him, she said, “Go on, what’s the hold-up?”
Box resumed his descent down the trelliswork, but then he stopped again.
“What’s the problem now?” Harry asked him impatiently.
Box pointed with trembling fingers to the eastern sky. CARPETS! High in the sky, and approaching fast, were two objects that looked incredibly like flying carpets!
“Drats,” Harry hissed. “They’ve found me!”
Jumping down the last few feet of trelliswork, Harry and Box dived for cover; Harry beneath the huge, spreading leaves of a Gunnera plant, and Box under the less exotic but equally large leaves of a Rhubarb plant (his father insisted on growing rhubarb in the flower beds, saying it was a much underrated flowing plant, whose majestic white flowers had no place amongst drab vegetables). From their places of concealment, the two cousins watched as the flying carpets, with their occupants sitting cross-legged upon them, passed overhead.
“They didn’t stop,” Box whispered across to Harry.
Creeping over, hiding under the same Rhubarb leaves as her cousin, Harry said, “That means they haven’t quite worked out exactly where I am. I might still be in with a chance. Then looking kindly at her cousin, she said, “You go back inside, it’s me they’re after – go!”
“Oh no you don’t,” Box replied vehemently. “We’re in this together
“They could return at any moment!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “Now tell me this, is there anything we can do to get away from them?”
Undoing the fasteners on her shoulder bag, Harry opened it and began rummaging through its contents.
Watching her intently, Box said, “Can’t we use the new wand?”
“No, that will attract more attention,” Harry said as she continued searching through her bag. “Ah, I have it,” she said triumphantly, pulling it out.
“How did you get that into your bag?” Box asked, puzzled at how she had managed to get such a bulky article either in or out from her bag.
Ignoring the question, Harry began untying the brown coloured string holding the article together. It was only after she had done this, and unfolded it upon the ground did Box realise what it was. It was a carpet, a carpet so old it was almost threadbare in places, but of exquisite design.
Box was flabbergasted. “Is that…is that really? – No, it can’t be,” he said yet desperately hoping that it really and truly was a genuine honest to goodness flying carpet.
Harry smiled.
“You mean it?”
She nodded.
“It is, really is a flying carpet – I was right?”
The carpet, now completely unfolded, safely concealed beneath the canopy of rhubarb leaves, smelt of mustiness.
“Let’s get going,” Box urged his cousin.
Harry made no reply; she waited, silently watching the sky. Their departure had to be planned to the split-second, to avoid any chance of being seen by the men on their magical carpets up, above.
Plans don’t always according to plan, and this was unfortunately such an instance. Before they had a chance to act, to make good their escape, the two flying carpets returned and began circling overhead.
“They’re on to us,” Harry whispered.
“You must have really pissed them off, back at that school of yours, if they’d do all this just to get you back,” said Box.
Harry ignored this remark.
While one of the carpets, with a bearded man sitting cross-legged upon it, remained circling overhead, as a lookout, the other one, with two occupants, came to a smooth landing beneath the shelter of the large horse chestnut tree in the back garden. Walking away from the carpet, just leaving it there under the tree, the two men, dressed in long multicoloured robes, made their way across the short distance to the house.
Tapping Harry on the shoulder, Box asked, “What are they doing?”
Watching the men, Harry said nothing.
“Where are they going?” Box asked, yet fearing that he already knew.
“Inside.”
“Inside? You mean to mum and dad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Almost crying with fear, Box asked, “What do they want with them?”
“They’re in there, that’s why.”
“But they don’t know anything!”
“Shush,” they might hear you.”
Inside, Mr and Mrs Privet were still sound asleep, blissfully unaware of the strange goings on a few feet outside in their garden. However, when one of the men kicked in their back door, their troubles began with a start.
“Did you hear something, Laurel?” said Mrs Privet, sitting up in bed, her ears cocked.
“No, go to sleep,” Mr Privet mumbled.
Mrs Privet lay back in her warm bed, trusting in her husband’s reassuring words.
Clump, clump, clump, Mrs Privet’s ear cocked again. She heard the sound of heavy footsteps, downstairs, tramping across her polished floorboards, knocking things over and throwing them about, in their search for the troublesome girl, Harry. Prodding her husband, she said, “Laurel, there is someone downstairs, I am sure of it!”
“I already told you,” he mumbled, “there’s no one there. Now go to sleep, will you?” With those words Mr Privet fell asleep, again.
There was another clump, a much louder one, like the sound a television set would make if tossed into the corner of a room. Prodding her husband for a third time, Mrs Privet insisted that there was someone below.
“It’s probably Harry, getting up early, to make another one of her radios,” Mr Privet mumbled sleepily.
“LAUREL, GET UP!” his wife hissed, hoping the house invaders might hear her, and thus go.
He got up; Mr Privet finally dragged himself out of bed. After donning his dressing gown and slippers he sleepily opened the bedroom door and promptly jumped back in fright. A bearded man dressed in long robes was staring in at him, and he was wielding a small stick in a most threatening manner.
“I say, that’s not cricket,” said Mr Privet, eying the diminutive stick with some suspicion.
Despite the stick being so small, the man continued to wave it threateningly. Then pushing Mr Privet into the bedroom, he watched blankly as he fell clumsily backwards onto the bed – and his wife.
“My,” said Mrs Privet, her eyes opening with excitement, “and it’s not even Sunday.”
“Stop that, woman,” he scolded. “We have a problem.”
Opening her eyes, Mrs Privet saw the bearded man standing, and she screamed with fright.
“They’ve got mum and dad!” Box yelled. “I’ve got to go up and help them!”
The flying carpet, which had been circling overhead, suddenly changed course and began descending.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Harry hissed.
“What I’ve done? How did you work that out?”
There were no more screams heard from the Privet’s household, Mrs Privet and her husband, having been tied up and gagged by the bearded men who had invaded their home, were in no position to do anything.
Having had a bad experience with a wand many years earlier, Mr Privet now hated them. He was convinced they were detrimental to one’s health. Staring despairingly at the two men, he would have gladly kicked himself if he had been able, having failed miserably to recognise the stick for what it really was – a magical wand, albeit a very one.
While keeping an eye fixed firmly on the flying carpet that was still descending, Harry said, “We’ve only a minute, at best. We must leave NOW.” She began dragging the carpet from under the rhubarb, to a clear bit of lawn.
“We can’t just leave them,” said Box, fretting for his parents. “We must do something!”
“Well...” Harry mused, mulling it over. “I suppose we could use my new wand…considering we’re leaving.” She watched as the carpet above continued to lose height.
“Use it then, USE IT,” Box pleaded.
“All right
, but get on the carpet, like me,” she said, sitting cross-legged upon the frayed article.
It was a tight squeeze, Box having such long legs and all, but in the end he managed to tuck himself behind his troublesome cousin.
“Now what?” he asked, listening for signs of life from his home. There were none.
“Just a few words should do it,” Harry whispered.
“Say them, SAY THEM!”
Producing her newfangled electro magical wand, waving it from left to right and then left again, harry said; “Loosen up the cords that tie, free those souls from binds so tight.”
“Is that it? No flames or floods or pestilence, just a few words?” Box asked, brutally disappointed with the performance.
“It’s best that way,” she said. Then with another wave of her wand, she said, “Up, up and away.”
With those words having been said, the threadbare old carpel began trembling, shaking and quivering in a most alarming manner. Then raising from the ground it shot off heading straight for the back door of the house.
“What are you doing?” Box yelled.
“Hold on,” she shouted, “it’s been a while since I used one of these...”
“A while? How long is a while?”
“Like – never?” Harry coyly admitted.
The man on the carpet above, spotting the commotion below, set off in hot pursuit.
Bursting through the caved in door, the magical carpet, with Harry and Box sitting cross-legged atop, shot into the kitchen at breakneck speed, then down the hallway as equally fast before smashing through the front door and into the garden. The old door was shattered to pieces, with splinters of wood flying about everywhere.
Seeing the man on his carpet fast approaching, Box yelled, “Go in, go back inside!”
Steering the carpet like crazy, Harry guided it into the house. Whizzing its way through the debris-strewn sitting room the old carpet gave them the ride of their life, followed closely behind by the pursuing carpet and its bearded and angry occupant.
Exiting the sitting room Harry turned her carpet a sharp right, into the front room, the room where Mrs Privet’s beloved hand-painted fine bone china resided. In a blaze of anger, the bearded man, now wielding a sword, steered his into the same small room. As each carpet vied for supremacy, flying round and round, they did as much damage, if not more, than the two other men had perpetrated, earlier. With a growing dexterity Harry guided their carpet safely out from the room, just as the other one collided with the cabinet containing Mrs Privet’s precious china, smashing it all to pieces, and thankfully knocking the man out in the process. Without wasting even a second, Harry steered her carpet up the stairs so fast Box almost slid off, in fright.
On reaching the landing, the magical carpet smashed through the door of the Mr and Mrs Privet’s bedroom, then colliding head-on with the two men lurking inside, it knocked them unconscious.
Seeing his father untying himself and spitting out his gag, Box yelled, “Dad, are you all right?”
Giggling,” his father replied, “Hmm, another one of Harry’s radios blowing up, if I’m not mistaking. Yes, yes, those radios can be dangerous things, hee, hee.”
Turning to Harry, Box asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Shock, seen it before – in Hagswords…”
Turning to his wife, helping to free her hands, Mr Privet said, “Come on, dear, I think the vicar’s coming to tea this evening, and you promised to make him some of your special scones, hee, hee.”
His wife, however, said nothing; she just sat there on the floor, her eyes glazed over, listening to strange voices inside her head, telling her that everything was going to be all right, but only if she kept on listening to them…
A Train to Catch
Box didn’t like the idea of leaving his parents, but he knew that if they were to have any hope of ever returning to something resembling their previous, quietly lived lives, he had to. Thankfully, Harry had already dispatched the bearded men to a place where she said they would be safely contained, until everything was sorted. Box wondered what that actually entailed. Then casting it to the back of his mind, for his own sanity as much as for concern for the men, he went along with his cousin’s instructions…
High above the clouds, travelling fast on the moth-eaten magical old carpet, looking over his shoulder watching his home disappear into the distance, Box felt a tang of regret that Harry, his troublesome cousin, had ever escaped from her special boarding school.
During the following hour neither of the carpet’s two occupants said anything, preferring, instead, to catch up with their thoughts on all that had happened, and on everything that might happen in their quest to secure the item Harry had left at school.
When the carpet began slowing, Box tapped Harry on the shoulder, asking, “What’s happening?” Harry made no reply; she just continued to sit cross-legged, steely eyed in her determination to carry out and succeed in her objective.
As the carpet began to lose height, everything below them began to grow bigger and bigger. Enthralled, Box imagined he might reach out and touch the trees, the houses – everything.
“Careful,” Harry warned, “or you might fall off.”
“Are we landing?” he asked, hoping for a reply, this time round. Harry nodded. Then it hit him; with a jolt Box realised they were flying over the very heart of the city, smack bang over the centre of London, and he asked, “Why here, in the thick of it all?” Without offering a word of explanation, Harry pointed to a sprawling timeworn old building below. “Is that a railway station, Box asked, screwing up his eyes, trying to get a better look.
“It’s Euston,” she replied. “We have a train to catch…” Losing height, flying through a discreet opening in the station’s roof, the carpet landed them safely on the concourse, where no one paid them the slightest bit of attention.
Folding the carpet, as her shocked cousin marvelled at the bustling station and their unusual means of entry to it, Harry carefully returned it to the safety of her bag,
“Why have we stopped here?” Box asked. “Why didn’t we travel all the way by carpet? And where are you going?”
Without answering him (Box felt a growing sense of unease at this treatment), Harry began walking along the concourse, with a confidence that told him she knew exactly where she was going.
“Well?”
Stopping, turning to face him, she said, “Do I always have to explain ever last detail – everything that I do?” Having been put firmly in his place, Box said no more on the subject, leaving the matter of transport and its associated arrangements to his troublesome cousin.
Walking ahead of Box, Harry didn’t stop for until she was directly beneath the huge clock at the station’s centre. Then turning a sharp right (again in complete silence) she made her way across to one of the tickets counters. Opening her shoulder bag, Harry withdrew her purse and took out another one of the golden coins, which she duly pushed across the counter. “Two platform tickets, please, and you can keep the change,” she said.
Inspecting the coin with incredulity, the woman slid it into her pocket, before opening her own bag and buying the ticket with her money. “There you are,” she said, handing Harry the two tickets. “And have a nice day.”
Harry led the way, retracing her steps across the concourse, towards the ticket barrier at platform thirteen. The woman behind the ticket counter, taking another look at the golden coin, bit it, to prove to herself that it was actually real.
“I know you don’t like me asking questions...” said Box, as he faithfully followed his troublesome cousin. “I mightn’t have to ask you so many, if you were more forthcoming with information.” Totally ignoring him, Harry continued walking. “Well?” said Box, flapping his arms against his sides, in utter frustration with his cousin.
Harry stopped, pointing to a sign, she said, “Read that.”
“Platform thirteen, it says platform thirteen.”
“Th
en that’s where we’re going,” she replied, making her way to the ticket barrier, where a kindly looking old man of African origin was standing.
“What have we got here?” the man asked as they approached him. “Two train spotters?”
“Yea, something like that,” Harry replied.
“Come on,” the man called to Box, “or she’ll see all the best engines before you do.” Clipping their tickets, he welcomed them onto the platform.
“The sign, back there, said this train is going to Argyle,” said Box, “and we have only got platform tickets?” Harry, however, ignoring him yet again, beat a path down the platform like her life depended on it.
“Harry!” Box anxiously called out, but she never heard him; she was simply too far ahead. Running, Box tried to catch up, he really did. He ran fast, hard, trying to catch up with his troublesome cousin, Harry. Nearing the end of the platform he had almost down it. But then he stopped, shocked by what he saw. Despite being so perilously close to the end of the platform, Harry was still marching at full pelt. Puffing and panting, Box yelled, “Harry, what on earth are you doing?” But she never stopped, and she slipped off the end of the platform disappearing from sight.
Reaching the end of the platform, Box searched desperately to find Harry, but she was nowhere to be seen – not anywhere. “Did you see her?” Box asked an old man, a porter who was shuffling past.
“See who?” the man replied.
“Harry – a girl,” Box shouted, in sheer in desperation.
“It’s a funny name for a girl,” the porter replied as cool as a cucumber before walking away.
“But, but did you see her?”
“I saw nuthin’,” he said. “I keeps to m’self, I dus. Don’t get into any trouble that way.” The old man wandered off down the platform, without uttering another word to Box.
Box was stumped; how could Harry have disappeared, vanished without a trace? Scratching his head in frustration, he racked his brains, trying to work out what could have happened to his troublesome and increasingly annoying cousin. It took him a while, walking up and down that platform like a boy demented, trying to solve the puzzle of his missing cousin. In the end – and it was the only thing that he was able to come up with – he decided to emulate Harry’s actions, by simply walking off the end of the platform, to see what happens.
It was scary, those last few seconds, before walking off the end of the platform. But without anything better to do, without anything more concrete to follow, to find her, Box gritted his teeth, and he went for it.
“Hey, what are you doing?” shouted the man; the same old man Box had been speaking to. “I said, hey!” the porter shouted again, as he watched Box march defiantly off the end of the platform. Then his jaw dropped, it dropped in sheer disbelief by what he saw…
You see, as Box walked off the end of the platform, he didn’t fall helplessly to the ground. No. What happened was something far different. Something incredibly amazing happened to Box; he simply continued walking, his whole body tuning like the hand on a clock, swivelled round until he was standing upside down on a another platform directly beneath the one he had just left. And once he was there he had no feelings
Harry Rotter Page 6