Early August, late afternoon.
Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
The sun hung in its usual place above the neat front garden, shining on the brass plaque beside the Dursley front door. The last rays of sunset poured into the kitchen and living room, where dozens of photographs lined the mantelpiece—Dudley as a baby in a rainbow-coloured cap, Dudley on the merry-go-round at the fair, Dudley playing computer games with Mr. Dursley, Dudley being hugged and kissed by Mrs. Dursley… The house gave no hint that another boy lived there too.
For more than ten years Harry had been an unwelcome presence in this home. After inflating Aunt Marge the previous year he had received even stranger looks—fear wrapped in caution, as though they were guarding against some dangerous creature.
He had grown used to it. At least he had left the cupboard under the stairs and now had his own bedroom on the second floor.
A wall calendar hung in the room, every day until September 1st crossed off. Harry marked each one with an X, counting down the hours until Sirius came to take him away.
"I hope you told him—that Mr Black—to dress respectably!"
When Harry announced that Sirius would arrive before dinner to collect him, Uncle Vernon turned pale, his face twitching with nervous irritation.
"I've seen the sort of clothes your lot wear—completely inappropriate! Mr Black had better look normal, or the neighbours will notice something odd!"
Harry felt a flicker of panic.
He didn't care what the neighbours thought, nor whether Sirius's clothes met Muggle standards. What worried him was that the Dursleys might be rude to Sirius. If Sirius responded with a few nasty hexes and the Ministry's Disciplinary Committee got involved, it would be a disaster.
Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. Though his bulging belly made it look comical, the expensive fabric and excellent tailoring still gave him an air of self-importance.
Dudley huddled in Aunt Petunia's arms, looking uneasy, his eyes full of fear.
The last time an adult wizard had visited Privet Drive had been Hagrid delivering Harry's Hogwarts letter. Dudley had been extremely rude; Hagrid had given him a curly pig's tail. Petunia and Vernon had been forced to pay for private surgery in London to remove it.
At the time Harry had not yet owned a wand, so the Trace had not registered anything, and Ministry records showed Hagrid's wand had been snapped and destroyed fifty years earlier, so no warning letter had been sent.
"How is he coming—by car?" Uncle Vernon paced anxiously beside the table.
"Probably… on a motorbike?" Harry wasn't sure.
The Department of Magical Transportation had official vehicles, but as a former fugitive Sirius probably couldn't borrow one. Hagrid had once mentioned that the flying motorbike had originally been Sirius's—Harry wondered whether he had got it back.
Dudley clutched his backside and stared out the window. The wall clock ticked. Time passed second by second.
A beam of headlights swept across Privet Drive. A deep engine roar sounded at the gate. A yellow sports car stopped outside the Dursley garden.
The scissor doors lifted. The family's eyes first landed on the impeccably tailored suit, then on the bearded middle-aged man. His hair was combed to perfection; his glossy black shoes clicked rhythmically on the pavement.
Sirius adjusted his collar and knocked. "Mr Dursley, Mrs Dursley, good evening. I've come to collect Harry."
Mr Dursley stared at the wizard in disbelief, his brain momentarily short-circuiting.
As managing director of Grunnings Drills he had met many successful people and quite a few millionaires, but if anyone looked like true aristocracy, it was Sirius Black standing before him.
He had the bearing of an heir stepping out of a medieval castle—slim, exuding an aura of mystery.
Even though everyone knew he was one of "those wizard people," here he was in a bespoke suit, driving a Ferrari… exactly the sort of person Vernon wanted to impress.
By the time he saw them out the door, Mr Dursley still felt dazed; he couldn't remember half of what he had said. Mrs Dursley and Dudley stayed hidden inside, terrified that something unwanted might sprout on their bodies again.
"Thank you for looking after Harry all these years.
"If I hadn't been locked up in Azkaban, I would never have agreed to let Dumbledore leave him with you. He suffered a lot in this house, but that ends now."
The words were blunt.
The clothes were elegant, yet the speaker clearly had no grasp of polite small-talk among successful people. He left no room for face-saving.
Mr Dursley's fat face flushed crimson. Petunia, hearing this, felt deeply offended. Seeing them drag the trunk toward the door, she grew bolder.
She snapped, "Do you think raising a child who appeared out of nowhere is easy? And we had to keep the secret—no neighbour could ever find out! Do you think we hid him away for fun?"
Sirius glanced at Dudley with a mocking smile and said nothing.
Petunia felt insulted. "Who do you think you are? What right do you have to criticise us!"
"I have every right—I was James and Lily's friend…"
Sirius closed the car door; the window slid up. His voice drifted out from inside: "I am Harry's godfather."
The engine roared and the car pulled away. Privet Drive fell quiet once more.
Petunia stretched her scrawny neck, peering over the hedge to make sure no neighbours had heard the argument. She sighed with relief and returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner, a strange emptiness settling in her chest.
Almost everything Harry owned had been packed into that trunk. There was nothing else of his left in the house. His godfather had taken him. Would he come back next summer? Would they have to live awkwardly together again?
…
Inside the sports car.
The slanting sunset shone through the windows, a little blinding.
The leather interior was brand new—clearly recently purchased and never modified by magic. It could neither fly nor turn invisible. Like any other vehicle it threaded through London traffic, engine growling.
The wind carried the unpleasant smell of petrol, yet Harry's heart still leapt with excitement. Everything inside and outside the car felt new and wonderful. This was the taste of freedom.
Sirius's face showed little expression. His gear changes and braking were crisp and decisive; the sports car wove smoothly through the flow of traffic.
Harry found it fascinating that Sirius could drive. "Sirius, where are we going?"
"First to the graveyard—I want to pay my respects to my brother Regulus. Then we'll stay one night at Grimmauld Place. Tomorrow morning we head for Devon—Dartmoor!"
"Regulus?"
"A stupid fool."
…
Dartmoor, Devon.
Dawn brought cooler temperatures. The sky was deep blue; a hazy moon still hung overhead. Mist blanketed the moor, frost forming on blades of grass. The ground was slippery underfoot.
Melvin moved quickly. With Bagman guiding the way, they encountered no delays.
Summer was already half over. The International Confederation of Wizards conference in New York was in full swing, and the Quidditch World Cup final was about to begin. This was Melvin's first on-site inspection as a senior advisor to the Organising Committee.
When they crossed the marsh and reached the woodland, staff were already waiting.
Two middle-aged wizards soaked with dew had dressed as Muggles—one in a tweed suit and tall leather boots, the other in a Scottish kilt and a South American poncho. Clearly neither had consulted a stylist.
They had worked the night shift and were about to hand over. Dark circles ringed their eyes; they looked exhausted. Even seeing Bagman and Melvin, they could barely muster a greeting.
"Bagman and Levent."
"Arrived seven a.m. from Diagon Alley."
The registration wizards—one holding a thick roll of parchment and a quill, the other a pocket-watch—stood guard beside a basket of junk.
Old newspapers, crushed cans, deflated footballs—everything looked like rubbish.
"Morning, Basil!"
"Hello… yawn…"
The weary wizard named Basil yawned. "Here to inspect the site? Go on in. Mr Crouch arrived ten minutes ago. Hurry and you might catch him."
"Hope you get off shift soon!"
Bagman waved cheerfully and led Melvin inside, explaining as they walked:
"The organisation turned out even harder than we expected. Roughly a hundred thousand witches and wizards are coming to watch. Neither the Ministry nor Hogsmeade has any venue large enough to hold that many people at once."
"What about Undetectable Extension Charms?" Melvin asked, surveying the surroundings.
Dartmoor was a national park. The campsite had been set up in a remote clearing that was normally deserted. Three months earlier the road signs had been covered with Muggle-repelling and Notice-Me-Not Charms; now the area looked like an uninhabited swamp—perfectly secluded.
"Undetectable Extension Charms have too many limitations and are expensive. Transport is a nightmare. We can't ask a hundred thousand people to squeeze through a suitcase or a narrow doorway."
Bagman shook his head. "So we staggered their arrival times. The match is on 18 August; the earliest groups started arriving a month ago…"
The World Cup had thrown the entire Ministry into chaos. The Department of Magical Games and Sports and the Department of International Magical Cooperation were stretched thin; the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had personnel scattered everywhere keeping order; the Department of Magical Transportation was coordinating arrivals.
Some wizards were guided onto Muggle transport in cooperation with the Prime Minister's office. Knight Buses ran round the clock with triple shifts. Anti-Apparition wards ringed the stadium; Portkeys had been placed around the moor. Nearly two hundred special spectator Portkeys had been distributed across Britain.
"The stadium isn't open to the public yet. Early arrivals are staying in tents on the campsite. This used to be a Muggle commercial campground; the Roberts family are the managers." Bagman explained.
After about twenty minutes' walk Melvin saw the campsite entrance—a simple stone cottage.
Behind the cottage rose a gentle slope covered in row after row of tents of every shape and size, stretching all the way to the forest beyond.
The Muggle manager stood at the gate, staring at the tents with a puzzled frown.
Hearing footsteps, he turned. "Dartmoor Campsite—how can I help you?"
"Good morning, Mr Roberts!" Bagman boomed. "We're from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. We booked several tents on the slope—remember?"
"Sports… Department…" Mr Roberts muttered, checking the chart pinned to the door. "Oh yes… booked for a week."
Melvin studied the Muggle. He showed clear signs of mental fog and memory gaps. He was far too young for retirement and still worked as manager, so it wasn't ordinary dementia.
"Never seen so many people."
Mr Roberts mumbled to himself, glancing back at the mist-shrouded campsite. "Hundreds… no, thousands have booked tents. People keep pouring in… and so many foreigners, acting strangely…"
At that moment a wizard in plus-fours swooped down on a broom, landing beside the stone cottage. He raised his wand and fired an Obliviate.
"Obliviate!"
The arriving wizard pocketed his wand and explained to Bagman and Melvin, "He's the only Muggle here. He notices things too easily. To prevent Statute breaches I have to cast the Memory Charm on him a dozen times a day."
"…"
Now Melvin understood why Mr Roberts showed symptoms of dementia.
…
"This is next week's roster. Because we're short-staffed, colleagues from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes have been pulled in…"
Deep in the forest, inside the players' and managers' meeting room at the stadium, Percy was explaining the duty schedule. As each name was read aloud, groans rose around the table.
Madam Bones and Scrimgeour were in New York for the conference. Mr Crouch was on his way back. London headquarters had to keep people on hand to handle the chaos caused by the influx of foreign wizards. Everyone was needed everywhere, yet a large group of colleagues had already taken annual leave to watch the match.
Staffing was desperately tight; barely enough people had been assigned to the venue.
As Mr Crouch's assistant, Percy delivered his superior's instructions at every morning briefing.
Today's briefing was different: Ludo Bagman—who normally avoided administrative work—had shown up, and he had brought a young professor with him.
"Mr Roberts the campsite manager has received over a hundred Memory Charms in just two weeks. Has no one noticed?" Melvin couldn't help asking.
"Professor Levent, rest assured—the caster is a senior Obliviator from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes with decades of experience. Memory Charms are his specialty!"
Bagman pointed confidently at the wizard in plus-fours beside him.
Melvin raised an eyebrow.
Bertha Jorkins and Gilderoy Lockhart had each received only one Obliviate and were already in advanced stages of dementia. Mr Roberts had endured dozens and could still spot anomalies in the campsite. The Obliviator's skill was indeed impressive.
"Even if he's an expert, stop tormenting Mr Roberts. Tell Kingsley to arrange for Downing Street to issue a notice giving him paid long leave until after the final."
Once the Muggle Studies expert Professor Levent had spoken, no one objected. The Obliviator was delighted not to have to keep coming back.