Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Draco Malfoy was still in a foul mood. He stalked down the Charms corridor in the opposite direction of Professor Flitwick's lesson, where he would be expected in a few minutes. His inky black robes billowed out behind him as he slammed against the other students who were scurrying to and fro, on their way to their next class. As he pushed through the dense crowd, he could see a large cluster of people at the other end of the hallway, gathered around a figure holding a small black object in an outstretched hand.

Suspiciously, Malfoy turned and cut through the throng like a shark gliding through water and honing in on its prey. A hush met his arrival at the centre, where Colin Creevey stood, gingerly holding out a very small cauldron which had Save Harry written across the front in tiny glowing gold letters.

"Uh ... hi, M-M-Mal-Malfoy," Colin swallowed nervously. "We're-we're, um, collecting money to, er ... to buy Harry Potter a new kidney?" he squeaked, not intending the words to come out as a question, but Malfoy's steely cold glare had rattled him.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed to icy grey slits. His silence was ominous, almost predatory. It unnerved Colin so much that he continued to babble, just to fill up the void.

"Pa-Parvati Patil heard Harry was bitten by a Ch-Chizpurfle flea--probably from his owl--and its venom attacked his kidney ... they, uh, they cost about-about three thousand Galleons, but we're hoping to raise enough for the ingredients for a dialysis potion, at least ... the, um, Swiss Graphorn powder is pretty rare, so it-it runs several hundred Galleons an ounce ... I-I-I don't suppose you'd be willing to ..."

His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Malfoy's face. The two dark crimson spots had reappeared in the centre of his cheeks, mottling the usual alabaster marble of his skin as they slowly spread upwards and outwards towards his downy hairline.

"... No," Colin finished in a near-whisper. "No, I suppose ... not ..."

"Go piss up a broomstick," Malfoy hissed.

Colin blinked, his hand quivering around the cauldron's handle. "I-I-I'm sorry?"

"You will be," Malfoy drawled venomously.

He drew his wand out of its holster, raising it upwards, but stopped suddenly, staring at it in horror. Comprehension dawned on his face and enraged, he hurled Harry's wand down the corridor with all his might, where it bounced off Neville Longbottom's back and landed with a clatter on the floor. Neville turned around, oblivious to what had happened, and spotted the wand lying at his feet. He blinked at it curiously a couple of times, then recognised it as Harry's. Figuring his friend must have dropped it on his way to the Hospital Wing, Neville picked the wand up for safekeeping and continued on his way.

Malfoy had already turned back towards Colin. With the same precision and intensity a Beater would use to hammer a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch, he viciously struck the tiny cauldron. A shower of Knuts, Sickles and even the odd Galleon rained down on the students, as Malfoy stalked away (stepping on more than a few fingers of the students who had scrambled to pick up the coins as he did).

"Hey!" Colin yelped, diving to recover the lost money. "Hey! Y'know, some day, Malfoy ... some day, you might need a favour from Harry Potter! And then where will you be?" He ensured Malfoy had fully disappeared from view before continuing his diatribe. "You heartless, smarmy little tosser!"

Harry sat alone in the Mini on a quiet road just off the M25 London orbital motorway, on the northern outskirts of London. They had been making fantastic time since leaving Hogsmeade, flying invisibly up amongst the clouds for most of the journey. However, wanting to avoid another fiasco like the one in second year where several Muggles had seen Ron and Harry fly off in the Ford Anglia, Harry thought it prudent to land the car in the middle of a field in Middlesex and drive the rest of the way into the city, like Muggles did.

At first Ron had objected strenuously to the idea, fearing for his safety with Harry behind the wheel in Muggle traffic. But then Harry had quite rightly pointed out that if a vintage Austin Mini had suddenly appeared in the skies over King's Cross Station once again, Ron would have much more to worry about than just his safety. Glumly, Ron had conceded the point.

Ironically, the field they had landed in was part of a town called Potters Bar, which Hermione insisted was a good omen. Harry smiled at her, his heart full of love, as he watched her and Ron disappear into the red Muggle telephone booth on the other side of the road. Earlier, he had convinced himself that this stolen day was for the benefit of both Ron and himself, but he had neglected the fact that it was just as important for Hermione, too. Ron had his own problems and insecurities to escape from, and Harry was attempting to forget the pressures of an unknown future and an inevitable date with destiny he had been putting off for the past 16 years, but Hermione ... Hermione also had issues she needed to leave behind for the day. Namely, an overwhelming anxiety that she wouldn't pass her N.E.W.T.s with flying colours (she would be top of the seventh year class, he was certain) or be accepted into the post-Hogwarts educational institution of her choice (the Faculty of Magical Law at the University of Stonehenge, which, Harry was sure, they would be begging her to attend).

Beyond that, though, Harry knew Hermione harboured another secret fear--it was the same one all three carried in each of their hearts. The fear that after graduation, the once tightly-knit trio would drift apart--or worse. It had already started a little bit during their fifth year, but they had decided to put the dreadful events and anxieties of that year behind them, where they belonged, and just focus on the future instead. But the worry still lingered--the fear that in spite of their best efforts to stay in touch or be a part of each other's lives, forces beyond their control would one day rip those very lives apart.

Harry couldn't imagine his life without Hermione in it, or Ron either, for that matter. They were as much a part of him as the oxygen that filtered through his lungs, the blood that flowed through his veins. They were family. He vowed to himself right there and then, on his parents' and Sirius's honour, that there was no way he would ever let Voldemort take anyone else he loved away.

His thoughts were interrupted by Hermione and Ron's eternal bickering as they headed back to the car. Some things, it would seem, never changed.

"You were completely over the top!" Ron hooted. "He'd have to be daft to not recognise you!"

"Well, you were hardly subtle yourself," Hermione fumed, opening the passenger door. "It took us four tries alone just to get you to stop shouting."

"I told you," he replied as he scrambled into the back, "I've only ever used one of those things once before, when I called Harry the summer before third year."

"Yes," she sniffed, climbing into the car, "That much is evident."

Harry chuckled as he started the engine, using a Chocolate Frog card he had found in his wallet and Transfigured into a key. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," Hermione smiled, dropping some leftover Muggle coins into his hand. "I changed the message on my parents' answerphone at home, then had Ron record a new message for my mobile. I have to leave it at home during the school year anyway, as it's electrical."

"Won't your parents wonder why there's a new message, though?"

"No," she replied. "They won't even hear it. They're at their practice all day. I'll be sure to change it back to the old one later, though. It was my voice on there to begin with, so it shouldn't be any bother."

"Aces," Harry nodded. "Oh, one last thing. I don't reckon you want to be parading around London in your Hogwarts uniform, do you?"

Hermione blushed as she glanced down at her Gryffindor robe, cream-coloured shirt and black skirt. "Er, no, not really. But I thought if I just kept my cloak buttoned up, no one would--"

"Here." Harry passed her Malfoy's wand. She stared at it, then at Harry, then at the wand again. "Go on, take it. It isn't mine, it's Malfoy's."

"Malfoy's? How on Merlin's earth did you get--"

"It's a bit of a story, actually, I'll explain later. But the short of it is that any magic we perform today will be traced back to the owner of that particular wand." Harry smirked. "Mafalda Hopkirk is going to have a field day."

Ron and Hermione looked at him blankly. "Who?"

"Never mind," Harry said, shaking his head. "If you're ready, Hermione?"

"Oh! Yes ... uh ..." She swept the wand over her uniform. "Vestitus Transformare!" Hermione could feel the fabric's molecules rearrange themselves against her skin, and a moment later found herself wearing a crimson-coloured cotton hoodie with a cream tank top underneath and a pair of faded black jeans.

"Not bad," Harry grinned broadly at her, then at Ron. "Well, we're off then. And I promise you both, this is going to be a day to remember for the rest of our lives."

Hermione grinned back and even Ron managed a tentative but genuine smile as Harry pulled onto the road and headed for the motorway.

Snape stormed through the front doors of Hogwarts, only to find an anxious-looking Professor Trelawney hovering in the main corridor.

"Oh, Severus!" she exclaimed breathily, wringing her hands together. "Severus, something happened, didn't it? Ever since you left with Miss Granger, I've had a cold feeling inside--an ominous foreboding of doom!" He stared at her in cold fury, his eyes more menacing and dangerous than a Basilisk's. "It was her father, wasn't it?" Professor Trelawney continued, trailing after him down the corridor to the staff room. "He met with some sinister misfortune on his way to meet her--an accidental beheading, perhaps? I had a feeling about him, so I did an emergency casting, and the runes indicat--"

"No," he hissed icily. "As a matter of fact, he didn't meet with any sort of misfortune. But mark my words--he will. When I find him again, he's going to wish he had never been born. Death via accidental beheading would be a merciful alternative."

They entered the staff room, and Snape slammed the door behind him. "Harry Potter is behind this--there's not a doubt in my mind," the Potions Master hissed to himself. "And now he's coerced Hermione Granger into participating in his nefarious little scheme."

"Her grandmother, too," Professor Trelawney nodded primly.

Snape blinked, her voice snapping him out of his vengeful reverie. "Charlatan," he muttered.

Then, much to Professor Trelawney's surprise, he plucked her wand out of its holster around her neck and swept past her to an ancient-looking wardrobe. A jet of sparks arced through the air from the tip of the wand to the wardrobe as Snape mumbled "Alohomora." With a loud creak, one of the two wardrobe doors opened ajar. "I did not achieve this position in my academic career by having some upstart renegade leave my wand out in the wind!" he declared.

Shoving the wand into her hand, Snape yanked the door open the rest of the way and began to dig rapidly through the wardrobe's contents. A number of old-fashioned Muggle devices--including an obsolete Underwood typewriter whose keys were merrily clacking away, an antiquated Edison phonograph which was quietly playing the Charleston and an early-edition Singer sewing machine that whirred noisily--were flung out of the wardrobe over his shoulder. Professor Trelawney hastily cast a quick Cushioning Charm on the various artefacts as they came sailing overhead, in order to prevent them smashing against the stone floor.

"A-ha!"

Finally, Snape emerged, triumphantly holding an ancient black candlestick-style telephone. He thrust it at Professor Trelawney.

"But Severus," she began, looking most perplexed, "What are you going to do with this ... this fellytone thing?"

"Telephone," he corrected sternly. "Surely your ignorance of the Muggle world isn't so vast that you are unfamiliar with the terminology for one of their most common communication devices?"

"Well, no, but--"

"And surely as Hogwarts has a large number of students with Muggle parents, you are aware we keep a few of these 'things', as you call them, on hand to facilitate any such communication?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"Excellent. Your powers of comprehension are dazzling." Chastised, Professor Trelawney looked away meekly as he continued. "The Headmaster and Professor McGonagall each have a telephone in their office. I imagine that is how news of Miss Granger's grandmother's most unfortunate demise first reached us. Usage of these two telephones is strictly controlled--they are protected by charms to avoid both security breaches and potential misuse by wayward students.

"That telephone," he gestured to the device Professor Trelawney was holding, "along with the other items in the wardrobe, is non-functional. It is non-electrical, as are the other devices, all of which are used purely for demonstrative purposes in fourth-year Muggle Studies class. As such, there is no protective charm cast upon it. There is, however, a little-known incantation which will render it to be in working order. As I don't have my wand at my immediate disposal, it will be up to you to cast the spell."

"But I don't--"

"No, of course you don't, you dim-witted old bat, but I do. The only thing missing is the Grangers' telephone number. You will need to summon it."

"But I don't--"

Snape exhaled in disgust. What was left of his already-limited patience had been worn parchment-thin. "It's in the girl's file, in the Headmaster's office."

"But--but wouldn't the file be guarded with privacy shields and confidentiality charms?" Professor Trelawney asked.

"It is guarded," he confirmed, "against other students. But as we are both staff members and have, ostensibly, a legitimate reason to require access to the file, that will not be a cause for concern."

Professor Trelawney opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, she spoke, in whispered tones. "Severus, I'm not getting very good vibes from all this--"

"Professor Trelawney," he began impatiently, then paused, tempering himself. "Sibyl. Something untoward is going on here, and I intend to find out what it is. Are you prepared to sit idly by whilst Harry Potter flagrantly mocks the very foundations of discipline, respect and truth this institution was built on?"

A thick silence punctuated the staff room, during which Snape fixed his colleague with an unsettling gaze. "I think you will find all the tea leaves, crystal balls and runes you could ever want to examine would tell you it is only the proper thing to do in order to maintain order in this school, and ensure one student does not continue to make a laughingstock of us all."

Finally, the Divination professor timidly raised her wand. "Acc-Accio Granger file!"

Moments later, a thick purple file whizzed through an open window and landed with a dull thud on the table before them. Snape tore through it, casting aside pieces of parchment detailing Hermione's O.W.L. results, congratulatory letters from Professor McGonagall informing her of her prefectship and Head Girl duties and numerous glowing letters of recommendation directed towards post-Hogwarts educational institutions. Finally, he found a small sheet with Hermione's family's contact information and pushed it across the table towards her.

"Now, tap the telephone with your wand and repeat after me," he demanded. "Ennervate communicare!"

The Divination professor did as she was told, and immediately dropped her wand in fright when the telephone gave two short, shrill rings. Snape looked pained by her ignorance, but held his tongue. Professor Trelawney picked up her wand and stared at the telephone unblinkingly, then looked up towards her colleague with gimlet eyes. He sighed and prodded the parchment with the contact information.

"I presume you understand how to dial a telephone number, Professor Trelawney?"

She glared at him, making quite an ostentatious display of examining the parchment to locate the telephone number, then painstakingly dialling it, all the time praying it wasn't too apparent she, in fact, hadn't ever done this before. A strange double ringing tone followed by intermittent periods of silence met her ears, and, relieved, she quickly held the receiver out to Snape.

"The Granger home," she announced triumphantly. "And I'd strongly advise you mind yourself this time, Severus."

With a glare, Snape snatched the receiver from her hand just in time to hear a female's sobbing recorded voice at the other end say, "... can't answer your call at the moment--we've had a ... a death in the family. If you need to reach us, we'll be at the following number ..."

More sobbing followed, but Snape was still able to discern a series of digits through the wailing. This time, he dialled himself, viciously hooking an index finger around the rotary dial with each number. It rang once, then a deep, sepulchral male voice came through.

"This is Barry Croaker of the Coffin Brothers Mortuary. We are gravely sorry we are unable to speak with you, but if you leave your name and number, we will ring you back as soon as is humanly possible ..."

Snape slammed the bell-shaped receiver down into the cradle so hard, the entire telephone toppled over.

"I'm going to catch that whelp of hell if it's the last thing I do, and I'm going to put a massive dent in his future!" he howled. "Fifteen years from now, when he looks back on the shambles his life has become, he is going to remember Severus Snape!"

Harry managed to manoeuvre the cabriolet expertly through the various road works, zebra crossings, roundabouts, stop lights and, most of all, wretched traffic that comprised Muggle London. He loved driving. Now that he'd gotten the hang of it, it felt almost as natural as flying.

For his part (and despite his initial hesitancy), Ron was now hanging over the side of the car, agape at all the different sights, sounds and smells of the city. His father had taken the family to London once before, but only as pedestrians. Hyde Park ... Marble Arch ... Oxford Street ... Piccadilly Circus ... watching everything from the backseat of a cabriolet was an entirely different experience.

Neatly dodging around a double decker ("Cor! It's just like the Knight Bus, only smaller!" Ron had marvelled) and cutting through a diversion on Charing Cross Road, Harry finally turned right into a multi-storey car park. He pulled in to a drop-off spot near the entrance, shifted the Mini into park, and gave Hermione a cheeky little grin. She grinned back, her face flushed full of exhilaration and anticipation.

"Nuh-huh!" Ron shook his head vehemently, interrupting their private moment. His good mood had dissipated so quickly, it was as if a Vanishing Spell had been cast. "Wrong!"

Halfway through opening the driver's door already, Harry paused and turned back towards his friend. "What?"

"Not here. We're not leaving the car here," Ron insisted emphatically. Harry sighed and continued to get out of the car.

"Why ever not?" asked Hermione.

"Because we're not." Ron folded his arms across his chest. "I want the Mini back at The Burrow where it belongs, right now. Let's go."

"Honestly, Ron, what's going to happen to it?" Hermione sighed as Harry opened the door for her. "It's in a car park."

"It's in a Muggle car park!" he howled.

"Well, yes, of course it is," Hermione replied in exasperation, as if trying to explain the correct pronunciation of 'Wingardium Leviosa' to a first year. "Wizards don't normally have cars, so it would be sort of difficult to find a wizard car park to leave it in, wouldn't it?"

"What are you so afraid of?" Harry echoed, tipping Hermione's seat forward and leaning in towards him.

"It could get wrecked, burgled, pranged, breathed on wrong ... an owl could crap on it--who bloody knows?" Ron lamented, refusing to budge from the back seat.

"Would you calm down, please?" Harry withdrew a black dragonhide wallet from his pocket and dangled it in front of Ron. "Look, I've got a bit of Muggle money left--I'll give the bloke a fiver to look after it, all right?"

"What bloke?" Ron asked a moment too late.

Several feet away from them stood a tiny, rather grotty-looking kiosk, with peeling grey paint and a dirty, cracked window. A tall, burly skinhead wearing 20-eyelet Doc Martens, tatty jeans with the bottoms rolled up to the tips of his boots, a white vest and black braces leant against the outside of the kiosk. He regarded the trio curiously, a toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"He looks like the distant cousin of a Mountain Troll," Ron whispered in horror as the skinhead lumbered over towards them, eyeing the cabriolet with a covetous look.

"Shut it," Harry hissed, then turned to address the attendant. "Er, hiyeh ... how do you do," he began. The skinhead grinned, revealing a mouthful of missing teeth. "Do you--do you speak English?"

He frowned, somewhat put out by the question. "Er, wot country d'yeh fink this is, mate?"

Harry considered that a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay." He pointed to the Mini. "Listen, I want you to take extra special care of that vehicle, all right?" Harry pressed a five pound note into one of the attendant's meaty hands, along with the Transfigured key.

"No worries." The attendant ran a proprietary finger alongside the driver's door, then opened it to allow Ron to exit. He executed a little bow, almost like a liveried footman. "Awroight, Guv'?"

Harry extended an arm for Ron to brace himself against as he climbed out from the back seat, but his friend swatted it away, scowling at him as he reluctantly emerged from the car.

"Yeh lads 'ave nuffink ta worry 'bout, yeah?" the skinhead remarked, easing into the driver's seat. He hooked his thumbs behind his braces, pulling them away from his barrel chest, and spoke with great pride. "I'm a ruddy profess'nal, I am."

After handing Harry a receipt, he started the engine and revved it up a few times for good measure, then drove off into the bowels of the car park.

"Professional what?" Ron muttered gloomily, still staring after the attendant with naked suspicion.

"Ron, it'll be fine. A fiver can do wonders to a bloke's attitude," Harry sighed, as he and Hermione each gripped an arm and chivvied Ron down the road.

Not a moment later, the Mini emerged from the car park exit, the skinhead behind the wheel and his companion, sporting an electric-blue mohawk, happily ensconced in the passenger's seat. They tore off in the opposite direction to the trio, tyres squealing and the unmistakable smell of burnt rubber permeating the air.