𓏲 . THE BOY WHO LIVED . .៹♡
                                                  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
                     ─── DARK VISIONS & BACK TO THE BURROW

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it "the Riddle House," even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house was "creepy." Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce.

The story had been picked over so many times and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning, when the Riddle House had still been well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead.

The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and roused as many people as she could. "Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!"

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse.

All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer—for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles' cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

"Frank!" several people cried. "Never!"

Frank Bryce was the Riddles' gardener. He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises and had been working for the Riddles ever since.

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details. "Always thought he was odd," she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. "Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't."

"Ah, now," a woman said at the bar, "he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That's no reason to-"

The villagers exchanged dark looks. "I always thought he had a nasty look about him, right enough," a man grunted at the bar. "War turned him funny if you ask me," the landlord said.

"Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn't I, Dot?" an excited woman said in the corner. "Horrible temper," Dot said, nodding fervently. "I remember when he was a kid..."

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles.

But over in the neighbouring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure that Frank had invented him.

Then, just when things were looking very serious for Frank, the report on the Riddles' bodies came back and changed everything.

The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all.

In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face - but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death?

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.

"As far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police say," Dot said in the Hanged Man. "And if he had any decency, he'd leave here, knowing as how we know he did it."

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next-for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for "tax reasons," though nobody was very clear what these might be.

The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the gardening, however, Frank was nearing his seventy—seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare.

They knew that old Frank's devotion to the house and grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, thought him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.

It was Frank's bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire.

Frank had no telephone, and in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles' deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped against the wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limped around to the back of the house until he reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door noiselessly.

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he remembered where the door into the hall was, and he groped his way toward it, his nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

On the landing, Frank turned right and saw at once where the intruders were: At the very end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened intently, for a man's voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful. "There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord if you are still hungry."

"Later," a second voice said. This too belonged to a man —but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."

Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put down upon some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of sight again.

"Where is Nagini?" the cold voice said. " I—I don't know, My Lord," the first voice said nervously. "She set out to explore the house, I think..." "You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," the second voice said. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."

Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, and then the man called Wormtail spoke again. "My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?"

"A week," the cold voice said. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Ow- ing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word "Quidditch," which was not a word at all.

"The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" Wormtail said. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) "Forgive me, but — I do not understand — why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"

"Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait."

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words "Ministry of Magic," "wizards," and "Muggles." Each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals.

Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more and listened more closely still.  "Your Lordship is still determined, then?" Wormtail said quietly. "Certainly I am determined, Wormtail."

There was a note of menace in the cold voice now. A slight pause followed — and then Wormtail spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve. "It could be done without Charlus and Harry Potter, My Lord."

Another pause, more protracted, and then —"Without Charlus and Harry Potter?" breathed the second voice softly. "I see..."

"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boys!" Wormtail said, his voice rising squeakily. "The boys are nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person —"

"I could use another wizard ," the cold voice said softly, "that is true...." "My Lord, it makes sense," Wormtail said, sounding relieved now. "Laying hands on Charlus and Harry Potter would be so difficult, they are so well protected —that Alistair Black too—"

"And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder...perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?"

"My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all —" "Do not lie to me!" the second voice hissed. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt against you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me...."

"No! My devotion to Your Lordship —" "Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How can I survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?"

"But you seem so much stronger, My Lord —" "Liar," the second voice breathes. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!"

Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss.

"I have my reasons for using the boys, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boys, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort's wrath —"

"My Lord, I must speak!" Wormtail said, panic in his voice now. "All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —"

"If?" the second voice whispered. "If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition . . . Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Charlus and Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us —"

"I am a faithful servant," Wormtail said, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice. "Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfil neither requirement."

"I found you," Wormtail said, and there was a sulky edge to his voice now. "I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins." "That is true," the second man said, sounding amused. "A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?"

"I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —" "Liar," the second voice said again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. "However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform..."

"R-really, My Lord? What — ?" Wormtail sounded terrified again. "Ah, Wormtail, you don't want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end...but I promise you, you will have the honour of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins."

 "You...you..." Wormtail's voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. "You...are going...to kill me too?"

"Wormtail, Wormtail," the cold voice said silkily, "why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns...."

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh — an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

"We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail."

Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse — with amusement. He was dangerous — a madman. And he was planning more murders — these boys, Alistair Black, Charlus and Harry Potter, whoever they were — were in danger —

Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village . . . but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might.

"One more murder...my faithful servant at Hogwarts...Charlus and Harry Potter are as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more arguments. But quiet...I think I hear Nagini..."

And the second man's voice changed. He started making noises such as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure.

And then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look and found himself paralyzed with fright.

Something was slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long.

Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him —

But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.

There was sweat on Frank's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea...This man could talk to snakes.

Frank didn't understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot water bottle. The problem was that his legs didn't seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.

"Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail," it said. "In indeed, My Lord?" Wormtail said. "Indeed, yes," the voice said. "According to Nagini, an old Muggle is standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."

Frank didn't have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps, and then the door of the room was flung wide open. A short, balding man with greying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm on his face.

"Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?"

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn't see the speaker. On the other hand, the snake was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank couldn't even see the back of his head.

"You heard everything, Muggle?" the cold voice said. "What's that you're calling me?" Frank said defiantly, for now, that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war.

"I am calling you a Muggle," the voice coolly said. "It means that you are not a wizard."

"I don't know what you mean by wizard," Frank said, his voice growing steadier. "All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning more! And I'll tell you this too," he added, on a sudden inspiration, "my wife knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back —"

"You have no wife," the cold voice said, very quietly. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows...he always knows..."

"Is that right?" Frank said roughly. "Lord, is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn round and face me like a man, why don't you?"

"But I am not a man, Muggle," the cold voice said, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However...why not? I will face you...Wormtail, come turn my chair around."

The servant whimpered. "You heard me, Wormtail."

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Charlus Potter woke with a start.

                                    ────────⊹⊱🐍⊰⊹────────

Charlus  lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face.

The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.

He sat up, one hand still on his scar, and noticed his brother, who sat in front of him, "Your scar?"  "Yeah," Charlus breathed out while he ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. "Me too." Harry replied.

Charlus turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door.

A young boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy light brown hair. He examined  the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.

Charlus tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real....There had been two people he knew and one he didn't....He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember....

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him....There had been a snake on a hearth rug...a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail...and a cold, high voice...the voice of Lord Voldemort. Charlus felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought....

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible...All Charlus knew was that at the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and he, Charlus, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him...or had that been the pain in his scar?

And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Charlus had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused.

Charlus  put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them....

Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about some- one they had killed, though Charlus could not remember the name....and they had been plotting to kill three more people...him, Harry and Alistair!

"Nightmare?" Harry asked quietly, careful not to stir their relatives. "Yeah, " Charlus whispered. "About Voldemort and Wormtail...and a strange old man. "

Then he took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there were an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks.

Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his owl, Phoenix, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Charlus  had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Men in bright or- ange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another.

Harry gasped sharply. "Me too," he told his brother, "I had exactly the same dream." "That can't be normal," Charlus replied before walked over to the book. He picked it up, and watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut.

Even Quidditch — in Charlus' opinion, the best sport in the world — couldn't distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Charlus  could see through the darkness, there wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

And yet...and yet...Charlus went restlessly back to the bed and sat down next to his brother, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn't the pain that bothered him;  Charlus and his brother were no strangers to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. Harry's right arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward.

Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. They were used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you  attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

No, the thing that was bothering Charlus was that the last time their scars had hurt them, it had been because Voldemort had been close by....But Voldemort couldn't be here, now....The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible....

Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he heard his cousin Dudley give a
tremendous grunting snore from the next room  making Charlus snorted at him in laughter.

Harry shot his brother a playful glare and shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him and Charlus except Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Asleep was the way Charlus and Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn't as though they were ever any help to them awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were the twins' only living relatives.

They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Charlus and Harry were about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away Charlus and Harry's long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by telling everyone that they  went to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.

They knew perfectly well that, as  underage wizards, Charlus and Harry weren't allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame them for anything that went wrong about the house.

Charlus and Harry had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about their life in the wizarding world. The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about their scars hurting  them, and about their worries about Voldemort, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that the twins had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Charlus and Harry would not have had the lightning scars on their foreheads. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Charlus and Harry would still have had parents....

The twins  had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at their house and killed their father and mother.

Voldemort had then turned his wand on Charlus and Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small boys, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort.

 Charlus and Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort's followers had disbanded, and Charlus and Harry Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for Charlus and Harry to discover, on their  eleventh birthday, that they were wizards; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew their names.

The twins had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed them  wherever they went. But they were used to it now: At the end of this summer, they  would be starting their fourth year at Hogwarts, and Charlus was already counting the days until they would be back at the castle again.

But there was still a fortnight to go before they went back to school. Charlus  looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eye  paused on the birthday cards his three best friends had sent him at the end of July. "We should probably tell someone about this..." Harry muttered. "About our scars, I mean."

At the same time, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to fill Charlus'  head, shrill and panicky. "Your scars hurt?  Charlus,Harry, that's really serious...Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I'll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions....Maybe there's something in there about curse scars..."

Yes, that would be Hermione's advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. Charlus  stared out of the window at the inky blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help them now.

 As far as he knew, he and Harry were the only two living people to have survived a curse like Voldemort's; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that  they  would find their  symptoms listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions.

As for informing the headmaster, the twins had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. Charlus  amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose.

Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Charlus was sure that Phoenix or Hedwig would be able to find him; the twins' owls had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would they write?

Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but our scars hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Charlus and Harry Potter

Even inside his head the words sounded stupid. And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron Weasley's,  reaction, and in a moment, Ron's red hair and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before Charlus , wearing a bemused expression.

"Your scars hurt? But...but You-Know-Who can't be near you two now, can he? I mean...you'd both know, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to do you in again, wouldn't he? I dunno,Charlus,  Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit. . . . I'll ask Dad. . . ."

Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, but he didn't have any particular expertise in the matter of curses, as far as
Charlus  knew.

In any case, Charlus didn't like the idea of the whole Weasley family knowing that he and his brother were getting jumpy about a few moments' pain.  Mrs. Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron's sixteen-year-old twin brothers, might think Charlus and Harry were losing their nerves.

The Weasleys were  Charlus' favorite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite  them to stay any time now (Ron had mentioned something about the Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn't want their visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about their scars.

He then thought abou Alistair. They could easily write to him. He would help them as best he could but also be supportive. Maybe he knew something to help with the pain. But Charlus decided not to because he didn't want to bother him.

Charlus  kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What he and his brother really needed was someone like a parent: an adult wizard whose advice they could ask without feeling stupid, someone who cared about them, who had had experience with Dark Magic.....

And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn't believe it had taken so long.

"Sirius and Daniel." Charlus said quietly. "You write it, then," Harry said, "you've got nicer handwriting than me."

 The twins leapt up from the bed and hurried across the room. Charlus sat down at his desk and pulled a piece of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink. He felt Harry's breath on the back of his neck as he leaned over him.

Charlus wrote Dear Sirius and Daniel, then paused, wondering how best to phrase the problem, still marveling  at the fact that he hadn't thought of Sirius and Daniel straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising —after all, he and his brother had only found out that Sirius and Daniel were their godfathers two months ago.

There was a simple reason for Sirius and Daniel's complete absence from Charlus' and Harry's lives until then — Sirius and Daniel had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soulsucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius and Daniel at Hogwarts when  they had escaped.

Yet Sirius and Daniel had been innocent — the murders for which they had been convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Charlus, Harry, Alistair, Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had believed their story.

For one glorious hour, Charlus had believed that they were leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius and Daniel had offered them a home once their names had been cleared. But the chance had been snatched away from them — Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius and Daniel had to flee for their lives.

Charlus had helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius and Daniel had been on the run. The home Charlus might have had if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever.

The twins had received two letters from Sirius and Daniel since they had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Phoenix and Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; they  had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from their water tray before flying off again.

Charlus, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius and Daniel were (Sirius and Daniel never said, in case the letters were intercepted), they were enjoying themselves.

Somehow, Charlus found it hard to imagine dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight; perhaps that was why Sirius and Daniel had gone south. Sirius and Daniel's letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards under  the twins' beds, sounded cheerful, and in both of them they had reminded Charlus and Harry to call on them if ever they needed to. Well,  they needed to now, all right....

The lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when the bedroom walls had turned gold, and when
sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room, Charlus and Harry cleared  the desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and reread the finished letter.

Dear Sirius and Daniel,
Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get through the window.

Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't going too well. Our aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him they'd have to cut his pocket
money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That's a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn't
even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things.

We are okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified you two might turn up and turn them all into bats if we ask you to.

A weird thing happened this morning, though. Our scars hurt again. Last time this happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But we don't reckon he can be anywhere near us now, can he? Do either of you know know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward ?

We'll send this with Phoenix when he gets back, he and Hedwig are off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for us.

Charlus and Harry

Yes, thought Charlus, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dreams; he  didn't want it to look as though they were too worried. He folded up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Phoenix and Hedwig returned.

Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get dressed before he went down to breakfast with his brother. "If Phoenix or Hedwig brings back a live squirrel,I'm letting it out in the kitchen," Charlus said jokingly. "Charlus!" Harry said with laugh.

                                       ────────⊹⊱🐍⊰⊹────────

By the time Charlus and Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three Dursleys were already seated around the table. None of them looked up as they  entered or sat down. Uncle Vernon's large red face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horselike teeth.

Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley's plate with a tremulous "There you are, Diddy darling,"

Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy whose teachers didn't understand him,  while Uncle Vernon maintained that "he didn't want some swotty little nancy boy for a son anyway." They also skated over the accusations of bullying in the report — "He's a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn't hurt a fly!" Aunt Petunia had said tearfull

However, at the bottom of the report there were a few well chosen comments from the school nurse that not even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain away. No matter how much
Aunt Petunia wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfitters didn't stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore.

The school nurse had seen what Aunt Petunia's eyes — so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors — simply refused to see: that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale.

So — after many tantrums, after arguments that shook Charlus' and Harry's bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia — the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley's favorite things — fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers — and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle Vernon called "rabbit food."

To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Charlus and  Harry. They noticed that it was a lot smaller than Dudley's. Aunt Petunia seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley's morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Charlus and Harry.

But Aunt Petunia didn't know what was hidden under the loose floorboards upstairs. She had no idea that Charlus  and Harry were not following the diet at all. The moment they  had got wind of the fact that they were expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, the twins had sent Phoenix and Hedwig to their friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently.

Phoenix had returned from Hermione's house with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione's parents were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock cakes. ( Charlus and Harry hadn't touched these; they had had too much experience of Hagrid's cooking.)

Alistair had sent them a large box of brownies, which were delicious. Mrs. Weasley, however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full five days to recover from the journey.

And then on the twins' birthday (which the Dursleys had completely ignored) they had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Ron,Alistair Hermione, Hagrid, Daniel and Sirius. Charlus and Harry still had  three of them left, and so, looking forward to a real breakfast when  they  got back upstairs, they ate their grapefruit without complaint.

Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter. "Is this it?" he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry's with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes, but quickly backed down when he caught sight of Charlus' glare,daring him to try.

Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon. The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of his chair and set off down the hall.

Quick as a flash, while his mother was  occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon's grapefruit. Charlus heard talking at the door, and someone laughing, and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper came from the hall.

Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon had got to. She didn't have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid. "You two," he barked at the twins. "In the living room. Now."

Bewildered, wondering what on earth they were supposed to have done this time, Charlus and Harry got up and followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply behind  them.

"So," he said, marching over to the fireplace and turning to face Charlus and  Harry as though he were about to pronounce  them under arrest. "So."

Charlus  would have dearly loved to have said, "So what?" but he didn't feel that Uncle Vernon's temper should be tested this early in the morning, especially when it was already under severe strain from lack of food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled.

"This just arrived,"  Uncle Vernon said. He brandished a piece of purple writing paper at Harry then to Charlus. "A letter. About you two."

Charlus and Harry shared a look as their confusion increased. Who would be writing to Uncle Vernon about them? Who did they know who sent letters by the postman?

Uncle Vernon glared at Charlus and Harry, then looked down at the letter and began to read aloud:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,

We have never been introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from Charlus and Harry about my son Ron .

As Charlus and Harry might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place next Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to secure prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

I do hope you will allow us to take Charlus and Harry to the match, as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Britain hasn't hosted the Cup for thirty years and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have Charlus and Harry stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see them safely onto the train back to school.

It would be best for Charlus and Harry to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows where it is.

Hoping to see Charlus and Harry soon,
Yours sincerely,
Molly Weasley

P.S. I do hope we've put enough stamps on.

Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his hand back into his breast pocket, and drew out something else. "Look at this," he growled.

He held up the envelope in which Mrs Weasley's letter had come, and Harry had to fight down a laugh while Charlus gave a loud snort. Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley had squeezed the Dursleys' address in minute writing.

"She did put enough stamps on, then," Harry said, trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley's was a mistake anyone could make. Their uncle's eyes flashed. "The postman noticed," he said through gritted teeth. "Very interested to know where this letter came from, he was. That's why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to think it was funny."

Charlus didn't say anything. Other people might not understand why Uncle Vernon was making a fuss about too many stamps, but Charlus had lived with the Dursleys too long not to know how touchy they were about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Their worst fear was that someone would find out that they were connected (however distantly) with people like Mrs. Weasley.

Uncle Vernon was still glaring at the twins , who tried to keep their expressions neutral. If they  didn't do or say anything stupid, they might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. They waited for Uncle Vernon to say something, but he merely continued to glare.

Charlus decided to break the silence. "So — can we go then?" he asked

A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon's large purple face. The mustache bristled. Charlus thought he knew what was going on behind the mustache: a furious battle as two of Uncle Vernon's most
fundamental instincts came into conflict.

Allowing Charlus and Harry to go would make them happy, something Uncle Vernon had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing them to disappear to the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer would get rid of them two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Vernon hated having Charlus and Harry in the house.

To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down at Mrs. Weasley's letter again. "Who is this woman?" he said, staring at the signature with distaste. "You've seen her,"  Harry said. "She's our friend Ron's mother, she was meeting him off the Hog — off the school train at the end of last term."

He had almost said "Hogwarts Express," and that was a sure way to get his uncle's temper up. Nobody ever mentioned the name of their school aloud in the Dursley household.

Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as though trying to remember something very unpleasant. "Dumpy sort of woman?" he growled finally. "Load of children with red hair?"

Charlus frowned. He thought it was a bit rich of Uncle Vernon to call anyone "dumpy," when his own son, Dudley, had finally achieved what he'd been threatening to do since the age of three,
and become wider than he was tall.

Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again. "Quidditch," he muttered under his breath. "Quidditch — what is this rubbish?"

Charlus felt a second stab of annoyance. "It's a sport," he said shortly. "Played on broom —""All right, all right!"  Uncle Vernon said loudly.

Charlus saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked vaguely panicky. Apparently his nerves couldn't stand the sound of the word "broomsticks" in his living room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again. Charlus  saw his lips form the words "send us your answer . . .
in the normal way." He scowled.

"What does she mean, 'the normal way'?" he spat. "Normal for us," Harry said, and before his uncle could stop him, he added, "you know, owl post. That's what's normal for wizards."

Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had just uttered a disgusting swear word. Shaking with anger, he shot a nervous look through the window, as though expecting to see some of the neigh- bors with their ears pressed against the glass.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to mention that unnaturalness under my roof?" he hissed, his face now a rich plum color. "You stand there, in the clothes Petunia and I have put on
your ungrateful back —"

"Only after Dudley finished with them," Charlus said coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so large for him that he had had to roll back the sleeves five times so as to be able to use his hands, and Harry in baggy jeans that fell well past his feet.

But Charlus wasn't going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he and Harry had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys' stupid rules. They weren't following Dudley's diet, and he wasn't going to let Uncle Vernon stop them from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it.

Charlus took a deep, steadying breath and then said, "Okay, we can't see the World Cup. Can we go now, then? Only we've got a letter to Sirius and Daniel we want to finish. You know — our godfathers."

He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now they watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon's face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.  "You're — you're writing to them, are you?"  Uncle Vernon said, in a would-be calm voice — but Charlus had seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden fear.

"Well — yeah," Harry said, casually, catching on to his brother's plan. "It's been a while since they heard from us , and, you know, if they don't, they might start thinking something's wrong."

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. Charlus could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon's thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Charlus or Harry writing to Sirius and Daniel, Sirius and Daniel would think the twins  were being mistreated. If he told the twins  they  couldn't go to the Quidditch World Cup, Charlus and Harry would write and tell Sirius and Daniel, who would know Charlus and  Harry were being mistreated.

There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Charlus could see the conclusion forming in his uncle's mind as though the great mustached face were transparent.  Charlus tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then —

"Well, all right then. You two can go to this ruddy....this stupid...this World Cup thing. You write and tell these — these Weasleys they're to pick you up, mind. I haven't got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you  two can spend the rest of the summer there. And you can tell your — your godfathers...tell them... tell them you're going."

"Okay then," Charlus said brightly. He turned and walked with Harry toward the living room door, fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. They were going...they were going to the Weasleys', they were going to watch the Quidditch World Cup.

Outside in the hall they  nearly ran into Dudley, who had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to overhear Charlus and Harry being  told off. He looked shocked to see the broad grin on their faces.

"That was an excellent breakfast, wasn't it?"  Harry said. "I feel really full, don't you,Charlus?" "Oh, I do, " Charlus replied. "It was great."

Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley's face, the twins took the stairs three at a time, and hurled themselves back into Charlus' bedroom.

The first thing they saw was that Phoenix was back. He was sitting in his cage, staring at Charlus and Harry with his enormous orange eyes, and clicking his beak in the way that meant  he was annoyed about something. Exactly what was annoying  him  became apparent almost at once.

"OUCH!" Harry said  as what appeared to be a small, gray, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of his head, which caused Charlus to laugh.

"Shut up, Charlus!" Harry said with a grin before he massaged the spot furiously, looking up to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing excitedly around the room like a loose firework.

Harry then realised that the owl had dropped two letters at his feet. Charlus bent down, and recognised Ron's handwriting, he then turned to look at the other letter and grinned when he recognized Alistair's handwriting. He opened his first.

Hi, Charlus and Harry!

I hope Molly's letter has gotten to you both—I just arrived at the Burrow, and I hope the Dursleys said have yes to letting you come with us (if they haven't, you can threaten them by telling them that you have a good friend that doesn't mind going to Azkaban for murder.)

I hope you're both well, and I hope you like the cake I got you—I hope the Lion and the Snake were still on there when it arrived—if not, they were!

Anyways, I'll see you both soon.
Alistair

The twins grinned at the parchment before Charlus picked up Ron's, then tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily scribbled note.

Charlus,Harry — DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you both to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway.

Charlus stared at the word "Pig," then looked up at the tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the ceiling. He had never  seen anything that looked less like a pig. Maybe he couldn't read Ron's writing. He went back to the letter:

We're coming for you both whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss the World Cup, only mum and dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll get you at five o'clock on Sunday anyway.

Hermione's arriving this afternoon, Alistair just arrived! Percy's started work—the Department of International Magic Co-operation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're hear unless you want the pants bored off your.

See you soon — Ron. 

"Calm down!" Harry said as the small owl flew low over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could only assume was pride at having delivered the letter to the right person. "Come here, we need you to take our answers back!"

The owl fluttered down on top of Phoenix's cage. Phoenix looked coldly up at it, as though daring to try and come any closer. Charlus seized his eagle-feather quill once more, grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote firstly to Ron:

Ron, it's all OK, the Muggles say we can come. See you at five o,clock tomorrow. Can't wait.

Charlus and Harry.

He folded the parchment up, and then grabbed the other piece;

Hi,Alistair,

we already kind of threatened the Dursleys, and they agreed to let us go to the Quidditch World Cup with you. So you don't have to kill them yet, though we wouldn't mind if you did.

And we got your Lion and Snake Cake—(the Lion and the Snake still on it) and it was great, thank you!

See you at five o'clock on Sunday!
Charlus and Harry

He folded the parchment up, and tied them both to the tiny owl's legs, it hopped off with excitement, zooming out of the window and out of sight.

Charlus turned to Phoenix. "Feeling up to a long journey?" he asked him. Phoenix hooted in a dignified sort of way. "Can you take this to Sirius and Daniel for us?" he said, picking up his letter. "Hang on...I just want to finish it."

He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a postscript.

If you two want to contact us, we'll be at our friend Ron Weasley's for the rest of the summer. His dad's got us tickets for the Quidditch World Cup!

The letter finished, he tied it to Phoenix's leg; he kept unusually still, as though determined to show him how a real post owl should behave. "We'll be at Ron's when you get back, all right?" Charlus told him.

The owl nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft swooshing noise, spread his enormous wings and soared out of the open window.

Charlus watched him out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out a large chunk of birthday cake, while Harry rushed into his room to get his own.

They sat there on the floor eating them, savoring the happiness that was flooding through them. They had cakes, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer's day,  they would  be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow,  their scars felt perfectly normal again, and  they were going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything — even Lord Voldemort.

                                         ────────⊹⊱🐍⊰⊹────────

By twelve o'clock the next day, Charlus and Harry school trunks were packed with their school things and all their most prized possessions- the Invisibility Cloak they had inherited from their father, the broomsticks they had gotten from Sirius and Daniel, the enchanted map of Hogwarts they had been given by Fred and George Weasley last year.

They had emptied their hiding place under the loose floorboards of all food, double checked every nook and cranny of  their bedrooms for forgotten spellbooks or quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting down the days to September the first, on which Charlus liked to cross off the days remaining until the return to Hogwarts.

The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive was extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house of an assortment of wizards was making the Dursleys uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked downright alarmed when Harry informed him that the Weasleys would be arriving with Alistair at five o'clock the very next day.

"I hope you told them to dress properly, these people," he  snarled at once. "I've seen the sort of stuff your lot wear. They'd better have the decency to put on normal clothes, that's all."

Charlus  felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had rarely seen Mr. or Mrs. Weasley wearing anything that the Dursleys would call "normal." Their children and the young Black might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness.

Charlus wasn't bothered about what the neighbors would think, but he was anxious about how rude the Dursleys might be to the Weasleys and Alistair if they turned up looking like their worst idea of wizards.

Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some people, this might have looked like a gesture of welcome, but Charlus knew it was because Uncle Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating. Dudley, on the other hand, looked somehow diminished. This was not because the diet was at last taking effect, but due to fright.

 Dudley had emerged from his last encounter with a fully grown wizard with a curly pig's tail poking out of the seat of his trousers, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay for its removal at a private hospital in London.

It wasn't altogether surprising, therefore, that Dudley kept running his hand nervously over his backside, and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to present the same target to the enemy.

Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn't even protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). Aunt Petunia wasn't eating anything at all. Her arms were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the furious diatribe she longed to throw at Charlus and Harry.

"They'll be driving, of course?" Uncle Vernon barked across the table. "Er," Charlus and Harry said, sharing a look with wide eyes.

They hadn't thought of that. How were the Weasleys and Alistair going to pick them up? They didn't have a car anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. But Mr. Weasley had borrowed a Ministry of Magic car last year; possibly he would do the same today?

"I think so," Harry said. "Sure," Charlus mumbled.

Uncle Vernon snorted into his mustache. Normally, Uncle Vernon would have asked what car Mr. Weasley drove; he tended to judge other men by how big and expensive their cars were. But Charlus doubted whether Uncle Vernon would have taken to Mr. Weasley even if he drove a Ferrari.

The twins spent most of the afternoon in their bedrooms; they couldn't stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out through the net curtains every few seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, Charlus went back downstairs and into the living room.

Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening cushions. Uncle Vernon was pretending to read the paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Charlus was sure he was really listening with all his might for the sound of an approaching car. Dudley was crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath him, clamped firmly around his bottom.

Charlus couldn't take the tension; he left the room and went and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement and nerves. Ten minutes later, Harry arrived and joined his brother without a word.

But five o'clock came and then went. Uncle Vernon, perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the front door, peered up and down the street, then withdrew his head quickly. "They're late!" he snarled at Charlus and Harry.

"We know." Charlus snarled back.  "Maybe — er — the traffic's bad, or something." Harry said, moving closer to his brother in case he need to make a quick grab.

Ten past five....then a quarter past five....Charlus was starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past, he heard Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia conversing in terse mutters in the living room.

"No consideration at all."
"We might've had an engagement."
"Maybe they think they'll get invited to dinner if they're late."

"Well, they most certainly won't be," Uncle Vernon said, and Charlus  heard him stand up and start pacing the living room. "They'll take the boys and go, there'll be no hanging around. That's if they're coming at all. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay their kind don't set much store by punctuality. Either that or they drive some tin-pot car that's broken d — AAAAAAAARRRRRGH!"

The twins  jumped up. From the other side of the living room door came the sounds of the three Dursleys scrambling, panic-stricken, across the room. Next moment Dudley came flying into the hall, looking terrified. "What happened?" Charlus asked.  "What's the matter?"

But Dudley didn't seem able to speak. Hands still clamped over his buttocks, he waddled as fast as he could into the kitchen. Charlus and Harry hurried into the living room. Loud hangings and scrapings were coming from behind the Dursleys' boarded-up fireplace, which had a fake coal fire plugged in front of it.

"What is it?"Aunt Petunia gasped  , who had backed into the wall and was staring, terrified, toward the fire. "What is it, Vernon?

But they were left in doubt barely a second longer. Voices could be heard from inside the blocked fireplace. "Ouch! Fred, no — go back, go back, there's been some kind of mistake — tell George not to — OUCH! George, no, there's no room, go back quickly and tell Ron —"

"—can you stop standing on my foot, Ron—" Alistair grumbled but no one paid attention to him. "—Maybe Charlus and Harry can hear us, Dad — maybe they'll be able to let us out —"

There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards behind the electric fire. "Charlus? Harry, can you hear us?"

The Dursleys rounded on the twins like a pair of angry wolverines. "What is this?"  Uncle Vernon growled . "What's going on?"

"They — they've tried to get here by Floo powder,"  Charlus said, fighting a mad desire to laugh. "They can travel by fire — only you've blocked the fireplace — hang on —" He approached the fireplace and called through the boards. "Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?"

The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the chimney piece said, "Shh!" "Mr. Weasley, it's Charlus...the fireplace has been blocked up. You won't be able to get through there."

"Damn!" Mr. Weasley's voice said. "What on earth did they want to block up the fireplace for?""They've got an electric fire," Harry explained.

 "Really?" Mr. Weasley's voice said excitedly. "Eclectic, you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see that...Let's think...ouch, Ron!"

Ron's voice now joined the others', "What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?" "Oh no, Ron," came Fred's voice, very sarcastically. "No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up."

"Oh yeah, for sure." Alistair said sarcastically, making Fred laugh. "Yeah, we're having the time of our lives here," George said, whose voice sounded muffled, as though he was squashed against the wall.

"Boys, boys...." Mr. Weasley said vaguely. "I'm trying to think what to do...Yes...only way...Stand back,Charlus, Harry."

Charlus and Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however, moved forward. "Wait a moment!" he bellowed at the fire. "What exactly are you going to —"

BANG.

The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Alistair, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings.

Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward over the coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the young Black and the Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle. And, Alistair, who looked visibly different with his dark brown hair and dark brown eyes.

"That's better," Mr. Weasley panted, brushing dust from his long green robes and straightening his glasses. "Ah — you must be Charlus and Harry's aunt and uncle!"

Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Uncle Vernon, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Vernon backed away several paces, dragging Aunt Petunia. Words utterly failed Uncle Vernon. His best suit was covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair and mustache and made him look as though he had just aged thirty years.

"Er — yes — sorry about that," Mr. Weasley said, lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at the blasted fireplace. "It's all my fault. It just didn't occur to me that we wouldn't be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, you see — just for an afternoon, you know, so we could get Charlus and Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren't supposed to be connected, strictly speaking — but I've got a useful contact at the Floo Regu- lation Panel and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, though, don't worry. I'll light a fire to send the boys back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I Disapparate."

Charlus was ready to bet that the Dursleys hadn't understood a single word of this. They were still gaping at Mr. Weasley, thunderstruck. Aunt Petunia staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle Vernon.

"Hello, Charlus, Harry!" Mr. Weasley said brightly. "Got your trunks ready?" "They are upstairs," Harry said, grinning back.

"Let's go get it," Fred said at once. Winking at Charlus and Harry, he, Ron and George left the room. They knew where the bedrooms were, having once rescued them from it in the dead of night. Charlus suspected that Fred, Ron and George were hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they had heard a lot about him from Charlus and  Harry.

"Well," Mr. Weasley said, swinging his arms slightly, while he tried to find words to break the very nasty silence. "Very — erm — very nice place you've got here."

As the usually spotless living room was now covered in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn't go down too well with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon's face purpled once more, and Aunt Petunia started chewing her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to actually say anything.

Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything to do with Muggles. Charlus could see him itching to go and examine the television and the video recorder.

"They run off eckeltricity, do they?" he said knowledgeably. "Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs," he added to Uncle Vernon. "And batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I'm mad, but there you are."

Uncle Vernon clearly thought Mr. Weasley was mad too. He moved ever so slightly to the right, screening Aunt Petunia from view, as though he thought Mr. Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack.

Dudley suddenly reappeared in the room.  Charlus could hear the clunk of the trunks on the stairs, and knew that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchen. Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley with terrified eyes, and attempted to conceal himself behind his mother and father.

Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon's bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt Petunia, was nowhere near enough to conceal Dudley. "Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Charlus, Harry?" Mr. Weasley said, taking another brave stab at making conversation.

"Yep," Charlus said, "that's our dear big cousin."

He, Harry and Alistair exchanged glances and then quickly looked away from each other; the temptation to burst out laughing was almost overwhelming. Dudley was still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might fall off.

Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely concerned at Dudley's peculiar behavior. Indeed, from the tone of his voice when he next spoke, Charlus was quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite as mad as the Dursleys thought he was, except that Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than fear.

"Having a good holiday, Dudley?" he said kindly. Dudley whimpered. Charlus saw his hands tighten still harder over his massive backside.

Fred, Ron and George came back into the room carrying Charlus and Harry's school trunks. They glanced around as they entered and spotted Dudley. The twins' faces cracked into identical evil grins. Ron tried to hold back a snicker and made an odd sort of snorting noise.

"Ah, right," Mr. Weasley said. "Better get cracking then."

He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and took out his wand. Charlus saw the Dursleys draw back against the wall as one. "Incendio!" Mr. Weasley said, pointing his wand at the hole in the wall behind him.

Flames rose at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. Weasley took a small draw- string bag from his pocket, untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green and roared higher than ever.

"Off you go then, Fred, you get Charlus' trunk," Mr. Weasley said. "Coming," Fred said. "Oh no — hang on —"

A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred's pocket and the contents were now rolling in every direction — big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers.

Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his pocket, then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave, stepped forward with Charlus' help in putting his trunk in the fireplace, and walked right into the fire, saying "the Burrow!"

 Aunt Petunia gave a little shuddering gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred vanished. "Right then, George," Mr. Weasley said, "you and Harry's trunk."

Harry helped George carry the trunk forward into the flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had cried "the Burrow!" and vanished too.

"Ron, you next."  Mr. Weasley said. "See you," Ron said brightly to the Dursleys. He grinned broadly at Charlus and Harry, then stepped into the fire, shouted "the Burrow!" and disappeared.

Now Charlus, Harry, Alistair and Mr. Weasley alone remained. "Well... bye then," Harry said to the Dursleys. They didn't say anything at all. Harry moved towards the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth, Alistair put out a hand and held him back.

He was looking at the Dursleys in amazement. "Harry said goodbye to you," he said. "Didn't you hear him?" "It doesn't matter," Harry muttered to Alistair. "Honestly, I don't care."

Alistair didn't remove his hand from Harry's shoulder. "You aren't going to see your nephews till next summer," Mr. Weasley said to Uncle Vernon in mild indignation. "Surely you're going to say good-bye?"

Uncle Vernon's face worked furiously. The idea of being taught consideration by a man who had just blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley's wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon's tiny eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully, "Good-bye, then."

"C'mon, you can do better than that," Alistair said, ginning at the man. "Surely."

Uncle Vernon scowled at the young Black, his moustache twitching in anger. "It's fine, Alistair," Harry said, trying to walk towards the fireplace.

Reluctantly, Alistair let go of Harry allowing him to put one foot forward into the green flames. At that moment, however, a horrible gagging sound erupted behind them, and Aunt Petunia started to scream.

Charlus wheeled around. Dudley was no longer standing behind his parents. He was kneeling beside the coffee table, and he was gagging and sputtering on a foot-long, purple, slimy thing that was protruding from his mouth. One bewildered second later, Charlus realized that the foot-long thing was Dudley's tongue — and that a brightly colored toffee wrapper lay on the floor before him.

Aunt Petunia hurled herself onto the ground beside Dudley, seized the end of his swollen tongue, and attempted to wrench it out of his mouth; unsurprisingly, Dudley yelled and sputtered worse than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle Vernon was bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr. Weasley had to shout to make himself heard.

"Not to worry, I can sort him out!" he yelled, advancing on Dudley with his wand outstretched, but Aunt Petunia screamed worse than ever and threw herself on top of Dudley, shielding him from Mr. Weasley.

"No, really!" Mr. Weasley said desperately. "It's a simple process — it was the toffee — my son Fred — real practical joker — but it's only an Engorgement Charm — at least, I think it is — please, I can correct it —"

But far from being reassured, the Dursleys became more panic- stricken; Aunt Petunia was sobbing hysterically, tugging Dudley's tongue as though determined to rip it out; Dudley appeared to be suffocating under the combined pressure of his mother and his tongue; and Uncle Vernon, who had lost control completely, seized a china figure from on top of the sideboard and threw it very hard at Mr. Weasley, who ducked, causing the ornament to shatter in the blasted fireplace.

"Now really!" Mr. Weasley said angrily, brandishing his wand. "I'm trying to help!"

Bellowing like a wounded hippo, Uncle Vernon snatched up another ornament. "Charlus, Harry, Alistair, go! Just go!" Mr. Weasley shouted, his wand on Uncle Vernon. "I'll sort this out!"

Charlus didn't want to miss the fun, but Uncle Vernon's second ornament narrowly missed his left ear, and on balance he thought it best to leave the situation to Mr. Weasley. Harry went in first, and shouted, "The Burrow!"

Charlus followed soon after. He stepped into the fire, looking over his shoulder as he also said, "The Burrow!"

His last fleeting glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Weasley blasting a third ornament out of Uncle Vernon's hand with his wand, Aunt Petunia screaming and lying on top of Dudley, and Dudley's tongue lolling around like a great slimy python. But next moment Charlus had begun to spin very fast, and the Dursleys' living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green flames.

━━ AUTHORS NOTE

Well, I think this is how we start Goblet of Fire aka Charlus Potter and the year EVERY boy forgot a haircut.

And I can say with great pride that Charlus and Hermione will indeed be together in this act. ❤️

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

Please, don't forget to vote and share If you did, and if you want, comment too ! I'd really appreciate it <3

Thank you for reading this far.

Until next time, much love to you all!