The Girl Who Saw Tomorrow II » Harry Potter

2.2 | The Dogfather and the Dursleys

At quarter-to-eleven at night, Sirius Black and Margaret Xenakis appeared in a posh little town in Surrey called Little Whinging.

"Frankly," begins Sirius, smirking when Margaret shot him a glare, "I'm not surprised that as soon as he regained his ability to talk, Frank cursed like a bloody sailor."

"How was I supposed to know he has a knack for making up the most bizarre swearwords?" questions Margaret. "And will you stop with the puns? It's been a week, they're getting a bit old."

"Would you rather I bark them at you?"

"What the-?" Before Margaret could comprehend, Sirius had turned into Padfoot. "Oh c'mon, you're free now. Is this really necessary?"

Padfoot did not answer. Instead, he barked at her and bounded down the sidewalk. Margaret shook her head to herself before following. Padfoot merrily led them down a few streets until they reached an old sign reading 'Privet Drive' creaking from its bracket on the post.

Number 4, Privet Drive was just as Margaret had pictured many times – the front lawn was meticulously mowed, the flowerbed perfectly blooming with summer's colours and every aspect of the house seemingly warm and welcoming.

The inhabitants, however, were not bound to be so warm and welcoming.

Margaret realised Padfoot had paused in his tracks, head tilted up as he stared at the glass window of a bedroom.

"What is it, Snuffles?" she asks, backtracking and looking up as well, before an amused smile grew on her face. "Oh, I see!"

There, visible under the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, was Harry Potter.

He seemed to have fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses askew, his mouth wide open and his dark hair untidy as ever.

Padfoot let out a loud bark causing Harry to jerk awake, almost falling off his chair in the process. Margaret chuckled as he hastily straightened his glasses, unstuck his face from the window and squinted down at the pavement.

Before Harry could see anything, however, the streetlamp above them went out.

Both Margaret and Padfoot spun around to find none other than Albus Dumbledore shutting the lid of his deluminator as he walked up the garden path and towards them.

"Good to see you've arrived safely," the Headmaster says pleasantly, gesturing at the door, "Shall we?"

While Padfoot reached the door quickly, scrapping at the polished wooden frame and leaving behind scratches, Margaret took notice of something else. It seemed that the week and a half they had not seen each other, Dumbledore had managed to get quite ahead in their quest of finding Tom Riddle's horcruxes. But as all things, it came at a cost.

Noticing Margaret's concerned gaze on his shrivelled and blackened right hand, Dumbledore gave her a reassuring look. She looked away first, feeling the deeply buried guilt threatening to make a reappearance.

"Behave, Sirius," she warns half-heartedly when they reach the door. "As much as you'd like to take a chunk out Vernon Dursley's foot, I can assure you it won't taste good at all."

Dumbledore reached forward to press the doorbell, chuckling as Padfoot gagged.

"Who in the blazes is calling at this hour?"

A moment later, a large, burley man dressed in a puce dressing gown wrenched open the door.

"Good evening. You must be Mr Dursley," greets Dumbledore. "I daresay Harry has told you we would be coming for him?"