“Oh, my dear, I wish it were so, but I’m afraid—MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!”
There was a loud crack and a strong smell of drink mingled with stale tobacco filled the air as a squat, unshaven man in a tattered overcoat materialised right in front of them. He had short, bandy legs, long straggly ginger hair and bloodshot, baggy eyes that gave him the doleful look of a basset hound. He was also clutching a silvery bundle that Harry recognised at once as an Invisibility Cloak.
“S’up, Figgy?” he said, staring from Mrs. Figg to Harry and Dudley. “What ’appened to staying undercover?”
“I’ll give you undercover!” cried Mrs. Figg. “Dementors, you useless, skiving sneak thief!”
“Dementors?” repeated Mundungus, aghast. “Dementors, ’ere?”
“Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!” shrieked Mrs. Figg. “Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!”
“Blimey,” said Mundungus weakly, looking from Mrs. Figg to Harry, and back again. “Blimey, I—”
“And you off buying stolen cauldrons! Didn’t I tell you not to go? Didn’t I—”
“I—well, I—” Mundungus looked deeply uncomfortable. “It—it was a very good business opportunity, see—”
Mrs. Figg raised the arm from which her string bag dangled and whacked Mundungus around the face and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it made it was full of cat food.
“Ouch—gerroff—gerroff, you mad old bat! Someone’s gotta tell Dumbledore!”
“Yes—they—have!” yelled Mrs. Figg, swinging the bag of cat food at every bit of Mundungus she could reach. “And—it—had—better—be—you—and—you—can—tell—him—why—you—weren’t—there—to—help!”
“Keep your ’airnet on!” said Mundungus, his arms over his head, cowering. “I’m going, I’m going!”
And with another loud crack, he vanished.
“I hope Dumbledore murders him!” said Mrs. Figg furiously. “Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting for?”
Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley’s bulk. He gave the semi-conscious Dudley a heave and staggered onwards.
“I’ll take you to the door,” said Mrs. Figg, as they turned into Privet Drive. “Just in case there are more of them around… oh my word, what a catastrophe… and you had to fight them off yourself… and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs… well, it’s no good crying over spilt potion, I suppose… but the cat’s among the pixies now.”
“So,” Harry panted, “Dumbledore’s… been having… me followed?”
“Of course he has,” said Mrs. Figg impatiently. “Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent… right… get inside and stay there,” she said, as they reached number four. “I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Harry quickly.
“I’m going straight home,” said Mrs. Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. “I’ll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Goodnight.”
“Hang on, don’t go yet! I want to know—”
But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
“Wait!” Harry shouted after her. He had a million questions to ask anyone who was in contact with Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four’s garden path.
The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell and watched Aunt Petunia’s outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.
“Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite—quite—Diddy, what’s the matter?”
Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed on the spot for a moment, his face pale green… then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the doormat.
“DIDDY! Diddy, what’s the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!”
Harry’s uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus moustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forwards to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.
“He’s ill, Vernon!”
“What is it, son? What’s happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?”
“Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?”
“Hang on—you haven’t been mugged, have you, son?”
Aunt Petunia screamed.
“Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?”
In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.
“Who did it, son? Give us names. We’ll get them, don’t worry.”
“Shh! He’s trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!”
Harry’s foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.
“Him.”
Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.
“BOY! COME HERE!”
With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.
The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.
“What have you done to my son?” he said in a menacing growl.
“Nothing,” said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him.
“What did he do to you, Diddy?” Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley’s leather jacket. “Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?”
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.
“I didn’t!” Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. “I didn’t do anything to him, it wasn’t me, it was—”
But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon’s head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.
“OWLS!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. “OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!”
But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.
The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.