Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Oblivious to Malfoy's brush with the law a short distance away, Dumbledore paused to admire a pyramid of Nose-Biting Teacups in the front window of Zonko's. He fondly remembered the time when, as a student at Hogwarts so many years ago, he had bought one from this very same shop as a Christmas "present" for his Divination teacher. Ah, the folly of youth, he thought with a small chuckle and renewed appreciation that his own Headmaster hadn't seen fit to punish him for the indiscretion.

Moving on from Zonko's, Dumbledore found himself stuck behind a tiny, dawdling, blue-haired old witch. He wondered if perhaps she had imbibed one too many Gillywaters (it seemed to be a favourite with elderly witches), for she meandered to and fro across the cobblestoned street in a tipsy sort of way. Bemused, Dumbledore attempted to get around her by walking to her left, but she wandered into his path. He then tried to step to the right of her, but once again, she drifted over and got in his way. Finally, in exasperation, he Apparated in front of her and continued on towards Honeyduke's.

Harry pulled Honeyduke's front door open with a violent yank. He silently cursed the bells that greeted his arrival--the last thing he wanted was attention. The fragrant scent of homemade fudge filled his nostrils, but Harry had no time for that now. Trying to avoid the shopkeeper's eye, he ducked around the candy floss machine and hid himself amongst a cluster of customers browsing the endless rows of sweets. The door to the cellar that housed the trapdoor leading to Hogwarts was in the small room at the back of the shop, and Harry began to slowly (and he hoped, discreetly) inch himself down the aisle towards it.

Easy does it, Potter, he coaxed himself. Just a few more steps ... almost there ... steady on ... yes! His fingers had just grazed the doorknob when the bells rang out again, cheerily announcing another new customer.

"Professor Dumbledore!" boomed the voice of Horace, the shopkeeper. "A pleasure! What can I do for you today?"

Harry froze. Oh, NO. Oh, no no no no no no no ...

His shoulders tensed; he was certain he could feel the Headmaster's gaze on his back. He would have sold his soul to Voldemort in exchange for his Invisibility Cloak at that moment--death at the hands of the Dark Lord would be preferable to the disappointment Harry knew he would surely see in Albus Dumbledore's eyes.

"Sherbert lemons?" Horace's disembodied voice reached his ears again. "Ooh, I think we're all out. Let me just have a look in our stores in the cellar--"

Bugger! Harry gulped audibly. This is it--I'm well and truly done for now--

Just then, a young female voice cut across his thoughts.

"Excuse me, how much for a half-pound of Fizzing Whizzbees?"

It was all the chance Harry needed. He thought fast--the precious few seconds the interruption had bought him wouldn't be nearly enough time to get down the cellar ahead of the shopkeeper and open the trapdoor undetected. Desperately, he glanced at the only other door in the small room. He had no idea where it led, but other than turning around and facing Dumbledore, he had no other option.

As casually and calmly as he could, Harry walked over to the door and quietly opened it, hoping the owner wouldn't notice and Dumbledore, if he did notice, would think he was just an employee. With tremendous relief, Harry discovered the door exited to the rear of the shop--but instead of leading to an alleyway, as the Three Broomsticks did, it led to a small garden. He was puzzled at first, but then remembered someone--Hermione, Ron, possibly Fred or George, even--telling him the owners of Honeyduke's lived in a flat over the shop, so this must have been their back garden. Still, there wasn't the time to linger over their impressive row of Flitterbloom bushes, he thought as he raced towards the low stone wall at the end of the garden; he was in a race against time and there wasn't a moment to lose.

Following recent reports of trouble at the Hog's Head and several incidences of shoplifting at Gladrags Wizardwear, Magical Law Enforcement Squad Officer Bobby Plod had been assigned to daily patrols of Hogsmeade High Street to keep a look out for anything suspicious. So when Draco Malfoy crashed into him like a runaway Firebolt, Office Plod's hackles went up. He was a trained professional; he instinctually knew these things. And there was something very suspect indeed about the struggling teenager he was presently attempting to subdue.

"Where's the fire, son?"

"Let go of me!" Malfoy demanded, trying to wrench himself from the officer's meaty hands.

"Now, why should I do that, eh?" Officer Plod prodded. "Seems a bit dodgy to me that you should be doing a runner down the middle of the High Street like that. Who're you running from?"

"No one," Malfoy hissed. It was true--at least in his mind it was. As he saw it, he wasn't running away from McGonagall as much as he was running to catch up with Potter. And now that little wanker is going to have a massive head start, thanks to me being stuck here with this fat bastard.

"Oh, really? Then why the rush?"

"You ... wouldn't ... under ... stand," he ground out, still violently struggling to break free.

"Try me. I think you'll find I'm very understanding. For example, I understand there was some aggro outside the Hog's Head last weekend--underage wizards getting legless and terrorising the locals--making idle threats about You-Know-Who, that sort of thing." He shook Malfoy for good measure. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

As it turned out, Malfoy did know about that--he had warned Crabbe and Goyle against the idea in the first place, but they hadn't listened to him. Of course, he wasn't about to share that particular pearl of wisdom with the thicko in front of him--Malfoy would admit to being many things, but a nark was not one of them.

The officer pressed on. "Perhaps you know something about the clothing that's been nicked from Gladrags then, yeah?"

Suggesting he was a follower of the Dark Lord was one thing, but this time, the accusation cut too deeply.

"Oh, please," he sneered in sheer disgust. "I'm a Malfoy--I have no need to steal, for starters, and even if I did, it certainly wouldn't be from a place like that. They don't even carry couture, for Circe's sak--"

"MR MALFOY!" An out-of-breath McGonagall had finally caught up to him, and stared in utter disbelief at the scene before her.

Officer Plod gave Malfoy another terse shake. "Thought you said you weren't running from anyone, eh Sunshine? Who's this then, your Gran?" He turned to McGonagall and adopted a sympathetic, albeit condescending, air. "Little bleeder nick your handbag, did he, Madam?"

McGonagall drew herself up to her full height, not caring for the officer's lofty tone and assumptions. "It's Professor, actually. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this is one of my students. And it should be perfectly obvious he didn't do any such thing, on account of the fact that I am still carrying it," she replied coldly, brandishing her carpetbag like a weapon. "Now, what is the meaning of this?"

"Er ..." Suddenly, Officer Plod was at a loss. It appeared the now smug-looking youth had someone to vouch for his character--someone official, someone who, the officer didn't mind admitting to himself, was more than a little intimidating. "He was running ... up the street ..." he began feebly.

McGonagall fixed her beady eyes on the officer in a disapproving stare. Really, she had had quite enough of the Ministry and its red tape today to last a lifetime, and her patience, both with Malfoy and the keystone cop before her, was stretched thin.

"I see. And that is a crime how, exactly? Amelia Bones neglected to mention it as such during our meeting this afternoon," she remarked pointedly.

Officer Plod hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and clearing his throat. "Ah ... no, no ... I just thought ..."

"Yes. Quite. Officer"--McGonagall squinted at the brass badge affixed to the front of his navy blue robes--"Plod, it has been rather a long day, and if there is nothing further, I shall be escorting Mr Malfoy back to the castle now."

"Er, yes. Of course. Carry on, then."

Gingerly, the officer released his hold on Malfoy, who rounded on him like an angry cockatrice. "You'll be hearing from my solicitor, you jumped-up little Troll--"

"Mr Malfoy!" McGonagall hissed, reining him in by the arm. Her voice was steely. "You are in quite enough trouble as it is; I do not suggest digging the hole any deeper. I do not want to hear another word out of you until we are back at Hogwarts and you are explaining your behaviour today to Professor Dumbledore. Do I make myself clear? Not. another. word. Now," she began to strong-arm him back in the westernly direction from whence they had come, "this way, if you please."

Harry vaulted over the low stone wall at the end of Honeyduke's back garden. The ground on the other side of the wall sloped downward, causing him to almost lose his balance. He found himself in another back garden, this time leading to a small thatched cottage. Harry ran around to the front, only to discover several other similar cottages dotting the landscape. Choosing one at random, he hurried across the street and disappeared behind it.

This time, the end of the back garden overlooked a sharp incline leading down to the railway track that ran along the northeastern edge of town. Harry knew he could follow the track west to where it passed the Shrieking Shack on its way to Hogsmeade station, but he was feeling sufficiently paranoid after his close call with Dumbledore--not to mention Malfoy and McGonagall--to not want to tempt Fate again.

He thought a moment. If he followed the track east instead of west, it should take him up to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. From there, it would be a quick--and more importantly, inconspicuous--run to Hagrid's. Harry looked at his watch. If he hurried, he just might make it.

Malfoy was incensed. After all the indignities he had already suffered, being accused of petty thievery from a shop as common, as naff as bloody Gladrags was truly the straw that broke the Nundu's back. Oh, Potter would pay for this. He would see to that. His skirmish with the long arm of the law may have forced him to change tactics (and directions), but he had decided if he couldn't go in the back door, then he would simply go in the front--literally. Malfoy glanced down at his wrist to check the time on his watch. If he hurried, he just might beat the bastard back to that half-wit's Hut, after all.

Beside him, McGonagall was banging on about responsibility and respect and other such nonsense--he had long since tuned her out. She had been frog-marching him back up the High Street and towards the road that led to Hogwarts, but temporarily relinquished her hold on his arm to gesticulate a point. Malfoy seized the opportunity. He began walking quickly, just a few steps ahead at first, then he began to jog, then several moments later he broke out into a full-fledged run. The distant echoes of McGonagall's shouting were swallowed by the wind behind him.

Many, many yards away, Dumbledore emerged from Honeyduke's, happily crunching his way through a large paper bag's worth of sherbert lemons.

Harry tore along a row of back gardens like a hurricane, trampling across overgrown grass, hurdling over hedges and diving through bushes. His eyes never lost sight of the train track at the bottom of the ravine to his left, however; it was like a metal lifeline leading him back to safety.

He passed a group of elderly wizards playing Wizard's Chess around a circular stone table in one garden, and four little witches having a tea party in their mothers' dress robes in another. He burst through a small grove of trees a few gardens over, startling a wizard barbecuing on a grill over a large stone pit. The wizard, who wore a 'Hot Stuff!' apron over his robes, held a bottle of Butterbeer in one hand and his wand in the other, which he had been using to flip the fish on the grill. The unmistakable odour of Shrake steak was in the air, and it made Harry's mouth water. He snatched the Butterbeer as he raced past, silently apologising as the wizard spluttered his protestations. Harry took a few gulps of the creamy, cold liquid as he ran, then flung the bottle into a dustbin the next garden over.

In the last garden, a couple of pretty witches hanging robes and jumpers out to dry on a clothesline smiled at Harry flirtatiously as he sped towards them. He slowed down long enough to give them a once-over, a grin and a wink, then tore up the side of the house, accidentally flattening a vine of still-green tomatoes in a small vegetable patch in his wake, and out on to the street. He passed two older witches, laden with bags of shopping, gossiping at the corner, then turned left, picking up steam as he ran down a hill towards the bottom of the ravine. Harry had thought once he reached the bottom, he would simply be able to jump on to the track and follow it around to the Forest, but a long row of homes, bordering each other by means of imposing wrought iron fences, blocked his path.

In desperation, he ran up to one of the front doors and pulled Malfoy's wand from his pocket.

"Alohomora!"

The front door flew open and Harry sprinted inside. The noise roused a wizard dozing in a squashy armchair in the sitting room.

"Oi!"

"No, don't bother to get up!" Harry shouted as he ran down the corridor to the back of the house, where a large pot of something was bubbling away merrily on an ancient-looking wood stove in the kitchen. "Smells scrummy!"

He opened the back door and ran out on to a small cobblestone patio, where the wizard's wife and young daughter were rocking gently on a porch swing, reading a pop-up book together.

"Dinner's on!" Harry proclaimed, hurtling past them and down the length of the long garden, where he disappeared into a small thicket of trees. Beyond them lay the spike-tipped wrought iron fence that separated the property from the railway track. The fence was at least ten feet high, with closely-spaced posts, and Harry felt his heart sink as he stared up at it. Attempting to climb it or squeeze through the posts would be next to impossible. He looked around for something--anything--to help him, and in the distance spotted a tiny garden shed about three feet tall. Hope bubbled up within him as he dashed over and pulled open the little wooden door, but it was soon extinguished when he surveyed the contents.

It wasn't a garden shed at all. It was a Wendy House, full to the brim of the little witch's dolls, Chocolate Frog cards, teddy bears, Gobstones, books and other assorted toys. Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There had to be something here he could use. Then he spied it, propped up against a tiny cauldron in the corner--was it--it couldn't be--it was! A toy broomstick!

Harry gave a short burst of laughter, then ducked inside and crawled over to the broom. It was a lurid pink colour, covered in glitter and stickers and about a third the size of what he was used to, but it would do. He snatched it up and quickly crawled outside and ran over to the fence. As he threw his leg over the tiny pink broomstick, Harry thanked Merlin Malfoy--or worse, Ron--wasn't there to bear witness. Still, if it did the job and carried him over the fence, Harry would be so relieved, he wouldn't care if he had to ride the broom in front of the entire school at the next Gryffindor Quidditch match.

Slowly and shakily, he rose up in the air, the little broom wobbling under his weight. Two feet at first ... then four ... five ... seven ... eight ... almost there ... then the broom plummeted downwards until his feet scraped the ground. Bollocks! He tried again, willing the broom to rise, even though he knew it probably wasn't designed for such heights. It teetered precariously a few feet in the air, then slowly began to rise and rise, defying gravity until it had just barely hovered over the fence's spiky tips.

Oh, please Merlin, don't let me fall now, Harry prayed as he glanced down, otherwise the likelihood of me ever becoming a father will be rendered an impossibility ...

To his astonishment, Harry cleared the fence. He hung there in the air for a split second, the broomstick vibrating furiously as if it were being held there against its will, then suddenly crashed to the ground, where he landed in a patch of wildflowers. Grinning with triumph, Harry stood up and dusted himself off, raising the broomstick victoriously above his head as if he had just caught a Snitch. After carefully pushing it back through the narrow space in between two of the fence posts, he turned and jogged the remainder of the way to the railway track. From there, it was just a short distance east until he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, which Harry entered with a sense of tremendous relief, oblivious to the eerie sounds and luminescent eyes that blinked at him in the semi-darkness.