Butterfly Effect ; H. Potter

120. flight of seven.

"Don't you want to take a last look at the place?" Harry asked Hedwig, who was still sulking with her head under her wing. "We'll never be here again. Don't you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories ... Dudley puked on it after I saved him from the Dementors ... Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? ... And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door ..."

Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry turned his back on the front door.

"And under here, Hedwig –" Harry pulled open a door under the stairs "– is where I used to sleep! You never knew me then – blimey, it's small, I'd forgotten ..."

Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas, remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and, once – Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it – a flying motorbike ...

Harry picked up a picture frame he had left inside the small cupboard and examined it. Inside it lay a picture of him and Antheia at the tender age of eleven. Her arm was around his shoulder and even six years ago, Harry had a faint blush on his cheeks.

"Would you look at that, Hedwig!" said Harry, smiling. "That's Theia and me six years ago. Look at that blush on my cheeks! Blimey, I guess I've always fancied her. Damn right I did; she's so pretty, isn't she, Hedwig?"

Hedwig looked at him, then down at the picture, and pecked Harry's finger roughly.

"Relax, Hedwig," Harry said, chuckling.

There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere nearby. Harry straightened up with a jerk and smacked the top of his head on the low door frame. Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon's choicest swear words, he staggered back into the kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the window into the back garden.

The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself quivering. Then, one by one, figures began to pop into sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted. Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet and goggles and sitting astride an enormous motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around him other people were dismounting from brooms and, in two cases, skeletal, black winged horses.

Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into their midst. There was a general cry of greeting as Antheia threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over before Ron caught him. Ron clapped him on the back, Hermione beamed at him, and Hagrid said, "All righ', Harry? Ready fer the off?"

"Definitely," said Harry, beaming around at them all. "But I wasn't expecting this many of you!"

"Change of plan," growled Mad-Eye, who was holding two enormous, bulging sacks and whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. "Let's get undercover before we talk you through it."

Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Aunt Petunia's gleaming work-surfaces or leaned up against her spotless appliances: Antheia, her bright blue eyes beaming at him; Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and long-haired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favourite shade of bright pink; Lupin, greyer, more lined; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty and hangdog, with his droopy, basset hound's eyes and matted hair. Harry's heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: he felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last time they had met.