadow cast over Wormtail's silver hand. Lightning struck once more, and the silver hand was no more; a regular hand appeared in its place.

"My Lord," Wormtail asked confusedly, looking at his hand, "I do not understand. Is this a reward?"

"Do you doubt me, Wormtail? Your hand has all the same powers as the silver one; it is simply more inconspicuous."

Wormtail took a piece of paper that littered the ground. He crumpled it in his hand, and when he opened his fist, all that remained was powder. "Thank you, My Lord," he said clumsily.

"Be gone with you, Wormtail, I have no more use for you. You will see someone outside my door; admit him as you leave. And do not ask any questions," the voice added as Wormtail opened his mouth.

"Yes, My Lord." Wormtail stood and walked toward the door, turning the knob so hard that it broke off. Hearing the voice's tsk of disapproval, Wormtail muttered an apology and pointed the knob at where it used to be and said, "Reparo." The knob jumped back to its original position, fixed. Wormtail chuckled nervously and opened the door gingerly.

A man walked in, billowing robes sweeping around him. The only feature visible was the man's height; he stood in the shadows. Wormtail muttered something to himself and closed the door behind him as he left the room.

"My Lord," the man drawled silkily.

"I assume you heard everything that has gone on in here before."

"I could not help but overhear, yes-"

"Don't lie to me. You were always a sniveling eavesdropper and deceitful, at that."

"My Lord, I apologize. I simply-"

The voice laughed a high pitched laugh that felt like a blast of icy wind. "Do not worry so. It is a trait I find very useful sometimes, no matter how dishonorable it may be."

"Thank you, My Lord. You have sent the Rose already? Would it have not been simpler to just let me do it?"

"Do you question me?" the voice asked harshly.

"No, My Lord."

"Very good. No, I did not give it to you, on the fact that you are one of my more useful servants, and I do not need you to be sent to Azkaban at the moment. I can do without a git like Malvagito. The Rose is a very powerful and dark item; it will do me no good to see it with you in your home."

"That is true, My Lord."

The man could feel the disembodied red eyes on him. "You have no problem with this plan at all?"

"No, My Lord, why should I?"

"Well, considering the young man we are using, I thought you would be slightly concerned."

"The boy is of no use to me," the man said sharply, "my first and only priority is you, My Lord."

"Good man," the voice said. "One of my more loyal servants, you are. I assume you are doing your own job?"

"Yes, My Lord. I am constantly at the Ministry, winding those morons around my fingers. Fudge himself owes me more than a few hundred favors..." the man drawled, laughing softly.

The voice also laughed. "Wonderful. You will also be rewarded. Anyone who helps me is rewarded. Tell me, what is it you wish?"

The man looked straightly at the throne, as if he could see what were there. "Only the same thing as you, My Lord," he drawled, "to see Potter dead."

The voice laughed his horrible laugh once again. "You were always the weasel, weren't you? And how are my other servants doing?"

"They are drawing together and planning to start their attacks"

From the throne leaned forward a man that could not have possibly been a man. He was deadly thin, with not a single bit of fat on his body, and too tall for a human. He had red cat eyes, and a completely flat nose, and a slit for a mouth. He drummed his fingers against each other.

"Excellent," he hissed.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry yelled out in pain and fright, putting a hand to his scar. He cursed as he fell out of his bed and hurriedly locked the door. Fumbling around for a quill and parchment, Harry snuck a quick look into the mirror. The lightning shaped scar looked the same as always, if not a bit red around the edges.

What was his dream about? Voldemort was definitely in it, as was Wormtail, but who was that man Wormtail opened the door for? Harry thought the voice seemed awfully familiar-

"Harry, darling," a voice called sleepily into his room, "Are you alright? I heard you scream, and a big bang."

Damn, Harry thought, Farmor Mishka heard me. Why did I have to yell in this dream?

"Harry?"

"I'm alright, Farmor Mishka, I just had a bad dream. Go back to bed."

"Are you sure? Do you want me to come in?"

"No!" Harry snapped, "Please, I'm fine!"

Farmor Mishka sounded anxious and hurt. "Alright..."

"How about I take you to the music store later today, Farmor Mishka?"

Harry could practically feel her smile. "Alright, Harry dear. Pleasant dreams."

"Pleasant dreams."

Hearing footsteps leaving, Harry sighed in relief and looked back at the parchment. As it so often happens, Harry suddenly remembered a great deal about what Voldemort was about.

Voldemort's plan to attack Harry...A rose from a museum in Italy -what was that about? - sending it to a boy (Harry could only assume it was himself)...talking to the man in the shadows...gathering Death Eaters.

Harry tried to put all this information into the right order, and finally satisfied himself. Certain little details that were missing bugged Harry to pieces. Names, for one thing, and locations. Think, Harry, think, he told himself, but it was no use. Even things he had written down were starting to fade, like they weren't supposed to be there, which was true enough.

Harry wrote a letter to Dumbledore; he knew that Dumbledore would need to know everything that goes on with Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

Harry sat, thinking for a good long time -at least an hour- before deciding he needed to write a letter to Sirius. It had been too long since he had seen him. In fact, it was the day after the last task during the Triwizard Tournament. Harry shuddered; he still hated thinking about it.

Dear Sirius,

I hope I'm not interrupting anything terribly important, but I probably am, right? I'm just making sure everything's not too horrible with you. I know you can't really tell me what you're doing, and that's alright.

I got some really nice presents for my birthday: A Chordacantus -which is really cool-, a magical lasso, and a bowl of candy to trick Dudley with. I bet you know who came up with that.

I wish I could see you. It really stinks being with Muggles for the summer. I can't wait until September first, so I can finally get back to school. Did I say that? I know the O.W.L.'s are this year. Were they really all that terrible? I think Hermione's going to have a heart attack this year. At least one. Three at the most.

I just woke up, and it's something like three o' clock in the morning. My scar woke me up. Don't worry, when I finished falling out of the bed I wrote everything down I could remember -which is a lot- and I'm going to send it to Dumbledore with this letter. You know who it was about. Wormtail was there, and so was some other man. They were talking about some rose from Italy. Maybe I can find out what that was about from my uncle's newspaper. This is the first time my scar hurt since the Tournament.

Did I tell you my uncle's mum's here? For two weeks now, I think. She's making the Muggles so miserable, I almost feel sorry for them. Emphasis on almost. There's something about her that doesn't feel right, though. Not anything bad, just not right. Do you know what I mean? She's hiding something. Or she knows I'm a wizard. I think she definitely knows that there are witches and wizards and stuff. Maybe she fell for a wizard when she was a girl. She told me a story about herself, except it came from a Muggle play. I think she's a bit crazy.

I hope you're safe, wherever you are, and that you aren't working yourself too hard. It wouldn't do much good if you wiped yourself out. Write back if you can.

Harry

Harry smiled as he read his note over and put it in the envelope. It was a good way to bring up the scar. He was going to give the letter to Hedwig, but she was currently was out hunting mice, and other things Harry didn't particularly want to know about. While he waited for her, he wrote letters to Ron and Hermione, standard "Hi! How are you? No, Voldemort hasn't come barging into my room yet. Talk to you soon, Harry." He also talked to Hermione some about school, and Ron about Quidditch tryouts for the Gryffindor team.

Harry thought that he finished with his writing when he saw his letter from Ginny. Thinking it would be plain rude to write to Ron and not to her, he pulled out his ink and parchment again.

Dear Ginny,

It was really nice to hear from you, and I really liked your gift; it's one of my more favorite gifts. It's really soothing when the Muggles get on my nerves. Thanks a lot. Tell Fred and George they're brilliant. Dudley thinks he's going crazy because of the Swindlebowl. If there's one way to get to Dudley, it's through his stomach. Tell Fred and George that if they ever need inspiration for new jokes, that they should just owl me. I can think of plenty of things, all thanks to Dudley.

I am so surprised that Percy moved out. I bet your mum's going crazy; all her kids are growing up. I'm getting teary eyed just thinking about it. Ok, maybe not. I think I feel sorry for Penelope, though. He must be going on all about work. And according to Fred and George, he must be terrible to listen to while he's in the shower. I hope I never know.

As much fun as I'm having here, what with Farmor Mishka and all, I can't wait for the letter to come where you yell out, "Guess what! Dumbledore said you could stay for the rest of vacation! Whoopee!" Actually, strike that Whoopee.

I'll see you when I see you,

Harry

Harry looked at the time-4:53, looks like another night without sleep, he thought. That brings the total to about seven. It didn't matter too much; Harry usually slept in the next day. Unless Aunt Petunia woke him up and forced Harry to clean something. Before he was halfway done, Farmor Mishka would make him fetch something for her, and when he came back, the room would be completely finished. Little things about her made Harry suspect that Farmor Mishka was indeed a witch. And, of course, the second he thought of his Uncle Vernon actually having a witch for a mother, Harry shook his head and laughed to himself.

Dudley would eat his carrot and celery sticks, but he ate so many of them he still gained weight. He would watch television, his favorite kind of show being the ridiculous improvisation shows. Harry didn't know what was so funny about it. He thought the performers just looked like idiots. When he wasn't watching television, he was in his room, most likely discovering the wonders of being a teenage boy. Harry shuddered with disgust when he thought about it. And he avoided Farmor Mishka

Uncle Vernon would yell at Harry, eat his breakfast, yell at Harry some more, yell about things in general, yell at Harry, pat Dudley on the head as if he were some sort of lapdog, give Aunt Petunia a rather forced looking kiss on the cheek, and go to work. Harry thought he spent his day yelling at everyone. When he came home, Uncle Vernon would yell at Harry, eat dinner, yell at Harry, watch the news, yell at Harry, pat Dudley on the head, yell at Harry, and go to bed. And he avoided Farmor Mishka.

Aunt Petunia would yell at Harry to wake up and make breakfast. Then she would make Harry work in the garden. She'd make him take a shower before he was allowed to make lunch. She would baby Dudley and make Harry clean the house while she painted her nails and waxed her lip, talking on the phone with her friends, gossiping about how she think she just doesn't push Vernon's buttons the same way anymore. It is again another time for a classic Harry-shudder. And she avoided Farmor Mishka.

Farmor Mishka was fine with this. She spent her time giving her (and Harry's) opinion about everything about the Dursleys. The way they treated Harry, the way they treated Dudley, the way they treat her, and the way they treat each other. Harry would take her on walks to downtown, and showed her all the glamorous sights of Little Whinging. Not that there were too many. All Little Whinging had to offer was a coffee shop, a bookstore, a music store, and a department store. Harry took her to the music store everyday, where the elderly man who owned it would flirt with Farmor Mishka (Harry tried to stifle laughs at this) and play all sorts of music for her. It seems her favorite style was country (which made Harry gag). More than once had the owner given Farmor Mishka a free record. She didn't have a CD player.

After they went to the music store, Harry and Farmor Mishka would go to the coffee shop for frozen cappuccinos and talk about what bugs them about the Dursleys. Harry got a lifetime's worth of blackmail-able material about Uncle Vernon's childhood. Harry also learned a few things about his courting Aunt Petunia -including some details he didn't want to know.

Harry lay in his bed for an hour or two, doing something every teenager does. He was reflecting the meaning of life and his purpose in the world. Actually, he was thinking about how much he wanted to go ride a broomstick. To be able to be a hundred feet in the air, going as fast as lightning, to drop into a spectacular dive...Harry longed for it, like any other teenage boy longs for-

Harry grabbed his Firebolt from the closet and wrote a note to Farmor Mishka, telling her he'd be back before they went to the music store, and looked at the clock. Five in the morning: perfect for riding. Harry grabbed his jacket and left, walking to a meadow about five miles from Privet Drive. As far as he knew, no one knew about the meadow. Harry figured it was an abandoned make-out place for hormone-crazy teenagers. But since Little Whinging was such a small town, Harry and Dudley were more or less the only people under 30 in town. They were certainly the youngest by far in their neighborhood.

Harry didn't know what time he reached the meadow (he still didn't fix his watch), but according to the position of the sun, it was sometime around six (Thank goodness for Astronomy, Harry thought). He sat on his broomstick and kicked off, doing a cautious circle around the surrounding trees to make sure no one was around, and then started to really fly. Harry couldn't be any closer to heaven in his opinion, free from the whole world; from any worries at all. No more Dursleys ridiculing him, no more worries about Ron and Hermione.

Harry went into a spectacular dive he felt he had done so many times now: The Wronski Feint. He went one hundred -no, one hundred and fifty feet in the air before going down at an almost ninety degree angle and sweeping back up seconds before he would have hit the ground head on. It was hard to believe his last Quidditch match was over a year ago, when the Gryffindor Quidditch team won the Quidditch Cup against Slytherin. It still is one of Harry's happiest memories.

Harry wondered who would be Gryffindor's new Keeper, and with that thought, who would be the new Captain. Harry went through the people in his year first, knowing them the best. Ron was always a great possibility; he certainly had talent, and some experience from playing with George and Fred all the time. Hermione was definitely out; she hated heights. Neville was out, too; he tripped over his own feet. Dean, who was Muggle-born like Hermione, only cared about football. Harry thought Seamus was always a possibility, but then again, Harry didn't remember how well he could fly.

Harry thought some more about Quidditch possibilities; Lavender and Pavarti cared too much about their hair, Colin and Dennis Creevy were, well, themselves. Lee Jordan won't; he has too much fun being the commentator (who would replace him after the end of the year?) Who else did Harry know?

Ginny. Something told Harry not to leave out Ginny, despite the fact that they've never really talked (outside of letters), and he's never seen her fly. He and Ginny had been owling each other as much as he has Hermione and Ron. Seems puberty had a strange effect on Ginny. She was no longer shy but outgoing and spontaneous, always changing subjects quickly. She voices her annoyances with Ron and Fred and George at least once a letter. Harry didn't think that was annoying, but hilarious. She said things that he would have never said himself. She picked out all the odd quirks about everyone, like how you can tell what Ron's thinking when someone says Hermione. Or bubbles for that matter, but Harry didn't think he wanted to know.

Harry must have been flying for at least an hour and a half when he saw something rustle in the trees a little while's away. Damn, now I got to get out of here. Harry brought down his Firebolt a few feet from the meadow, and hid it in a hollow dead tree. He walked back into the meadow and walked around for a minute, looking around.

"Hello? Is there anyone around?" Harry called to empty air. He frowned; the area around the meadow seemed unnaturally quiet. Starting to feel at ill ease, Harry picked up a stick from the ground and snapped it in half. It made a large crack! and Harry smiled; he was being as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody. But then again, Moody had been kept prisoner in his trunk for ten months...

Harry shrugged and walked toward the area where his broomstick was, but he walked straight into a wall. He blinked, frowned, and rubbed his nose where he hit it dead on. Harry reached out in front of him and touched solid air. He did not like this at all. Harry slammed his fist against the shield, then the whole side of his body. Rubbing an aching arm, Harry cursed. He could have just flown away if he had just kept his broom by his side, but it was no more than five feet away, on the other side of the wall.

Harry followed the force field all the way around the meadow; it was about twenty feet all around. This couldn't have gotten any worse; he was without a wand and a way out. Last time he was in a position similar to this, it was against Voldemort. At least Harry was able to hide behind tombstones. Here, the largest thing was an anthill covered by fire ants.

"Hello, Harry Potter."

Harry spun around; someone must have Apparated behind him. It was a man in dark robes, and a white mask covering his face. That darn Voldemort, Harry thought grimly.

"Are you ready to die?" the man hissed.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Please, can you be any more stupid? That line is so overused."

The man took off his mask: it was Nott, who had been at Voldemort's reincarnation.

"Damn you, Potter, you are too snotty for your own good. What are you going to do to stop me? You have no wand and you have no way out. No Portkey to save your ass this time."

Harry shrugged. "If I can get away from Voldemort-" Nott winced, and Harry rolled his eyes. "-then I don't think you're that big of a deal."

Nott smiled evilly. "Try me." With that, he pulled out his wand and shouted "Crucio!"

Harry yelled at the top of his lungs, now feeling that familiar pain of every part of his body feeling as if they burned with fire. He sank to his knees, still yelling, clutching at his chest as if in pain -which was close enough to the truth.

Nott chuckled and removed the spell. "Don't like that, do you Potter? Seem a bit familiar? Too bad I'm not allowed to kill you; the Master wants to do that himself. But he said I could do anything else to you."

Harry sat there, resting on his knees and panting. He looked at Nott with the most intimidating glare he could muster. It must have worked, because Nott looked positively frightened.

"Expelliarmus!"

A flash of red lightning, and Nott went flying back twenty feet into the grass. Harry stood, clutching the Fuoco Pennant in his fist. Harry had used the one spell he had learned during the only meeting of the Dueling Club in his second year. He was shaking; he wasn't used to feeling all that power in one spot. It was a bit overpowering.

"What the hell? Since when have you been able to do wandless magic?" Nott asked, panic rising in his voice. Good, Harry thought, let him think that. Don't let him notice the Pennant.

Harry smiled grimly, and Nott stumbled to get up, looking scared as ever. But he seemed to gather his muster and stood up, gripping his wand tightly.

"I don't like fighting, Potter. Well, actually, I love fighting. Lumos Maximus!" Harry wondered what a lit wand would do to Harry, when the brightest light Harry ever seen filled the sky. Covering his eyes, Harry yelled, "Nox Maximus!" He thought it would just cancel Lumos, like Nox usually does, but instead put Harry and Nott into pitch black darkness. Harry heard Nott curse.

"Damn. I was hoping you'd want to come peacefully. I don't like forcing people, but if you insist-" Nott raised his hand and yelled, "Imperio!"

Harry gave a relaxed smile, going completely limp. The feeling of floating on clouds came over him, and he felt like he didn't have a single care in the world. It was a nice change of pace.

Follow Nott, Potter...

Why? a voice in the back of his head asked. He only wants to bring me to Voldemort.

Follow Nott...

"Nott!" he yelled, driving away the curse, "Don't you learn anything? You should know by now I can beat the Imperious Curse. Just how stupid are you?"

Nott yelled out in anger and frustration, and muttered something. It seemed to be just regular daylight again. "Cru-"

Harry grabbed the pennant and shouted "Impedimenta!"

"ci-" Harry ran over to Nott as fast as he could, the spell making Nott go ten times slower than he should. Harry grabbed his wand.

"o!" Harry stood in front of Nott as the spell wore off, who smiled evilly before dropping into a confused glare. Harry grinned and waved the wand, a safe distance from Nott.

"Damn you, boy! Give me my wand back!"

Harry laughed. "You are brainless, aren't you, Nott? You think I'm going to give you the wand, when I know you're just going to curse me?" He took the wand and snapped it in two. Nott positively howled, using language more colorful than Ron's.

Harry just chuckled, until he heard laughter with him. He turned back to Nott, looking anxious.

"Stupid boy, you think I need my wand to do my magic? I can simply Apparate out of here. You, however-" And with that, he gave an evil laugh and disappeared with a Pop!

Harry cursed, and felt around the invisible wall again. But he smiled. There was a way out of almost anything, and he knew how. He took the Fuoco Pennant in his hand and said, "Finite Incantatum." Harry fell onto the ground as the shield he was supporting himself on disappeared. Wiping leaves and dirt from his shirt, Harry got up and walked toward the other side of the meadow to get his Firebolt and go home.

He picked up his broomstick and started to walk home when he heard a familiar Pop! come from behind him. Harry was about to turn around to see what it was when something tight wrapped around his neck. Gasping helplessly for air that couldn't come, Harry flailed his arms around, hoping to hit something behind him.

He heard a somewhat maniacal laugh. "I can kill you, Harry Potter! Master has given me permission! Better a dead Potter than a free one, he says! I don't need magic to do that!" It was Nott.

Failing to hit him, Harry tried to claw at whatever it was around his neck. Being strangled was almost as bad as the Cruciatus Curse. He felt as if someone were crushing his lungs with an anchor. Harry tried to dig his fingers under whatever it was that was blocking his windpipe. With his wand hand Harry tried to do a spell-any spell-but if he couldn't say the spell, how could he do it? Harry tried harder and harder to fight, but it was getting impossible.

Harry gave up trying to breath (he could always concentrate on getting whatever it was off his neck); he felt like his chest were about to explode. Everything was starting to spin; Harry's arms felt heavier than bricks. Everything started to get black...

"Stupefy!" cried a harsh, yet familiar voice.

No, Harry thought, it can't be. I must be hallucinating or something...

Harry felt a tug around his neck, even tighter than before, before relief. Nott must have stumbled or something. He took in a breath that felt like what would be a drink after traveling in the desert for a week with out it. Harry sank to the ground and just lay there, breathing. His hands were instinctively around his neck. He didn't care if Voldemort nabbed him right now; he was breathing, and that's all that mattered.

It must have been five minutes, not doing anything but taking deep breathes, when he finally opened his eyes. Lying right next to him, still as stone, was Nott. Harry's eyes widened and he sat up, scooting away from Nott's body as fast as he could. Harry always thought people who were Stunned looked like they were dead. Although now that he's actually seen someone die, he could tell it was very different...

Harry's back hit against a fallen wall. He looked up, and couldn't believe whom he saw sitting there. He tried to say something, but he just couldn't.

Farmor Mishka smiled, with a wand in one hand and a red scarf in the other. "It's about time you came to your senses and looked around. Not that I blame you, exactly," she added as an afterthought. "He had you for a good few minutes. You must have some set of lungs. Although you looked positively blue before I stunned him."

Harry blinked, and opened his mouth to ask something, but he couldn't. The most he could manage was a very quiet croak. He felt his neck and hissed in pain; there was going to be a horrible bruise where the scarf choked him, and his neck felt slightly swollen.

Farmor Mishka looked mildly concerned and bent down and raised Harry's chin to observe his neck. "Dear, dear," she said, "He got you good, didn't he? You shouldn't talk for the rest of the night. I insist. Now let's go home and I'll make you some chicken soup. It'll be mighty difficult swallowing, though. I won't lie to you. Did he get you anywhere else?"

Harry shook his head. Every little turn hurt his neck. He felt horrible; horrible for letting his guard down -twice. For not getting out the second he thought something was up. He should have known after his dream it wasn't safe to go out. He looked at Farmor Mishka and pointed at Nott.

"What am I going to do with the little nasty?" Harry nodded. Farmor Mishka seemed to think it over. She nodded to herself as she made her decision. "Don't worry; he won't wake up, but just in case...Petrificus Totalus!" She put the Full Body Bind on Nott.

Then Farmor Mishka took a red and pink spotted fountain pen out of her purse. She opened it and put the tip close to her mouth. "Mundungus, are you there? Mundungus Fletcher, you better not be ignoring me. This is important!"

Harry did a double take as he heard a shaky voice with an American (maybe from New York) accent coming from the pen. "Mishka Dursley, for God's sake, what is it now? You are always contacting me at the most unusual time. Right now, for example, I'm shaving, and stark naked at that. You know how hard it is to shave and talk to a pen at the same time? And making sure you don't slam your manhood into the sink. I hope this is important; I don't give a rat's ass whether Harry hates country music-"

Harry grinned, although confused, and Farmor Mishka scowled. "Mundungus! Listen to me! Harry was attacked, you fool. I just saved him from a Death Eater. Get over here now!"

Harry heard Mundungus Fletcher cough. "Alright, then. You stay put, I'll be right there." A small click like a pen cap closing ended the connection.

Farmor Mishka stretched and looked down at Harry. "Well, then, Harry. Now we just wait." She looked at him, and blinked at the questioning glance he gave her. "You have a question?" Harry nodded, and as he opened his mouth to ask a question she shoved a stick into his hands. "Don't talk. Write it down."

Harry wrote:

What was that thing you were using? And who's Mundungus Fletcher?

Farmor Mishka held up the fountain pen. "This is a Commupen. You know how you can talk to someone via fire? Well, you can set up a system of links, and use the pen to talk. Plus it writes in any color you want. And Mundungus is part of Albus's gang. He helps fight Dark wizards, healing, and, of course, watches out for you."

Harry remembered back to right after the last task, when he was still in the hospital, to what Professor Dumbledore told Sirius:

"You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher -the old crowd."

Harry nodded.

A small Pop! and a short aging wizard wearing a suit with a purple and yellow striped tie Apparated behind Harry. For some reason, he was wearing a fedora; then again, wizards who don't grow up around Muggles tend to dress in what they think was normal. Usually it wasn't.

"Hello, Harry. Nice to meet you, old bean. Should I call you lima, then?" Mr. Fletcher said, shaking his hand pompously. His eyes glittered with cheerfulness and mischief. Harry was reminded of George and Fred's humor. "What happened?"

Harry opened his mouth, but Farmor Mishka had other ideas and cut in. "Harry was attacked by that little nasty over there-" She pointed at Nott. "-he was strangling the poor dear with this." She held up the red scarf and handed it to Mr. Fletcher. "I don't want Harry to strain his throat and talk, Mundungus."

Mr. Fletcher tutted like Farmor Mishka, dropping the scarf and looking at Harry. "What a shame, eh, kiddo? You want to let me take a look at your neck?" Harry nodded and lifted his chin. "Damn, he got you good, didn't he? Bruising-no doubt about that-and not just on the outside, no...your windpipe, too. Vocal chords...I'd compliment the jackass, but it wouldn't be my place now, would it?" Harry smiled. "Do you want me to fix your neck? Or should I just let the famous Harry Potter go around as a mute for the rest of your life?" Harry's grin widened. "Fix it? You sure? Alright then. Brace yourself; it's going to be a bumpy ride, pardon the cliché."

Mr. Fletcher pointed his wand at Harry's throat. "Resarcio in gen ango accedo guttur!"

Harry felt slightly uncomfortable warmth spread throughout his throat, and something that felt as if his neck was being stretched like rubber. The second all the feeling went away, Harry put a hand to his throat, which felt better than ever. He coughed, and said, "Thanks, Mr. Fletcher," rather squeakily. He coughed again.

"Aw, our little Harry is going through puberty," Mr. Fletcher teased. "And call me Mundungus. Mr. Fletcher makes me feel like I'm sixty."

Farmor Mishka snorted. "And how old are you, exactly?"

"Oh, thirty-six."

"But your son's twenty-four. How old were you when he was born, then?"

Mr. Fletcher didn't miss a beat. "Twelve."

Harry laughed as the two bickered. Suddenly he felt homesick for Hermione and Ron, who often argued like this. Harry relaxed, amused from watching the two fight, occasionally putting his two cents in.

"And last year at the World Cup!" Farmor Mishka howled.

"What about it?" Mundungus exclaimed.

"You tried to swindle a twelve room tent from the Ministry!"

"What? The Death Eaters destroyed mine!"

"You slept under some sticks and your cloak!"

"Call it compensation for emotional damages."

"Aurgh!"

Harry laughed harder than ever, when a loud clicking noise came from Mundungus's shirt pocket. He took out a purple and yellow squiggly fountain pen-the same as Farmor Mishkas, except for the color- and opened it. Noise came from the pen, full of static and yelling.

A familiar voice was yelling, "Mundungus, where the hell are you? We've got the Snake here, with serious arm lesions and a blow to the head! He may be delusional! There's only so much the two of us can do!"

"Will you stuff it with the code names and technical humbo jumbo!? Get his ass over here!" cried another familiar voice, full of pain.

"Mundungus, as much as I dislike the slime ball ("Excuse me!"), we need him for-"

"Sirius!" Harry cried, recognizing the first voice.

"Is that Harry? What are you doing with him?" an alarmed sounding Sirius asked. "Mundungus, get over here now!"

Mundungus looked apologetically at Farmor Mishka and Harry. "I'll be there in two shakes of your ass."

"Tell Harry I'm sorry I haven't written to him yet. I promise I'll come visit him soon!" More moans of pain. "GET OVER HERE!" Click!

Mundungus closed his fountain pen and sighed. "Well, you heard the man. I must go." He shook Harry's hand and kissed Farmor Mishka's cheek, then Apparated with a Pop!

Harry and Farmor Mishka sat in silence for a minute, before she suddenly got up. "Well, let's go home, then, shall we? You must be starving." Harry nodded and got up. "Oh," he said as he picked up his broomstick. "Here's the scarf. Do you want it, Farmor Mishka?"

"Don't be silly, why would I want that? You keep it."

"I don't want it; that thing almost killed me. It's cursed. I have an idea; let's burn it!"

Farmor Mishka laughed shortly. "Good idea. Keep it, though. Give it to a girl you like."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, right."

"And why not? Isn't there a girl you fancy? Well, you are at that age..."

"Farmor Mishka!"

"Well..."

They walked home, and Uncle Vernon was sitting in the living room, reading the paper.

"Where have you been this morning?" he asked gruffly.

"Out," Farmor Mishka replied shortly.

"Out where?"

"Out. Mind your damn business." She grinned at Harry, and pointed her wand at Uncle Vernon. His eyes widened. "Mother! You wouldn't! You can't! I won't let you!" Farmor Mishka grinned evilly and muttered "Amethysta Bulla," and shot dainty-looking amethyst bubbles towards Uncle Vernon. He screamed and ran out of the room, about as fast as a man his size could. "Now," Farmor Mishka said, turning to Harry, "How about some breakfast?"

Harry grinned and nodded, following Farmor Mishka to the kitchen. "What spell was that?"

"One that Vernon knows. The Loving Bubble Charm. It makes the person completely happy and open-minded for a whole day. He's terrified of it," Farmor Mishka laughed as she made Harry and herself some chocolate-chip pancakes.

Harry laughed. Sounds like something Uncle Vernon would hate. But then he thought of something. "But I thought Uncle Vernon was a Muggle!"

"Oh, he is," she said matter-of-factly, "In a manner of speaking."

"What do you mean?"

Farmor Mishka put the pancakes on the table. "I came to Scotland from Sweden when I was twenty, and I met a man, Horace Dursley. He had already had Marge with another woman, so Marge is actually your uncle's half sister. Horace bewitched me with his singing voice. I married him, and had Vernon. Horrid name; Horace picked it, of course. Vernon spent his childhood in Scotland; for the first twelve years of his life, actually. Right after he left, my husband died and I moved back to Sweden. You know what part of Scotland my children grew up in?"

"What?" Harry asked thickly, mouth full of pancakes.

"Hogsmede, as a matter of fact. Vernon was raised in the shadows of Hogwarts."

"Wasn't your husband a Muggle?" That seemed the most comprehensible thing. That must be why Uncle Vernon didn't go to Hogwarts. They hated the magical world and stayed away completely, and that's how their so ignorant of it now. A lot could have changed.

"Well," Farmor Mishka mused, "That's not true. Horace Dursley was a fine wizard. He was in Slytherin, though. Do you know what that makes your uncle, Harry?"

Harry stared at Farmor Mishka, and then burst out laughing. He thought he was going to die laughing. He exclaimed, still gasping from air from laughing so hard, "Uncle Vernon is a Squib!"

*~*~*~*~*~*

End of Chapter Two