Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

– you – can – tell – him – why – you – weren’t – there – to – help!’
    ‘Keep your ’airnet on!’ said Mundungus, his arms over his head, cowering. ‘I’m going, I’m going!’
    And with another loud crack, he vanished.
    ‘I hope Dumbledore murders him!’ said Mrs Figg furiously. ‘Now come on , Harry, what are you waiting for?’
    Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley’s bulk. He gave the semi-conscious Dudley a heave and staggered onwards.
    ‘I’ll take you to the door,’ said Mrs Figg, as they turned into Privet Drive. ‘Just in case there are more of them around … oh my word, what a catastrophe … and you had to fight them off yourself … and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs … well, it’s no good crying over spilt potion, I suppose … but the cat’s among the pixies now.’
    ‘So,’ Harry panted, ‘Dumbledore’s … been having … me followed?’
    ‘Of course he has,’ said Mrs Figg impatiently. ‘Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent … right … get inside and stay there,’ she said, as they reached number four. ‘I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Harry quickly.
    ‘I’m going straight home,’ said Mrs Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. ‘I’ll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Goodnight.’
    ‘Hang on, don’t go yet! I want to know –’
    But Mrs Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
    ‘Wait!’ Harry shouted after her. He had a million questions to ask anyone who was in contact with Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four’s garden path.
    The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell and watched Aunt Petunia’s outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.
    ‘Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite – quite – Diddy, what’s the matter ?’
    Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed on the spot for a moment, his face pale green … then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the doormat.
    ‘DIDDY! Diddy, what’s the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!’
    Harry’s uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus moustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forwards to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.
    ‘He’s ill, Vernon!’
    ‘What is it, son? What’s happened? Did Mrs Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?’
    ‘Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?’
    ‘Hang on – you haven’t been mugged, have you, son?’
    Aunt Petunia screamed.
    ‘Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?’
    In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.
    ‘Who did it, son? Give us names. We’ll get them, don’t worry.’
    ‘Shh! He’s trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!’
    Harry’s foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.
    ‘Him.’
    Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.
    ‘BOY! COME HERE!’
    With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.
    The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.
    ‘What have you done to my son?’ he said in a menacing growl.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him.
    ‘What did he do to you,