Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was the tail end of July, and Paris was enveloped in a warm, sticky embrace, with a steady rain drizzling outside the open balcony door. Draco reclined on a sumptuous chaise lounge, idly spinning a silver snake ear cuff between his fingers for what felt like the umpteenth time this summer. He had stumbled upon the piece of jewelry tucked delicately inside his trunk while clearing it out after returning home from Hogwarts, accompanied by a note scrawled in a truly horrendous script: Happy fifteenth birthday, Princess. And he hasn't a clue how Potter managed to slip it in without him knowing, but— well, he did.

With a frustrated sigh, Draco slipped the cuff back onto his ear and sauntered over to the balcony doors, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame. He had to admit, this city was stunning. He had spent the better part of the summer here with his mother, and his closest friend Pansy; their mothers shared a bond that didn't feel entirely platonic. But who was he to judge? As long as his mother was happy, that was all that mattered to him.

"Daydreaming about Potter again, darling?"

"Ye— no." Draco huffed, turning to see Pansy striding into the room.

"Right." She said sarcastically. "Well, our mothers are planning another shopping spree before we head back to England." She flopped onto the couch, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I think they want to doll us up again, but I honestly can't complain. I do enjoy the attention."

"Naturally," Draco rolled his eyes, moving her legs to sit beside her. "Have you heard from Blaise yet?"

"Oh yes, Blaisikins will be meeting us in Diagon next week for school shopping. Said something about needing a break from his father and that he'd hex us if we don't show," she said with a roguish chuckle.

"Ugh, don't remind me of those." Draco groaned. "Father insisted I practice my Occlumency skills before we left as if he even tells me any of his secrets for anyone to find in my head."

"Have you actually been practicing?"

"Of course, I've got my own secrets to keep."

"You having the hots for Potter isn't much of a secret; among our circle of friends anyway. And let's not forget about that gorgeous Granger— oh, do you think we'll run into her again?" She asked excitedly but didn't wait for a reply. "I hope so, I've grown quite fond of the girl."

Draco shoots her a glance that seems to say, 'Look who's talking,' before brushing off her comments entirely. "He wants me to make Potter's life a living hell, something about our house elf getting his freedom, but knowing Father he probably had it coming."

"Oh, I remember that little fellow; he was adorable! So, are you actually going to go through with it?"

"I... I suppose I have to, right?" Draco sighed, beginning to pace the room. "At least when we're in public, but—"

"It'll be alright, darling," Pansy said, standing up and gently placing her hand on his arm. "Potter has this uncanny knack for seeing right through you anyway; I'm sure it will all turn out just fine." She paused, playfully flicking her finger against his ear. "He even knows your taste in accessories," she snickered, jumping back to dodge his swiping hand.

"It's honestly a bit scary how he does that, I haven't told him a thing, and yet still he fucking figures it out."

"Like a dog with a bone, that one," Pansy laughs again. "Have you written to him this summer?"

"No. Not with his Uncle probably locking away Hedwig again, there'd be no point."

"You know the name of his owl? Oh dear, my sweet baby is in love."

"Pans, I swear I'll put a hex on you, you realize that, right?"

"Why don't you go see him?"

"What— how would I even— that's ridiculous."

"Simple. You have his address— or else you couldn't have written him— so don't try to lie. Go visit before school starts, get your snog on or whatever you two get up to and me and Blaise can cover for you."

Harry was ready for summer to be over a sentiment that might sound odd, as most kids take great joy in the vacation from school. But life with the Dursleys was more a prison to him, and he longed to return to Hogwarts. At least this year he had been able to pick the lock to the cupboard under the stairs to get his spellbooks; thank you, Fred and George. He did, however, have to hide the fact, only able to crack open a book to finish his homework in the dead of night; but he wouldn't be getting detention because of not doing it at least.

Another summer without having any contact with his friends, after a call from Ron, who, bless his heart, had no clue how a Muggle phone worked. He had shouted at Uncle Vernon through the phone, even telling him they were school friends which maybe Harry should have warned him not to beforehand. But it hadn't crossed his mind until after the fact. He had gotten a rather loud scolding for giving out their number to other 'freaks' after that and hadn't received another call since.

Harry sighed, carefully stowing his spellbook, inkwell, quill, and essay into a pillowcase that he hid under a loose floorboard under his bed. He rose, stretching his arms high over his head, working a kink in the back of his neck as he strode over to the open window. He had grown again over these past few weeks, and not just in height. The manual labor his aunt had him doing since his return had been a surprising gift, he mused with a hint of irony. As a result, he had filled out rather impressively, if he did say so himself.

With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his thick, unruly black hair, tracing the scar that ran from the center of his forehead down past his left eye. The mark stood out like ink on a blank page, the faint pink lines branching out like lightning, contrasting sharply with the darker hue of his complexion. He glanced at the glowing alarm clock perched on his bedside table to see that it was one o'clock in the morning. A bitter chuckle escaped him as he thought about the fact that no one here would even care to remember it was his fifteenth birthday today. It didn't bother him so much anymore, but it did make him miss his friends all the more, especially his favorite little Slytherin.

He scanned the vast expanse of the starry night, searching for any sign of Hedwig, perhaps returning triumphantly with a mouse dangling from her beak, eager for his praise. As he stared blankly over the rooftops, it took him a moment to grasp what was unfolding before him.

Against the backdrop of the glowing moon, a large, oddly shaped figure was approaching, growing larger with each passing second, flapping its wings toward him. He froze, his hand hovering over the window latch, contemplating whether to slam it shut. But as the peculiar creature glided over a streetlamp on Privet Drive, realization struck him, and he quickly stepped aside.

In a flurry, three owls burst through the window, two supporting the third, which seemed to be unconscious. They landed softly on Harry's bed, and the middle owl, a hefty gray one, toppled over and lay still. Attached to its legs was a sizable package.

Harry instantly recognized the unconscious owl—Errol, a member of the Weasley family. He rushed to the bed, untied the cords binding Errol, removed the parcel, and then gently carried him to Hedwig's cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, let out a weak hoot of gratitude, and began to drink eagerly from the water dish.

Harry turned his gaze back to the remaining owls. Among them was the large snowy female, his beloved Hedwig. She was proudly clutching a parcel and radiated joy. As he gently took the package from her, she affectionately nipped at his fingers before soaring across the room to join Errol.

The third owl, a striking tawny bird, was unfamiliar to Harry, but he instantly recognized its origin. In addition to a third package, it bore a letter adorned with the Hogwarts crest. Once Harry relieved it of its load, the owl puffed up its feathers with an air of importance, stretched its wings, and gracefully flew out the window into the night sky.

Harry settled onto his bed, eager to unwrap Errol's package. He tore away the brown paper to reveal a gift wrapped in shimmering gold, along with his very first birthday card. His fingers quivered with excitement as he opened the envelope, and two pieces of paper slipped out—a letter and a newspaper clipping.

The clipping unmistakably originated from the wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet, as the figures in the black-and-white image were animated. Harry picked it up, carefully flattened it, and began to read:

MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE WINS GRAND PRIZE

Arthur Weasley, the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. A thrilled Mr. Weasley shared with the Daily Prophet, "We plan to use the winnings for a summer vacation in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, is employed as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank." The Weasley family will enjoy a month in Egypt, returning just in time for the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of their children currently attend.

As Harry gazed at the lively photograph, a broad smile spread across his face upon seeing all nine Weasleys enthusiastically waving at him in front of a grand pyramid. There was plump Mrs. Weasley, her husband Mr. Weasley with his thinning hair, their six sons, and one daughter—all sporting vibrant red hair, even if the black-and-white image didn’t capture it. Right in the center stood Ron, tall and lanky, with his pet rat, Scabbers, perched on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around his little sister, Ginny.

Harry couldn't think of anyone more deserving of a hefty treasure than the Weasleys, who were kind-hearted and struggling financially. He picked up Ron's letter and carefully unfolded it.

Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
I’m really sorry about that phone call. I hope the Muggles didn’t give you too much trouble. I asked Dad, and he thinks I shouldn’t have yelled. Egypt is incredible! Bill has been showing us around all the tombs, and you wouldn’t believe the curses those ancient Egyptian wizards placed on them. Mum wouldn’t let Ginny enter the last one; it was filled with all sorts of mutant skeletons of Muggles who had broken in and ended up with extra heads and other bizarre features.

I was shocked when Dad won the Daily Prophet Draw—seven hundred galleons! Most of it is going towards this trip, but they’re planning to get me a new wand for next year. We’ll be back about a week before term starts, and we’re heading to London to pick up my wand and our new books. Any chance we could meet up there?
Don’t let the Muggles get you down!
Try to get to London, Ron.
P.S. Percy is now Head Boy. He received the letter last week.

Harry cast a glance at the photograph once more. Percy, in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, wore an expression of self-satisfaction. He had affixed his Head Boy badge to the fez that sat playfully atop his neatly styled hair, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the bright Egyptian sunlight.

Turning his attention to the present, Harry began to unwrap it. Inside lay what appeared to be a tiny glass spinning top. Beneath it was another note from Ron.

Harry— this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. It’s meant to light up and spin if there’s someone untrustworthy nearby. Bill claims it’s just a gimmick for wizard tourists and isn’t dependable, especially since it kept going off during dinner last night. He didn’t realize Fred and George had slipped beetles into his soup.
Take care, Ron.

Harry placed the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, where it stood perfectly still, balanced on its tip, reflecting the glowing hands of his clock. He gazed at it with a smile for a few moments before reaching for the parcel that Hedwig had delivered. Inside, he discovered a wrapped gift, a card, and a letter from Hermione.

Dear Harry,

Ron filled me in on his phone call with your Uncle Vernon. I really hope you’re doing okay. I’m currently on holiday in France and was worried about how to send this to you— what if customs opened it?— but then Hedwig appeared! I think she wanted to ensure you received something special for your birthday this year. I ordered your gift through owl-order; I saw an ad in the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s great to stay updated on the wizarding world). Did you catch that picture of Ron and his family from a week ago? I bet he’s learning so much. I’m quite envious—the ancient Egyptian wizards are so intriguing.

There’s also some fascinating local history of witchcraft here. I’ve rewritten my entire History of Magic essay to include some of the things I’ve discovered; I hope it’s not too lengthy—it’s two extra rolls of parchment beyond what Professor Binns requested.
Ron mentioned that he plans to be in London during the final week of the holidays. Are you able to make it? Will your aunt and uncle allow you to join him? I truly hope you can come. If not, I’ll catch you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!

With love, Hermione.
P.S. Ron says Percy has been appointed Head Boy. I bet Percy is thrilled, but Ron doesn’t seem too excited about it.

Harry chuckled as he set Hermione's letter aside and picked up her gift. It was surprisingly heavy. Knowing Hermione, he expected it to be a hefty book filled with complex spells—but it wasn’t. His heart raced with excitement as he tore off the wrapping to reveal a sleek black leather case, adorned with silver lettering that read Broomstick Servicing Kit.

He smiled warmly at the present, reminiscing about the last time he received a similar gift for Christmas from an anonymous sender. Draco would never confess it was him, but Harry had compared the handwriting to the letters he received the previous year.

Aside from his friends, what Harry longed for the most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, he was an exceptional player, having earned the distinction of being the youngest in a hundred years to join one of the Hogwarts House teams. Among his most treasured belongings was his Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom.

Harry set the leather case aside and picked up his final package. He instantly recognized the messy handwriting on the brown paper as Hagrid's. As he tore away the top layer of wrapping, he caught a glimpse of something green and leathery. However, before he could fully unwrap it, the parcel quivered oddly, and a loud snap echoed from within as if it had teeth.

Harry froze in place. He was aware that Hagrid would never intentionally send him anything harmful, but Hagrid's understanding of danger was far from conventional. He had a history of befriending giant spiders, purchasing ferocious three-headed dogs from shady characters in pubs, and smuggling illegal dragon eggs into his home.

With a mix of curiosity and apprehension, Harry poked the parcel again, and it snapped once more. He reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripping it tightly in one hand, ready to defend himself. With his other hand, he yanked off the remaining wrapping paper. To his surprise, out tumbled a book. He barely had time to notice its striking green cover, adorned with the golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped upright and scurried sideways across the bed like an odd little crab.

"Shit," Harry muttered under his breath. The book fell off the bed with a loud thud and quickly darted across the room. Harry crept after it cautiously. It managed to hide in the shadowy space beneath his desk. Hoping the Dursleys were still sound asleep, he got down on all fours and reached for it. "Mother f—" The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped away, continuing its scuttling escape.

Harry lunged forward, managing to pin it down. He heard Uncle Vernon let out a loud, sleepy grunt from the next room. Tightly gripping the wriggling book in his arms, he rushed to his chest of drawers and retrieved a belt, which he fastened securely around it. The Monster Book quivered in protest, but it could no longer flap or snap, so Harry tossed it onto the bed and reached for Hagrid's card.

Dear Harry,
Happy Birthday!
I think you might find this handy for next year. I won’t say more. I’ll explain when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you well.
All the best, Hagrid.

Harry found it unsettling that Hagrid believed a biting book would be useful, yet he placed Hagrid's card alongside those from Ron and Hermione, his grin widening. Now, only the Hogwarts letter remained.
Noticing that it was thicker than usual, Harry carefully opened the envelope, pulled out the first sheet of parchment, and began to read:

Dear Mr. Potter,
Please be informed that the new school year will commence on September first. The Hogwarts Express will depart from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.
Third-year students are allowed to visit the village of Hogsmeade on select weekends. Please have the enclosed permission form signed by your parent or guardian. A list of required books for the upcoming year is included.
Yours sincerely, Professor M. McGonagall.
Deputy Headmistress.

Harry examined the Hogsmeade permission form, his smile fading. The thought of visiting Hogsmeade on weekends thrilled him; he knew it was a wizarding village, and he had never been there. But how could he possibly convince Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

The next morning Harry received the worst possible news he could have gotten for his birthday. He hadn't paid much attention to the escaped prisoner on the television that Uncle Vernon was ranting about, but when he said the name Marge, his attention was instantly on high alert. He hoped he had heard wrong, but no, 'Aunt' Marge would be visiting them for a week, and Uncle Vernon would be picking his sister up from the station soon.

He gave his usual speech about Harry pretending to be 'normal' whenever they had company. Harry had the brilliant idea to use that to his advantage, if Uncle Vernon wanted him to stick to their story of Harry going to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys and keep his magic a secret; then he was getting his permission slip signed for Hogsmeade.

Harry sent Hedwig to stay with Ron, writing him a letter to explain the situation. He carefully stored his gifts under his floorboard and didn't have to wait long to be called downstairs to greet his 'Aunt,' thinking that he was glad he didn't share any blood with the horrid woman he would have to pretend not to despise.

"Fix your hair!" Aunt Petunia snapped as Harry entered the hallway.

Harry saw no reason to tame his wild hair. Aunt Marge thrived on finding faults, and the messier he appeared, the more it pleased her. Before long, the familiar crunch of gravel signaled Uncle Vernon's car returning to the driveway, followed by the sound of car doors slamming and footsteps approaching on the garden path.

"Open the door!" Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.

With a heavy heart, Harry pulled the door wide. There stood Aunt Marge, a mirror image of Uncle Vernon: large, beefy, and sporting a purple complexion, complete with a mustache that, while not as bushy as his, was still quite prominent. In one hand, she gripped a massive suitcase, while the other cradled a grumpy old bulldog.

"Where's my Dudders?" Aunt Marge bellowed. "Where's my little nephew?"

Dudley waddled down the hall, his blond hair slicked down against his round head, a bow tie barely visible beneath his multiple chins. Aunt Marge shoved the suitcase into Harry's stomach, knocking the breath out of him, then scooped Dudley into a tight one-armed embrace, planting a loud kiss on his cheek. Harry knew all too well that Dudley tolerated Aunt Marge's affection only because it came with a price, and sure enough, when they finally separated, Dudley was clutching a crisp twenty-pound note in his chubby hand.

"Petunia!" Aunt Marge bellowed, striding past Harry as if he were merely a coat rack. She greeted Aunt Petunia with a hearty bump of her substantial jaw against her sharp cheekbone. Uncle Vernon soon entered, beaming as he closed the door behind him.

"Tea, Marge?" he inquired. "And what about Ripper?"

"Ripper can sip some tea from my saucer," Aunt Marge replied as they all made their way to the kitchen, leaving Harry standing alone in the hallway with her suitcase. He didn’t mind at all; any reason to avoid Aunt Marge was welcome, so he took his time hauling the suitcase upstairs to the spare room. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Aunt Marge was already enjoying her tea and fruitcake, while Ripper noisily slurped in the corner. Harry noticed Aunt Petunia flinch slightly as droplets of tea and dog saliva splattered onto her pristine floor. She had a strong aversion to animals.

"Who's taking care of the other dogs, Marge?" Uncle Vernon asked.

"Oh, I've got Colonel Fubster looking after them," Aunt Marge boomed. "He's retired now, so it's good for him to have something to keep him busy. But I couldn't leave poor Ripper behind; he gets so lonely without me."

As Harry settled into a chair, Ripper began to growl, finally drawing Aunt Marge's attention to him for the first time.

"Well!" she snapped. "You're still hanging around, I see."

"Yes," Harry replied.

"Don't you dare say 'yes' in that disrespectful tone," Aunt Marge growled. "It's incredibly generous of Vernon and Petunia to take you in. I certainly wouldn't have. If you had shown up on my doorstep, you'd be heading straight to an orphanage."

Harry was itching to say that he'd prefer an orphanage over living with the Dursleys, but the thought of the Hogsmeade form held him back. He forced a strained smile onto his face.

"Don't you dare smirk at me!" Aunt Marge thundered. "I can tell you haven't changed since I last saw you. I thought school would teach you some manners." She took a hefty sip of her tea, wiped her mustache, and asked, "What was the name of that place you send him to, Vernon?"

"St. Brutus's," Uncle Vernon answered without hesitation. "It's a top-notch institution for lost causes."

"I see," Aunt Marge said, her eyes narrowing. "Do they use the cane at St. Brutus's, boy?" she barked from across the table.

"Um—" Uncle Vernon gave a quick nod behind Aunt Marge's back.

"Yes," Harry said, deciding to go all in. "All the time."

"Excellent," Aunt Marge replied. "I won't tolerate any of this soft-hearted nonsense about not punishing those who deserve it. A good beating is what's called for in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases. Have you been beaten often?"

"Oh, absolutely," Harry replied, "plenty of times."

Aunt Marge squinted at him. "I still disapprove of your tone, young man," she retorted. "If you can talk about your punishments so nonchalantly, it’s clear they’re not severe enough. Petunia, I suggest you write a letter. Make it clear that you support the use of strict discipline in this boy's case."

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was concerned that Harry might forget their agreement; regardless, he abruptly shifted the conversation. "Did you catch the news this morning, Marge? What do you think about that escaped convict, huh?"

As Aunt Marge settled in, Harry found himself almost wistfully imagining life at number four without her presence. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia typically encouraged Harry to keep his distance, a request he was more than willing to oblige. In contrast, Aunt Marge insisted on keeping Harry in her sight at all times, ready to bellow her suggestions for his so-called improvement. She relished comparing Harry to Dudley, taking great joy in showering Dudley with lavish gifts while casting disdainful glances at Harry, as if challenging him to question why he was left empty-handed. She also frequently dropped ominous hints about what made Harry such a disappointing individual.

"You shouldn’t blame yourself for how the boy has turned out, Vernon," she remarked during lunch on the third day. "If there’s something fundamentally flawed within him, there’s nothing anyone can do to change that."

Harry struggled to focus on his meal, his hands trembling and his face flushing with anger. Remember the rules, he reminded himself. Think of Hogsmeade. Stay silent. Don’t react. Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.

"It's one of the fundamental principles of breeding," she remarked. "You often see it with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup— "

At that instant, Aunt Marge's wineglass shattered in her grasp. Fragments of glass scattered everywhere, and Aunt Marge gasped, blinking as her flushed face became splattered.

"Marge!" Aunt Petunia shrieked. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry," Aunt Marge grunted, wiping her face with her napkin. "I must have squeezed it too tightly. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's the other day. No need to make a fuss, Petunia; I have a very strong grip."

However, both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were eyeing Harry with suspicion, prompting him to decide it was best to forgo dessert and make a quick exit from the table.

Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths. It had been ages since he had lost control like that and caused something to explode. The last time his magic had spiraled wildly from his grasp, he had split a basilisk in two with a sword, like a hot knife through butter. He couldn't afford to let things get out of hand here; the Hogsmeade form wasn't the only concern—if he continued like this, he would find himself in hot water with the Ministry of Magic.

He heard the Dursleys getting up from the table and quickly made his way upstairs to avoid them.

Harry managed to endure the next three days by distracting himself with thoughts of his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge began her tirades. This strategy worked reasonably well, although it left him with a somewhat dazed expression, prompting Aunt Marge to conclude that he was mentally deficient.

Finally, the long-awaited evening of Marge's departure arrived. Aunt Petunia prepared an elaborate dinner, while Uncle Vernon opened several bottles of wine. They made it through the soup and salmon without a single mention of Harry's shortcomings. As they enjoyed the lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon launched into a lengthy monologue about Grunnings, his drill manufacturing business. Afterward, Aunt Petunia brewed coffee, and Uncle Vernon presented a bottle of brandy.

"Care for a drink, Marge?" he asked.

Aunt Marge, already quite tipsy from the wine, had a rosy complexion.

"Just a little one, then," she laughed. "A bit more... and a bit more... now that's perfect."

Dudley was on his fourth slice of pie, while Aunt Petunia delicately sipped her coffee, her pinky raised. Harry longed to retreat to his bedroom, but the glare from Uncle Vernon’s furious eyes made it clear he had to endure the evening.

"Aah," Aunt Marge smacked her lips as she set down her empty brandy glass. "Delicious food, Petunia. Usually, I just have a simple fry-up in the evenings while managing twelve dogs." She let out a hearty burp and patted her ample tweed-clad belly. "Excuse me. But I do appreciate a well-fed boy," she continued, giving Dudley a playful wink. "You’ll grow into a fine man, Dudders, just like your father. Yes, I’ll have another splash of brandy, Vernon."

"Now, this one here—" She gestured toward Harry, causing his stomach to tighten. The Handbook, he thought urgently.

"This one has a rather unappealing look. You see that in dogs too. I had Colonel Fubster put one down last year. It was a pitiful little creature—weak and poorly bred."

Harry struggled to recall page twelve of his book: A Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers. "It all boils down to blood, as I mentioned the other day. Bad blood always shows itself. Now, I’m not implying anything against your family, Petunia," she said, patting Aunt Petunia's thin hand with her large one, "but your sister was a bad apple. They can appear in the finest families. Then she ran off with a good-for-nothing, and here we have the outcome right in front of us."

Harry stared at his plate, a strange ringing echoing in his ears. Hold your broom tightly by the tail, he reminded himself. But he couldn’t recall what to do next. Aunt Marge's voice drilled into him like one of Uncle Vernon's drills.

"This Potter," Aunt Marge bellowed, grabbing the brandy bottle and pouring more into her glass, splattering some onto the tablecloth, "you never mentioned what he did for a living?" Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged anxious glances, while Dudley paused mid-bite, staring at his parents in confusion.

"He— he was unemployed," Uncle Vernon replied, casting a quick look at Harry.

"Just as I suspected!" Aunt Marge declared, taking a large gulp of brandy and wiping her chin with her sleeve. "A worthless, lazy good-for-nothing who—"

"He is not," Harry interjected fiercely, causing an abrupt silence to fall over the table. He trembled with rage, feeling more furious than ever before.

"MORE BRANDY!" Uncle Vernon shouted, his face turning pale. He poured the remaining contents of the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy," he growled at Harry, "go to bed, now—"

"No, Vernon," Aunt Marge interrupted, her voice slurring slightly as she raised a hand, her bloodshot eyes locked onto Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They went and got themselves killed in a car crash— probably drunk, I imagine—"

"They didn’t die in a car crash!" Harry exclaimed, rising to his feet in defiance.

"They died in a car crash, you vile little liar, leaving you to be a burden on your decent, hardworking relatives!" Aunt Marge screamed, her anger swelling. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little—"

Aunt Marge abruptly fell silent, as if words had abandoned her. In that fleeting moment, she appeared to be swelling with an indescribable fury—yet the inflation continued. Her enormous red face began to expand, her small eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched so tightly that no words could escape. In the next instant, several buttons popped off her tweed jacket, ricocheting off the walls. She was inflating like a grotesque balloon, her stomach breaking free from her waistband, and each of her fingers puffing up like sausages.

“MARGE!” Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shouted in unison as Aunt Marge’s entire body started to lift off her chair, heading toward the ceiling. She had become completely round, resembling a giant life buoy with beady eyes, her hands and feet protruding awkwardly as she floated upward, emitting frantic popping sounds. Ripper dashed into the room, barking furiously.

“NOOOOOOO!” Uncle Vernon shouted, grabbing one of Marge's feet in a desperate attempt to pull her back down, but he nearly lifted off the ground himself. Just then, Ripper lunged forward and bit into Uncle Vernon's leg.

Harry bolted from the dining room before anyone could intervene, racing toward the cupboard under the stairs. The door burst open magically as he approached. Within moments, he had dragged his trunk to the front door. He dashed upstairs, threw himself under the bed, pried up the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase stuffed with his books and birthday gifts. He wriggled out, snatched Hedwig's empty cage, and hurried back downstairs to his trunk, just as Uncle Vernon stormed out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody shreds.

"GET BACK IN HERE!" he shouted. "RETURN AND PUT HER RIGHT!"

But a wild fury had taken hold of Harry. He flung his trunk open, grabbed his wand, and aimed it at Uncle Vernon.

"She had it coming," Harry panted, his breath quickening. "She got exactly what she deserved. Stay away from me, or you'll be next." He fumbled for the door latch behind him. "I'm leaving," Harry declared. "I've had enough of this shit." In an instant, he was outside, on the dark, silent street, dragging his heavy trunk behind him, with Hedwig's cage tucked under his arm.

"This is a ridiculous idea," Draco muttered as Pansy and Blaise pulled him through Slug and Jigger's Apothecary, gathering Potion ingredients for the upcoming semester. "Am I really supposed to just show up at his door uninvited like some kind of ponce? 'Oh, hello, Potter! Why am I here? I just thought I’d drop by to see how miserable you’ve been lately. Care for a little chat?'"

Blaise chuckled, "Maybe you should work on your approach, yeah?"

"Just be honest with him," Pansy suggested, picking up a bottle of Hemlock. "Tell him you’ve missed that chiseled jaw and ruggedly handsome— face. I was going to say face, don't give me that look," she snickered as she grabbed another bottle.

"Yeah, right," Blaise scoffed. "Our dearest Draco has no clue how to express his feelings."

"You two are such a great help," Draco replied with a sarcastic tone. "Honestly, I don’t even want to go; it sounds like too much trouble."

Blaise raised an eyebrow at him. "You don’t want to go? Are you saying you dressed up like that for my benefit?" He tossed a small red pouch of unicorn hair between his hands, eagerly awaiting Draco's response.

Draco glanced down at his attire—a snug, perfectly tailored black suit sans the jacket, adorned with two silver rings on his left hand, definitely not meant to complement the ear cuff Potter had given him. He had charmed his hair to fall just so, only taking him a few hours to get it perfect, and might have meticulously chosen a freshly polished pair of loafers to complete the fit.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" Draco asked, not seeing any flaws in his appearance.

"He's trying to say you look downright fuckable right now and you sure as shit didn't dress like that to go shopping," Pansy chimed in, turning to face Draco with her hands on her hips. "You're going, that's final. You put in way too much effort not to, it would be a shame."

"She's right on both counts," Blaise mused, swishing a bottle of leech juice in Draco's face in a mock spell maneuver. "Besides, we've already asked your mum if you can stay over at mine for a few days so you really can't back out now."

Draco let out a sigh of resignation.

Draco paced back in forth in front of Number Four, Privet Drive. He anxiously spun one of the rings on his left hand as he tried to work up the nerve to go and knock on the front door. Just as he moved to do so, he could hear frantic shouting from inside followed by hurried footsteps, more yelling; and then there he was. Harry backed out of the door, dragging his trunk with one hand and holding Hedwig's empty cage under the other arm wand gripped tightly in his fist. He slammed the door behind him and had almost made it to the sidewalk where Draco stood frozen before he looked up.

When their eyes met, it was as if all the fury in his gaze drained away at the sight of Draco. Without a word, Harry freed his arms of their burden and closed the few feet between them, enveloping Draco in a tight embrace. They stood silently like that for several minutes; Harry's head nestled against the curve of his neck as Draco gently threaded his fingers through raven locks.

When Harry finally lifted his head, his voice came out gravelly. "You have no idea how much I needed this right now."

Draco felt a faint blush creep onto his cheeks as he averted his gaze from Harry's penetrating stare. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Are you heading somewhere with all that luggage?" He gestured toward Harry's trunk and the cage that had been carelessly dropped onto the grass behind him.

"Anywhere but here," Harry declared, gathering his belongings. "Care to join me, Princess?"

"You think I came here for you, Potter? Still arrogant as ever, I see. Maybe I was just here to visit your cousin," Draco replied, trailing behind him down the street.

Harry let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, I'm sure. So, care to explain why you're leaving Dudley behind?"

"Dudley? What a dreadful— is that really his name? Merlin, his parents must abhor him."

"Adore him actually."

"With a name like that, I suppose someone has to." Draco struggled to maintain a straight face, watching from the corner of his eye as Harry shook with laughter beside him. "I certainly can't blame you for leaving."

"It... it was his aunt actually, this horrid woman, Marge," Harry said softly as his laughter subsided. "I might have blown her up a bit— like a balloon, not— you know."

"No doubt she deserved it?" Draco asked, tilting his head as he looked over to Harry.

"She did. She was—" he let out a frustrated sigh as he thought about what she had said. "She was bad-mouthing my parents."

Draco gently placed a hand on Harry's arm, stopping him in his tracks. He waited for Harry to meet his eye before saying, "Then that bitch deserves everything she got. I've half a mind to go back there and turn the family into a matching set," he huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Next time you can defend my honor, Princess," Harry smiled softly. "We're already several streets away and I don't feel much up to walking back." He set his trunk and Hedwig's cage down and sat down on a low wall.

Draco glanced back the way they had come before sighing and sitting next to Harry. They remained quiet for several moments until Harry abruptly rose, his grip tight on his wand. He had sensed rather than heard it: something or someone was lurking in the narrow space between the garage and the fence behind them. Harry narrowed his eyes at the dark alley. If only it would shift, he could determine if it was merely a stray cat or something else.

"Lumos," he whispered, and a bright light burst forth from the tip of his wand, nearly blinding him. He raised it high above his head, illuminating the pebble-dashed walls of number two, which suddenly sparkled. The garage door shone, and in the space between, Harry distinctly spotted the massive silhouette of something very large, with wide, shining eyes.

Startled, Harry stumbled backward, colliding with Draco and sending them both crashing to the ground. His wand slipped from his grasp as he instinctively reached out to catch Draco, twisting them so that he landed first, hitting the gutter with a painful thud.

A thunderous BANG erupted, and Harry instinctively raised his hands to shield his eyes from a sudden, blinding light.

With a shout, he rolled them back onto the pavement just in time. A moment later, a colossal set of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt precisely where they had been lying. As Harry lifted his head, he realized they belonged to a triple-decker bus, a vivid shade of purple, that had materialized out of nowhere. Golden letters above the windshield proclaimed it as The Knight Bus.

"Always a dance with you," Draco muttered, breathing hard beneath him.

Harry found himself straddling Draco, catching his breath after the tumble. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—had the fall dazed him? Just then, a conductor clad in a striking purple uniform burst from the bus, his voice booming into the night.

"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus, your emergency transport for any stranded witch or wizard! Just extend your wand hand, hop on, and we’ll whisk you away to your desired destination. I’m Stan Shunpike, your conductor for the eveni—"

Stan's words were cut short as he noticed Harry still seated atop Draco, who lay sprawled on the ground. In a flurry, Harry grabbed his wand and scrambled to his feet, offering a hand to help Draco up and muttering a small, "Sorry about that, Princess."

As they stood, Harry noticed that Stan was only a few years older than himself—perhaps eighteen or nineteen—with large, protruding ears and a face dotted with pimples.

"What were you two doing down there?" Stan asked, his professional demeanor slipping away.

"We fell over," Harry replied.

"Why’d you fall over?" Stan chuckled.

"It wasn't intentional," Harry retorted, annoyance seeping into his tone. One knee of his jeans was ripped, and his hand, which he had used to catch himself, was bleeding. He quickly looked over at Draco, feeling a wave of relief wash over him when he saw that he was unharmed. Then, the realization of what had caused their tumble struck him, and he pivoted sharply to peer into the narrow gap between the garage and the fence.

The Knight Bus's headlights illuminated the space, revealing it to be completely empty.

"What's got your attention?" Stan asked, eyeing Harry.

"There was this huge black shape," Harry replied, hesitantly gesturing toward the opening. "It looked like a dog... but enormous..." He glanced back at Stan, who appeared taken aback, his mouth slightly agape. A wave of discomfort washed over Harry as he noticed Stan's gaze shift to the scar on his forehead.

"What’s that on your head?" Stan blurted out.

"Nothing," Harry replied quickly, smoothing his hair over the scar. If the Ministry of Magic was on his trail, he didn’t want to make it easy for them.

"What’s your name?" Stan pressed on.

"Neville Longbottom and this is Dean Thomas," Harry said, choosing the first names that popped into his mind. "So, about this bus," he continued hastily, eager to divert Stan's attention, "did you say it can go anywhere?"

"Longbottom?" Draco snickered quietly, prompting Harry to elbow him.

"Yep," Stan said with pride, "anywhere you want, as long as it’s on land. Can’t do anything underwater. By the way," he added, his expression turning wary, "you did wave us down, right? Stuck your wand out, didn’t you?"

"Yes," Harry replied without hesitation. "How much is it to get to London?"

"Eleven Sickles each," Stan answered. "But for fifteen, you can get hot chocolate, and for the same price, you can get a hot water bottle and a toothbrush in your preferred color."

Harry dug into his trunk, pulled out his money pouch, and pressed some gold coins into Stan's palm. Together, they hoisted his trunk, with Hedwig's cage perched on top, up the bus steps. Inside, there were no traditional seats; instead, several brass bedsteads lined the curtained windows. Candles flickered in wall brackets, casting a warm glow on the wooden paneling. At the back of the bus, a small wizard in a nightcap mumbled, "Not now, thanks, I'm pickling some slugs," before turning over in his sleep.

"You can take these two," Stan whispered, sliding Harry's trunk under the bed right behind the driver and gesturing to the one next to it. The driver, comfortably seated in an armchair in front of the steering wheel, was introduced. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang. And these are Neville and Dean, Ern."

Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard sporting thick glasses, gave a nod to Harry, who anxiously smoothed down his bangs before settling onto his bed. Draco was perched cautiously on the edge of his own bed, facing him.

"Go ahead, Ern," Stan said as he sank into the armchair beside Ernie.

With a resounding BANG, Harry was suddenly propelled forward onto Draco, sending them both tumbling onto the bed, a result of the Knight Bus's rapid acceleration. Propping himself up onto his arms, Harry gazed out the dark window, realizing they were speeding down an entirely different street.

"Are you going to move, Potter?" Draco grumbled. Harry glanced down at him, paused for a moment, then leaned closer and whispered, "I think I’ll stay right here. After all, I’ve got the best seat on the bus, Princess."

"This is where we were before you flagged us down," Stan chimed in. "Where are we now, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?"

"Ar," Ernie replied.

"Why can’t the Muggles hear the bus?" Harry asked, unfazed by Draco's hand pushing against his face as he squirmed beneath him.

"Those Muggles!" Stan scoffed. "They don’t listen properly, do they? They don’t look properly either. Never notice a thing, they don’t."

"Better go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan," Ernie advised. "We’ll be in Abergavenny shortly."

Stan glided past their bed and vanished up a slender wooden staircase. Meanwhile, Harry remained at the window, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment. Ernie appeared to struggle with the steering wheel, as the Knight Bus repeatedly veered onto the sidewalk. Miraculously, it avoided any collisions; lampposts, mailboxes, and trash cans seemed to leap aside as the bus barreled through, only to return to its original spots once it had passed.

"Do you think this bus is safe?" Harry asked Draco, who had finally given up his escape attempts and flopped back onto the bed.

"Get off me, Potter—I—" Draco furrowed his brow, shutting his eyes tightly and biting his lip.

As Harry was about to inquire about Draco's well-being, he felt the unmistakable stirrings of Draco's desire. A playful smirk danced on Harry's lips. "Ah, I see what's happening here. You’re actually enjoying this bumpy ride, aren’t you?" He pressed his hips against Draco's, pretending to be oblivious to the situation, acting as if the bus jolting had caused it. Draco shot him a glare, stifling a gasp at the unexpected thrill, his hand instinctively covering his mouth.

"You're quite the little troublemaker, Princess. Imagine if someone caught you like this," Harry murmured into Draco's ear, his hand gliding down Draco's side to grip his hip firmly before sliding lower to lift Draco's leg, encouraging it to wrap around his waist as he rolled his hips once more. "You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? The Malfoy heir caught in a passionate embrace with Harry Potter on the Knight Bus."

Harry barely registered Stan descending the stairs, accompanied by a slightly green witch draped in a travel cloak.

"Here you go, Madam Marsh," Stan exclaimed cheerfully as Ern slammed on the brakes, causing the beds to slide forward a bit on the bus. Madam Marsh pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and wobbled down the steps. Stan tossed her bag out after her and slammed the doors shut; there was a resounding BANG, and they sped off down a narrow country road, trees seemingly parting to let them through.

"I think Stan recognized me. Do you think we'll make it into The Daily Prophet tomorrow, Princess?" Harry chuckled gruffly, playfully nipping at Draco's neck while continuing to rock his hips against him.

"You're a menace, Potter," Draco gasped, fingers gripped tightly into Harry's hoodie. Despite his words, the way his leg remained wrapped around Harry's waist was anything but discouraging.

"When you look like this?" Harry teased, trailing his tongue along Draco's throat. "I've been wanting to jump you from the moment I saw you earlier," He sunk his teeth into the skin just below Draco's ear, eliciting a soft moan from him.

Draco seized Harry tightly by the hair, pulling him away with a wet pop. Harry licked his lips, a soft groan escaping him as he let his head get tilted back. "You choose now to throw all sense of self-control out the window? Honestly, Potter, have you no shame?"

Harry met Draco's gaze, his voice low and sultry as he smirked down at him. "You should know by now that with you, I never do," he replied, his eyes dark and dilated.

"What's that?" Draco asked when he tore his gaze away in a flustered manner. Harry slowly turned his head to see what he was talking about, not wanting to look away from him.

Stan had spread out a copy of the Daily Prophet and was engrossed in reading, his tongue poking between his teeth. A striking photograph of a gaunt man with long, tangled hair stared back at Harry from the front page, and he felt an odd sense of recognition.

"That guy!" Harry exclaimed, momentarily forgetting everything else. "He was on the Muggle news!"

Stanley glanced at the front page and chuckled. "Sirius Black," he replied, nodding knowingly. "Of course he was on the Muggle news, Neville. Where have you been?"

He let out a condescending laugh at the confused expression on Harry's face, then pulled off the front page and handed it to him. "You really should keep up with the news, Neville."

Harry lifted the paper to the flickering candlelight, sitting next to Draco, who breathed a sigh of relief as he sat up, adjusting himself, and they read together:

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, arguably the most notorious inmate ever held in Azkaban, continues to evade capture, as confirmed by the Ministry of Magic today.
"We are doing everything possible to recapture Black," stated Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge this morning, "and we urge the magical community to remain calm." Fudge has faced criticism from some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for notifying the Muggle Prime Minister about the situation.

"Honestly, I had no choice, you see," Fudge snapped irritably. "Black is insane. He poses a threat to anyone who dares to confront him, whether they're magical or Muggle. I've got the Prime Minister's word that he won't reveal Black's true identity to anyone. And let's be real— who would actually believe him if he tried?" While Muggles have been informed that Black is armed with a gun (a type of metal wand used by Muggles to harm one another), the magical community is haunted by the fear of a repeat of the massacre from twelve years ago, when Black killed thirteen people with a single curse.

Harry gazed into the shadowy eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of his gaunt face that seemed to have any life. Although Harry had never encountered a vampire, he had seen images of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, and Black, with his pale, waxy complexion, resembled one.

"Looks pretty terrifying, doesn't it?" Stan remarked, observing Harry as they read.

"He killed thirteen people?" Harry asked, returning the page to Stan. "With just one curse?"

"Yep," Stan confirmed. "Right in front of witnesses, too. Broad daylight. It caused quite a stir, didn't it, Ern?"

"Yeah," Ern replied darkly.

Stan turned in his armchair, resting his hands on the back to get a better look at Harry. "Black was a major supporter of You-Know-Who," he said.

"What, Voldemort?" Harry blurted out without thinking.

Even Stan's pimples seemed to pale; Ern yanked the steering wheel so violently that a nearby farmhouse had to swerve to avoid the bus.

"Are you out of your mind?" Stan shouted. "Why'd you say his name?"

"Sorry," Harry said quickly. "I’m sorry, I— I completely forgot—"

"Forgot!" Stan replied weakly. "Blimey, my heart's racing like mad..."

"So, Black was one of You-Know-Who's followers?" Draco interjected.

"Yeah," Stan confirmed, still massaging his chest. "That’s right. He was very close to You-Know-Who, they say. Anyway, when little Harry Potter managed to defeat You-Know-Who—"

Harry anxiously smoothed down his hair again.

"—all of You-Know-Who's supporters were hunted down, weren’t they, Ern? Most of them realized it was over with You-Know-Who gone, and they surrendered quietly. But not Sirius Black. I heard he thought he’d be second-in-command once You-Know-Who took control. Anyway, they trapped Black in the middle of a street full of Muggles, and Black pulled out his wand and blew half the street apart, taking out a wizard and a dozen Muggles who got caught in the crossfire. Horrible, right? And do you know what Black did next?" Stan continued in a dramatic whisper.

"What?" Harry asked.

"He laughed," Stan replied. "Just stood there and laughed. And when the Ministry of Magic reinforcements arrived, he went with them as quietly as anything, still cackling away. Because he’s mad, isn’t he, Ern? Mad?"

"If he wasn’t crazy when he went to Azkaban, he sure will be now," Ern said slowly. "I’d rather blow myself up than step foot in that place. He deserves it, though... after what he did."

"They had a tough time covering it up, didn’t they, Ern?" Stan remarked. "Whole street blown to bits and all those Muggles dead. What did they say happened, Ern?"

"Gas explosion," Ernie muttered.

"And now he’s escaped," Stan remarked, scrutinizing the newspaper image of Black's thin, haggard face once more. "There’s never been a breakout from Azkaban before, has there, Ern? I can’t figure out how he managed it. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? But honestly, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes facing those Azkaban guards, eh, Ern?"

Ernie suddenly shivered at the thought. "Let’s talk about something else, Stan, for goodness' sake. Those Azkaban guards give me the creeps."

Stan reluctantly folded the paper, while Harry pressed himself against the window of the Knight Bus, his anxiety mounting. The thought of Stan recounting tales to his passengers in just a few nights lingered in his mind. Draco intertwined their fingers and rested his head on Harry's shoulder, helping to alleviate some of the stress without the need to exchange words.

"Did you hear about that Harry Potter? Blew up his aunt! We had him on the Knight Bus, didn’t we, Ern? He was trying to make a run for it..."

He realized he had broken wizarding law just like Sirius Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge enough to send him to Azkaban? Harry knew little about the wizarding prison, but everyone he had heard mention it spoke in hushed, fearful tones. Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, had spent two months there just the previous year. Harry would never forget the sheer terror on Hagrid’s face when he learned his fate, and Hagrid was one of the bravest people Harry knew.

The Knight Bus sped through the night, weaving past bushes, trash cans, phone booths, and trees. One by one, wizards and witches in their nightclothes descended from the upper deck, all looking quite relieved to leave.

Eventually, only Harry and Draco remained on board.

"Alright then, Neville, Dean," Stan said, clapping his hands. "Where to in London?"

"Diagon Alley," Harry replied.

"Righto," Stan said. "Hold tight, then."