“You do that.”
Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, clearly suspicious of this lack of argument, then stomped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Harry heard the key turn in the lock and Uncle Vernon’s footsteps walking heavily down the stairs. A few minutes later he heard the slamming of car doors, the rumble of an engine, and the unmistakeable sound of the car sweeping out of the drive.
Harry had no particular feeling about the Dursleys leaving. It made no difference to him whether they were in the house or not. He could not even summon the energy to get up and turn on his bedroom light. The room grew steadily darker around him as he lay listening to the night sounds through the window he kept open all the time, waiting for the blessed moment when Hedwig returned. The empty house creaked around him. The pipes gurgled. Harry lay there in a kind of stupor, thinking of nothing, suspended in misery.
Then, quite distinctly, he heard a crash in the kitchen below. He sat bolt upright, listening intently. The Dursleys couldn’t be back, it was much too soon, and in any case he hadn’t heard their car.
There was silence for a few seconds, then voices.
Burglars, he thought, sliding off the bed on to his feet—but a split second later it occurred to him that burglars would keep their voices down, and whoever was moving around in the kitchen was certainly not troubling to do so.
He snatched up his wand from the bedside table and stood facing his bedroom door, listening with all his might. Next moment, he jumped as the lock gave a loud click and his door swung open. Harry stood motionless, staring through the open doorway at the dark upstairs landing, straining his ears for further sounds, but none came. He hesitated for a moment, then moved swiftly and silently out of his room to the head of the stairs.
His heart shot upwards into his throat. There were people standing in the shadowy hall below, silhouetted against the streetlight glowing through the glass door; eight or nine of them, all, as far as he could see, looking up at him.
“Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone’s eye out,” said a low, growling voice.
Harry’s heart was thumping uncontrollably. He knew that voice, but he did not lower his wand.
“Professor Moody?” he said uncertainly.
“I don’t know so much about ‘Professor,’” growled the voice, “never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly.”
Harry lowered his wand slightly but did not relax his grip on it, nor did he move. He had very good reason to be suspicious. He had recently spent nine months in what he had thought was Mad-Eye Moody’s company only to find out that it wasn’t Moody at all, but an impostor; an impostor, moreover, who had tried to kill Harry before being unmasked. But before he could make a decision about what to do next, a second, slightly hoarse voice floated upstairs.
“It’s all right, Harry. We’ve come to take you away.”
Harry’s heart leapt. He knew that voice, too, though he hadn’t heard it for over a year.
“P-Professor Lupin?” he said disbelievingly. “Is that you?”
“Why are we all standing in the dark?” said a third voice, this one completely unfamiliar, a woman’s. “Lumos.”
A wand-tip flared, illuminating the hall with magical light. Harry blinked. The people below were crowded around the foot of the stairs, gazing up at him intently, some craning their heads for a better look.
Remus Lupin stood nearest to him. Though still quite young, Lupin looked tired and rather ill; he had more grey hairs than when Harry had last said goodbye to him and his robes were more patched and shabbier than ever. Nevertheless, he was smiling broadly at Harry, who tried to smile back despite his state of shock.
“Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would,” said the witch who was holding her lit wand aloft. She looked the youngest there; she had a pale heart-shaped face, dark twinkling eyes, and short spiky hair that was a violent shade of violet. “Wotcher, Harry!”
“Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus,” said a bald black wizard standing furthest back—he had a deep, slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear—“he looks exactly like James.”
“Except the eyes,” said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired wizard at the back. “Lily’s eyes.”
Mad-Eye Moody, who had long grizzled grey hair and a large chunk missing from his nose, was squinting suspiciously at Harry through his mismatched eyes. One eye was small, dark and beady, the other large, round and electric blue—the magical eye that could see through walls, doors and the back of Moody’s own head.
“Are you quite sure it’s him, Lupin?” he growled. “It’d be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone brought any Veritaserum?”
“Harry, what form does your Patronus take?” Lupin asked.
“A stag,” said Harry nervously.
“That’s him, Mad-Eye,” said Lupin.
Very conscious of everybody still staring at him, Harry descended the stairs, stowing his wand in the back pocket of his jeans as he came.
“Don’t put your wand there, boy!” roared Moody. “What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know!”
“Who d’you know who’s lost a buttock?” the violet-haired woman asked Mad-Eye interestedly.
“Never you mind, you just keep your wand out of your back pocket!” growled Mad-Eye. “Elementary wand-safety, nobody bothers about it any more.” He stumped off towards the kitchen. “And I saw that,” he added irritably, as the woman rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.
Lupin held out his hand and shook Harry’s. “How are you?” he asked, looking closely at Harry.
“F-fine…”
Harry could hardly believe this was real. Four weeks with nothing, not the tiniest hint of a plan to remove him from Privet Drive, and suddenly a whole bunch of wizards was standing matter-of-factly in the house as though this was a long-standing arrangement. He glanced at the people surrounding Lupin; they were still gazing avidly at him. He felt very conscious of the fact that he had not combed his hair for four days.
“I’m—you’re really lucky the Dursleys are out…” he mumbled.
“Lucky, ha!” said the violet-haired woman. “It was me who lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by Muggle post telling them they’d been short-listed for the All-England Best Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. They’re heading off to the prize-giving right now… or they think they are.”
Harry had a fleeting vision of Uncle Vernon’s face when he realised there was no All-England Best Kept Suburban Lawn Competition.
“We are leaving, aren’t we?” he asked. “Soon?”
“Almost at once,” said Lupin, “we’re just waiting for the all-clear.”
“Where are we going? The Burrow?” Harry asked hopefully.
“Not The Burrow, no,” said Lupin, motioning Harry towards the kitchen; the little knot of wizards followed, all still eyeing Harry curiously. “Too risky. We’ve set up Headquarters somewhere undetectable. It’s taken a while…”
Mad-Eye Moody was now sitting at the kitchen table swigging from a hip flask, his magical eye spinning in all directions, taking in the Dursleys’ many labour-saving appliances.
“This is Alastor Moody, Harry,” Lupin continued, pointing towards Moody.
“Yeah, I know,” said Harry uncomfortably. It felt odd to be introduced to somebody he’d thought he’d known for a year.
“And this is Nymphadora—”
“Don’t call me Nymphadora, Remus,” said the young witch with a shudder, “it’s Tonks.”
“Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by her surname only,” finished Lupin.