CALAMITY ON PRIVET DRIVE
The shrill snoring of Mundungus Fletcher was interrupted by a sudden weight on his stomach. Mrs. Sharon, Arabella Figg's tabby cat, had leapt onto him like a plush demon.
He woke with a start, panting, finding himself naked, mouth dry from cheap brandy, and a headache thumping in unison with his racing heart. The bed, still warm, smelled of talc and something else… floral?
Fragmented memories of the previous night flooded his mind: bottles of Firewhisky, Arabella laughing with a hoarse chuckle defying her fifty years, and nimble hands undoing his bra, revealing two imposing, majestic mountains. "Merlin, what have I done?"
Arabella snored on the other side of the bed, wrapped in a green velvet robe, gray hair sprawled like a nest of snakes. Mundungus staggered to the bathroom, nearly tripping over his own lost pants.
The cold tap water didn't wash away the taste of guilt, but it brought back duty and responsibility: "Hadrian. The protection. The mission."
"Bloody Merlin!" he cursed, rubbing his face until it turned red.
He ran naked to the living room, nearly kicking the cats infesting the house like vermin. Damn, why did that old woman love breeding cats so much?
A Monitoring orb pulsed with an ominous amber light in the middle of the room. His heart froze when he saw it. The green dot marking Hadrian had disappeared.
"No… It can't be…" he muttered, pounding on the crystal like it was a broken clock. "Defective. It must be defective."
He dressed hastily, tripping over empty bottles and almost crushing the cats that stared at him with judgment, then bolted out under a charcoal sky where dark clouds whirled like ballerinas in a music video—the kind parents wouldn't let their kids watch even at eighteen.
The air smelled of ozone and doom. He had messed up again. Dominus had warned him not to drink and had given him an important task—one he shouldn't mess up, unlike what had happened with the Lunar Stone traffickers.
Well, he didn't want to repeat that mistake, and Dominus had believed in him. But he had failed again.
Mundungus's heart was racing a thousand miles an hour, threatening to suffocate him, and any remnants of last night's drinking had already left his bloodstream. Damn, he was screwed. After all, those imposing clouds, which seemed like they could consume the world, were a sign of very bad things. Really bad things…
The situation was so dire that even his bladder, cornered and panicked, wanted to escape to freedom. In other words, he really needed to pee.
He was a short man, shoulders hunched, chest caved in, but what drew the most attention was the wide bald patch atop his head, surrounded by thin, unkempt hairs that glistened. His face was marked by premature wrinkles, the result of nights spent in smoke-filled taverns and shady dealings. So crossing the street faster than usual was physically demanding for his short legs.
Bursting through the Dursleys' door, Mundungus apparated directly into Hadrian's room, hoping to find the boy asleep. Instead, he found immaculate sheets, a desk cluttered with books, drafts, and a newspaper open to the page: "House of Lords Votes to Choose New Chancellor."
"Where is he?!" he roared, bursting into the other rooms like a tornado.
Vernon Dursley emerged from the sheets in his pajamas, face first overtaken by panic, then the red flush of rage upon recognizing the intruder, while Petunia, buried under sheets—perhaps to cover her nudity—let out an alarmed scream, the kind women have specialized in over three hundred thousand years of human evolution.
Vernon then drew his umbrella like one would unsheathe a medieval sword. The object, which had survived three storms and a bicycle accident, was his barrier against the invader.
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FILTHY VAGRANT! I WARNED YOU NEVER TO SET FOOT HERE…" he roared in a tone meant to be authoritative, but sounding more like an "annoyed uncle at a barbecue." Well, a man who rises to defend his home and family deserves credit.
Mundungus ignored him, searching the next room like a madman. Vernon followed.
"The boy, Dursley! WHERE IS THE BOY?"
Dudley leapt out of bed like a frightened cat.
Vernon, a hurricane of rage, started pounding on Mundungus's head.
Mundungus grabbed Vernon by the collar and shoved him against the wall, lifting him until his feet dangled in the air. Not that Mundungus was incredibly strong, but he was desperate, almost possessed by panic. At any moment, deathly calamity could descend upon Privet Drive. He had no time to waste. So he demanded:
"Where is the boy?"
"Who cares? He's a freak, not my son!" Vernon spat with insane hatred, his hand loosening on Mundungus's collar while still gripping his throat.
Petunia, abandoning her fear, appeared behind Mundungus and started hitting his back.
"H-He went… for a run. Half an hour ago," Dudley said, having heard the creaking of the stairs. Then realization hit Mundungus.
For the past five days, the boy had developed the habit of running every morning before sunrise. Mundungus had noticed, but due to his terrible habit of negligence, hadn't paid much attention to the pattern.
A thunderclap struck like a flash of light, snapping the guardian out of his stupor. He peeked out the window and saw dark shapes materializing in the garden, cloaks billowing, silver masks on their faces, and in their center, a tall, pale figure in a flowing black cloak like smoke, raising its face with pale fingers pointing at the house like those of a cadaver.
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