fan-fiction: Harry Potter and the Temple of Anubis

Harry was slouched by the window of his room, watching as the evening sky was glowing with alchemistic sorcery. The sun was setting in a blaze of gold and purple, and did absolutely nothing to alleviate the heat and humidity that lay as a thick blanket over the suburb.
In front of the houses lining Pivet Drive the lush lawns, bushes and flowerbeds were kept from withering solely by the hard labour of owners armed with water-hoses, usually quite late, since the nation-wide watering-ban was still in effect. It hadn’t rained for almost a month now, but the populace of Pivet Drive would rather die a slow and painful death, than have a front-garden that didn’t look as if it was a contestant in the annual “Garden of the Year” competition.

Those home-owners included a very bulky man, pottering about in the garden just below Harry’s window, wheezing and cursing beneath his breath. Harry couldn’t help thinking how much his uncle Vernon looked like an angry bull doing garden-work, with his complete lack of a neck, small beady eyes and very large moustache.
Uncle Vernon was wearing a soft hat, and insisted on dressing himself like an old-fashioned English home-owner, even though the weather demanded shorts and a T-shirts and nothing else.
But Harry was somewhat grateful for not being subjected to uncle Vernon’s very pale and very broad shins.

He dropped down from the window, and surveyed his room. It wasn’t very big, but still better than the cupboard beneath the stairs, that he’d once called his home. It was littered with books, clothes, various objects of glass and metal in strange shapes, posters on the walls, and a desk so cluttered with objects, that it was hard to tell what material it was made from. In other words a typical 16-year old boys room – at least at a glance. A second look would reveal the books to bear such titles as “One hundred Magical Herbs and Their Uses”, “Advanced Books of Spells 1” and “The History of Magic”. The objects were such things as a broken mirror, the shards held in place by tape, various colourful boxes, quills and parchment, a few dried leaves and a black pointy hat. One of the posters sported the words “England Quidditch Team” beneath a photograph of seven robed men and women on broom sticks – who were waving and smiling at anyone looking. Not to mention the cage on top of the closet, were a very large white owl was gasping slowly for its breath in the unbearable heat, sitting pitiable on one leg, as it had a bandage around the other.

Harry heard a slight breeze rustle in the trees outside and uncle Vernon swearing at what sounded like the water-hose.
He could hear the clattering of plates somewhere down-stairs, so Aunt Petunia was obviously doing the dishes. The TV-set was silent yet still managed to convey the message, that his cousin Dudley wasn’t at home.
If Harry had thought, that saving Dudley from the Dementors last summer, would change his cousins need to bully and harass him, he had been gravely mistaken. During his fifth year at Hogwarts Dudley had grown, mostly in width, and the only thing keeping him from exploding was his wrestling and biking around with a gang of boys, that was feared by every child in the neighbourhood. Aunt Petunia’s family-diet had only taken five pounds from her and Uncle Vernon, so that she now looked very scrawny with a very skinny horses’ face.
Dudley and his gang often shop-lifted their hearts out at the candy-stores in the area, and the constant sugar consumption was slowly but surely turning Dudley into a balloon on legs.
A strong balloon nonetheless, and one that hated Harry with a vengeance. But since Harry had taken to carry his wand with him no matter were he went, Dudley simply didn’t dare attack him. But Harry could feel Dudleys pig’s eyes glaring at him, when ever they passed each other, promising that “One day…”
This far all Dudley had managed was to torture Hedwig. Harry had come home two days ago, and saw his cousin sneak down the stairs, gloating at him and vanishing out into the kitchen. Dudleys eyes had spoken volume, and Harry had rushed up to his room, to find that not only had his owl returned from delivering a letter to The Order of the Phoenix, but Hedwig had been lying in a pile of feathers, hooting sadly with her leg broken. And with the reply missing.

For a split second Harry had seriously considered testing one of the three banned curses on his cousin, or just see if a spell could break a leg. He’d rushed down to the kitchen, where the Dursleys were gorging on chicken-roast and mashed potatoes, and had confronted Dudley.
The result, of course, had been all too predicable. Aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon had protected Dudley savagely and while uncle Vernons blotchy face had gone from beetroot coloured to purple, he had yelled at Harry not to toss around accusations like that. All the while Dudley had smirked with no small amount of smugness behind their backs, and even managed to wave the letter he’d stolen.
Harry had reached for his wand when Dudley simply stuffed the parchment in his mouth, and devoured it, like it was chocolate fudge.
It had been pointless to stay in the spotless stain-free kitchen, which Aunt Petunia kept as if it was the set for a detergent commercial, so Harry had turned on his heel and marched back up-stairs to tend to his wounded owl.
Fortunately a face-off like that had become rarer, after the treat Mad-Eyed Moody had delivered to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Most of the time they both left him alone, or did what they could to ignore him. Which Harry was grateful for.
Harry crossed the room carefully to the closet, stepping carefully over the objects on the floor, that shone back at him like pieces in an obstacle race. He opened the closet-door and reached for a small glass top lying on a pile of clothes. It stood, perfectly balanced, on his palm and reflected the last sun-light, blazing lazily through his fluttering curtains.
He was about to close the door again, as he saw himself in the mirror on the inside. A thin boy of sixteen, with ruffled black hair, that always defied any attempts at flattening it, and startling green eyes behind glasses. But his most remarkable trait was the lightening shaped scar on his forehead, and he reached up a hand to let his fingers brush over it.
This day it hadn’t hurt, merely ached slightly a few times.
He lowered his gaze to the sneakometre in his hand. Together with the silent scar, the glass top seemed to indicate that for now he had nothing to fear. At least not from Lord Voldemort and his Death-Eaters – at least not right now.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, as he became aware of another kind of pain. The stinging in his heart, that kept reminding him of his loss of Sirius. His god-father. He drew in a slow breath of air and closed the closet door indifferently and slunk to the floor. He still couldn’t believe he was gone. All he’d seen was that the Lestrange woman had cast a spell in the Room of Death in the Department of Mysteries, and Sirius had fallen through an ancient arch-way. But everyone had assured him that Sirius was dead. Remus Lupin, Mad-Eyed Moody, even professor Dumbledore.
He wasn’t sure what would be worse. Not ever having known Sirius, not ever having had a god-father, or knowing and loosing him. Sirius was the only one who’d ever really understood him, and listened to him.

Outside the evening was billowing like a scarf of dark silk, and as the shadows conquered Pivet drive only the faint misty orange lights from the street lamps tried to keep them at bay.
He stared over his shoulder at his desk, were he’d been writing a letter to the Order of the Phoenix, as he’d promised to do every third day. He put the sneakometer down on his night table and stared out the window.
Some nights, very late, he could swear he’d felt a presence these past few weeks. Like a dark echo in the back of his head, that was making its way up to his conscious mind. He would wake up with his scar searing with a white-hot pain, but before he could get up, and get to the window, the sensation had faded again.

When he looked outside there was nothing to see, but the shadow of a cat stealing away in the deep night outside. Maybe he should tell the Order, or Dumbledore. Or his friends, Ron and Hermione. But they’d spend most of the summer condoling his loss of Sirius, as if that would change anything. If he told them about his feelings, they might just all start worrying even more, or condoling even more, or thinking he was just doing this to get attention.
And if there was one thing, which Harry was sick and tired of, it was being accused of making things up. The past year he’d spend as an outcast, ridiculed for claiming Voldemort had returned. Only the past few weeks, since Voldemort had appeared right there, in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, had the witches and wizards accepted the truth.
Maybe he should tell Ron and Hermione about the prophecy then? That one day he would either kill Lord Voldemort, or the dark lord would kill him. Murderer or victim, those were his choices.
But the chances that they’d realise he wanted to talk, and not be fussed about were slim. And the time for revealing that would come sooner or later, and right now later suited him better.

Both Ron and Hermione had written to him on his birthday, and said he’d get his gifts very soon. Harry would’ve settled for spending the rest of his vacation at the Weasleys house, were he could be kept up to date with what happened in the magical world.

He watched the muggle-news whenever he got the chance, or slipped Uncle Vernons newspapers to his room, to look for clues of what Voldemort and his Death-Eaters were op to. But either the Ministry of Magic were managing to keep it from the news, or the dark mages were being reclusive and working in secret, for he had found nothing.

Below his window Uncle Vernon had finished his illegal watering of the lawn and flower-beds, and small droplets shimmered hazily in the orange light from the street. The scent of the garden drifted up to Harry like a mist, and he inhaled deeply, wondering which of his many pastimes to continue.
Next to the amateurishly mended mirror lay an open book on charms, but for the life of him, Harry hadn’t found the correct spell to repair the broken glass. There was the letter to the Order of the Phoenix, and one to the Weasleys, who’d also demanded to be kept up-to-date with Harry’s life, and his Firebolt needed to be cleaned.
He took a seat on the floor and grumbled, as he’d accidentally sat down on a small statue of an English Quidditch player. He tossed it over his shoulder, picked up the mirror and took out his wand from beneath his T-shirt.
This far neither “specularis repairus” or ”speculum repairus” had worked. But it had to be possible.
From the hall-way below he could hear the muffled sound of the phone ringing, followed by Aunt Petunias rather shrill voice. Which quickly rose to unknown heights of agitation at whatever the caller was telling her.
“Vernoooon,” she wailed after a moment, and from the ensuing discussion Harry deduced that something was up with Dudley. He heard prompt footsteps in the hall-way and the slamming of the front-door.
Swiftly he moved to his opened window, and peered down. Uncle Vernon was putting on his jacket, while Aunt Petunia was fiddling with her hands.
“… a mistake, I am certain of it,” Aunt Petunia insisted miserably.
“Of course it’s a mistake,” Uncle Vernon bellowed, as Harry heard the jingle of car-keys.” Dudderboy isn’t a criminal, he doesn’t shoplift or beat up shop-owners.”
Harry dived behind the wall as uncle Vernon looked up. A moment later he heard a car-engine rumble to life, saw a flash of head-lights and as he peeped out the window again, he saw the glowing red insect-eyes vanish around a corner, At that time he caught sight of the thunder clouds that had sneaked up on the sky, and now hung like some omen of doomsday over Pivet Drive and the surrounding neighbourhood. They conquered the Moon and transformed the silvery landscape, first to pewter, then to black-rusty iron.
Not a wind stirred.
The pain that struck Harry, hit with such a white-hot force, that he felt his legs give way beneath him. His scar felt like it would crack his skull open, and he slumped forward, clutching his forehead and grinding his teeth.
Somewhere, which sounded far far away Hedwig hooted in surprise. He tried to open his eyes, but the world was spinning, and faintly he could hear his glass of water plump to the floor.
He felt strong, powerful, his right hand flexed around the handle of a weapon, as he moved in the darkness beneath a row of ancient statues, lit from below by bowls of fire.
“No,” Harry muttered as he realised what was happening. His breathing was shallow, he could feel sweat trickle down his face, taste the salt as he bend all his will on a single task. Not to think about anything.
A glaring white lightening jagged down through the darkness outside, followed by a roaring peal of thunder that shook heavy drops of rain from the clouds.
The storm had begun, and Harry was all alone.

----TO BE CONTINUED---

Woaw. That’s pretty good, Neon. Continue, please. 📖

Thanks, Omega. When my hang-over has evaporated 🪩 and I've played som EtM I'll get there! 🙂

Harry opened his eyes again. He had no idea for how long he’d been lying on the floor, he was only aware of three things. His head was still aching, but the pain was residing like a wave from his mind. Two, it was raining hard outside, he could hear it drumming loudly on the roof and the air seeping through his window smelt like a wet mist. Thirdly… he had an odd ringing sensation in his ear.
A moment later, Harry, realised that it was the door-bell. Groggily he got to his feet, and staggered from his room.

Lightening flashed from the sky like patterns in broken glass, followed by thunder, which boomed like boot heels stomping across a hollow hayloft.
He stumbled down the stairs to the hall, and to the front-door, if nothing else then at least to stop the constant, annoying persistent ringing. He fiddle with the lock, and as if the storm had been given a clue, a violent gust of rainy wind slammed the door open.
Outside in the glistening darkness stood a broad silhouette. Harry squinted his eyes, but he couldn’t make out any characteristics, save note that the shape was too small to be Hagrid, and too big to be Uncle Vernon.
Just then another blinding flash of lightening scattered the black clouds and danced across the horizon in a series of strange jerks. It was a man, whose face most of all reminded Harry of an old-fashioned circus ringmaster, with a handlebar moustache and lively brown eyes. But his outfit looked more like it was bought at an antic auction or World War I aviator gear than anything else. He wore a tunic and breeches made from wool, black riding boots, a leather flight jacket, a tight leather helmet and a pair of googles, pushed up in his mop of black hair.

“’Arry Potter?”, he inquired with a drawling booming voice, and stuck a massive hand in a light-brown flying glove in Harry’s face. He spoke again, but whatever he was trying to say, was drowned in a bone-dry clap of thunder, sounding like a snapping oak plank.
The wind howled and wailed, but the broad man seemed immune to the storm and the slashing rain, which was pouring steadily into the hall (and probably give Aunt Petunia a heart-attack).
“Whaaat?”, yelled Harry over the howling and wailing winds, which were now trying to topple the hatstand.
“I’m captain Maximilliam, I’m ‘ere to pick ya up. You ready?”
Harry blinked a few times, both at the captain’s question but also because the rain was clogging his glasses. But his scar wasn’t hurting, so he stepped aside to let the soaked Max inside, and used his shoulder to force the door shut.
Instantly the draught fell flat to the floor, and Harry turned on the lights in the hallway.
“Ah, thank’s, mate,” Maximilliam bellowed and looked around. ”You goin’ without yer suit-case, Potter?”
“Ehrm…,” Harry muttered, trying to make any sense of the giant captain in the hallway of the Dursley house. “I’m not… Where are we supposed to be going?”
Max arched a brow, and took off his drenched white scarf. “Well, your school-outing of course. Didn’t you get the letter two days ago?”
Finally Harry could put two and two together. That was what had been in the letter that Dudley had stolen from Hedwig, and eaten in the kitchen.
“No, I’m sorry, it got lost,” he replied grimly. “I suppose I need some kind of signature from my parents or legal guardians, right?”
“Sure ya do,” Max nodded, dripping merrily on Aunt Petunias hall carpet. “But your god-father signed the letter months ago. He was planning to go with you, some kind of surprise I think. So all the formalities are in order. We just need ya, and any stuff ya want to bring.”
Max might as well have slapped him in the face with one of his wet flight gloves, but Harry just winced at the mention of Sirius.

But it didn’t take him long to make up his mind. With or without his god-father, he’d rather be anywhere but here, with the Dursleys and whatever was nearby. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat, as he realised, that somewhere, out there, just beyond the threshold was someone or something, which had nearly made his head explode.
But he was willing to take that risk. He told Maximilliam to wait for him, and 20 minutes later he was dragging his trunk and Hedwigs cage down to the hall, one thudding stair at a time. He went into the sterile, detergent smelling kitchen, were Aunt Petunias coffee had turned cold, and left the Dursleys a note.
“Okay, I’m ready,” he told Max, as he returned to the hall-way. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Welll, first we’re going down to the park, where the rest of your group is waiting,” Max explained and opened the door. The storm had been laying in wait, and ambushed the pair as they stepped out into the stormy night, with all the mad howling winds and cold rain which the storm could muster. “Here, lemme help you with that.”
He stuck Hedwig’s cage into Harry’s arms, and lifted the trunk, and so the odd pair started down Pivet Drive, to the small park nearby.

When they finally got there, Harry was sopping wet, his hair sticking to his forehead, and it was raining so hard, you could almost drown just by breathing. The misty orange street-lights seemed like far away sleepy dragon-eyes, and the scent of wet grass was almost overwhelming. Tree branches whipped here and there like angry snakes, and the wind hurled leaves, old newspapers and whatever else it could find in trashcans hard against trunks, lamppost and wary travellers.
“What are we looking for?” yelled Harry, and peeled a damp piece of paper from his face. The wind glared at the impudent teen-ager, and slapped him on the cheek with a leaf instead.
The captain had stopped, and held a hand to his brow, and scanned the area, as if he was shielding his eyes from the sun. He muttered something to himself, while Harry rubbed his cheek, which had a perfect red leaf-shaped mark on it.
“Ah!” Max said with a broad white grin. Harry turned to see the captain tugging at a robe ladder, and his gaze went up higher and higher.

Mercilessly a flash of lightening slashed the blue-black cloud-blanket, like a sword cutting through a dark sheet, and Harry could see a gigantic silvery airship, clearly illuminated against the blackness behind it.
It was hovering, as if held by magic, perfectly still, impervious to the wild storm. Then darkness fell again to the rolling peal of thunder, and harry turned to Max.
He had stopped tugging the ladder, after two rope-ends had fallen from the darkness above, and he was tying the end of a thick one to Harry’s trunk, while Hedwig was hooting rather nervously. Max seemed oblivious to the owl’s protests and tied a thin line to her cage, tugged at both robes, and trunk and owl both ascended into the air.
Then Max started up the rope-ladder, and Harry, thinking he’d done crazier things in his life, shrugged and followed. Someone had done something or other to the ladder, for it was only swaying slightly from side to side, as he climbed it.

A moment later a strong hand grapped his arm and tugged him up into a small cabin. “heave ho! heave away!” Max sang merrily, sat Harry down on his trunk, and closed the hatch. Then he turned, grabbed a copper-coloured pipe and yelled: ”All onboard, weigh the anchor.”
“Welcome onboard, Harry Potter,” Max said with a huge grin, saluted him and vanished through a small door.
The room was held in dark wood, with decorations made in copper, bronze and brass, and some very old instruments that seemed to indicate temperature, pressure, humidity Harry also noted a metre for dragon density and one for cloud moods.
He peered down at Hedwig, who seemed to be just as wet as he was, and scowling evilly at the wall. Suddenly the room started moving with a sudden jerk, knocking over Hedwig’s cage, and nearly sending Harry tumbling down from the cage.
He got down on his knees and turned the cage back up-right, to a series of very annoyed sounds from the white bird inside, who sounded like she was trying to scold someone or other.
“Ah, Mr. Potter, there you are.” Harry spun around, that crisp voice could only belong to one person.
“Professor McGonagall?”
“Ah, yes. At least last time I checked,” answered the prim-looking witch, and pushed her glasses back up on her pointy nose. She was clad in her usual black Hogwart robes, along with some dashes of clan-tartan.
“I understand that you didn’t receive the letter,” McGonagall continued, and threw a glance at Hedwig. “So let me fill you in, Mr. Potter. Onboard this airship are 30 of your class-mates from Hogwarts, who chose to go in this trip. Your god-father decided, that this would be the one for you, since it takes us so far away from England, that he would’ve been able to accompany you. The school-teachers on this trip, aside from myself, are professor Snape, and our guides are Bill Wesley, professor Dumbledore, and Alistair Malfoy. Yes, Draco Malfoys uncle, Mr. Potter. The young Mr. Malfoys is present as well as some of his friends. I’m confident you’ll be pleased to hear, that your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are onboard as well.”
Harry’s head was begin to spin. One hour ago he’d been lying flat on his back in his room on Pivet drive. Now he was onboard a magical airship, with his friends.
“Where… where are we going?”
“Egypt, Mr. Potter. We’re going to Egypt.”

Neon> Do you mind if I copy this to my comp and make a print-out?

Not at all. More will follow later.

“Egypt?”, Harry echoed after a few seconds, in which the only sound was the wind howling like a banshee outside the gondola.
“Yes, Mr. Potter,” McGonnagal replied dryly. “You know, deserts, pyramids, land of the pharaohs.”

Harry wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn the black-robed witch had a glimmer in her eyes. For a moment he thought about telling her that his scar had hurt so bad earlier, that it had made him faint, but there were a million other questions he also wanted to ask.
“What’s been going on with Voldemort and the Death-Eaters,” he spurted out.

McGonnagal grimaced and pushed her glasses up on her nose with a finger. “We’ll talk about that later, Mr. Potter. Right now we need to get your luggage to the storage-room, then we’ll begin the briefing. You’re the last student we picked up.”

“Won’t the muggles notices… this?”, Harry tried, gesturing with his hands.
“It comes with it’s own invisibility engine, Mr. Potter. Come now. They’re all waiting.”
He picked up his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, and started after the professor, as she opened the side-door, and started up a small flight of stairs.
“But… but, professor?”

He wanted to know how the Order of the Phoenix was faring, what was going on with Azkaban and the dementors. But professor McGonnagal held up a hand and led him through several narrow corridors, covered with worn red carpets and lined with dark wooden panels.

He put his luggage in with everyone elses, and let Hewig out in a special animal transportation room. It was filled with the hooting of owls, croaking of frogs and creaking of rats, and lined with perches.
Harry then followed professor McGonnagal through up a small metal flight of stairs to a large lounge. It was elliptic, in several levels connected by wide stairs and with it’s windows and walls sloping slightly outwards. The dark ominous clouds rushed by like black-blue cliffs, once in a while lit by a startlig flash of lightening. Rain slammed against the windows, and made almost horizontal lines on the glass.
Everywhere stood small tables with white cloths, candles and flowers, surrounded by Art Deco palms in large urns. Seated around the tables were 30 soon to be sixth graders from Hogwarts.

An odd odour, like a blend between ozone and wood permeated the lounge, and somewhere he could hear a scratched old LP playing.
Right next to where he entered was a gigantic fire-place. Figures of air spirits seemed to come up from the wall, and bend and twist to form the opening in which a bright blue fire crackled happily, once in a while sending of cascades of sparks in all the colours of the rainbow.
Professor Snape was sitting in one of three large comfortable maroon armchairs by the fire, and reading a book. In the other sat a tall, intimidating man, with white hair, white eyebrows and eyelashes and an equally white goatee. He had the exact same pointy face as Draco and Lucius, and Harry made an educated guess, that this was Alistair. He was dressed in a darkgreen robe with silver lining and black boots, and on one finger he sported a large ring.

“Harry!” A mop of red hair dashed through the clutter of chairs, and a few second later Ron came running up to him, giving Harry a friendly hug.
“Hey, Ron,” Harry said, smiling broadly, but before he could say anything else, Hermione was pushing Ron aside to hug him, followed by Ginny, Neville Longbottom was shaking his hand vigorously, while Angelina Johnson padded him on the back, and Dean Thomas gave him a friendly fist to his shoulder.
“Settle down, please,” Professor McGonnagals voice rose over the exitement.

“Come on,” Ron said in a hushed voice. “We’re sitting over here, mate. This is just the coolest place, you won’t believe what the…”
“Now, please, Mr. Weasley,” McGonnagal added, putting an emphasis on Ron’s last name. The Gryffindor students made their way over the their tables, and Harry finally had a chance to see who else were onboard.
Harry caught sight of Draco, sitting with his goons, Crabbe and Goyle. The two of them looked as if they were rivalling Dudley for size. Pansy Parkison was sticking her head together with two of her usual friends, and judging from the ensuing fit of giggles, tehy’d probably either commented on Ginny’s red hair, or Hermiones bushy mane.
They passed the gathering of Hufflepuff tables, and then the Ravenclaws. Luna Lovegood smiled dreamily over the rim of her magazine, sitting next to Cho. She was just looking better than ever, and Harry was pleased to note, that his stomach just did a small flip, and didn’t threaten to leave his insides.

“Now,” professor McGonnagal continued as they’d seated themselves. “As you all know, this trip is part of your sixth year History of Magic exams. Your fellow students chose either France, Romania or China, but you’ll all have to write a paper.” She looked around over the rim of her glasses at the moaning this message aroused. “In a few hours we’ll land outside Alexandria, and from there we’ll travel down south. The goal of this excursion is to visit the famous temple of Anubis, the ancient Egyptian Guide of the Dead to the Underworld.
Our guides are professor Snape and an expert on ancient Egyptian magic, doctor Alistair Malfoy. Due to the current state of affairs, the Ministry of Magic has instructed us to keep our students safe from harm. Therefore a special team of Aurors awaits us in Alexandria.
I hope you’re all hungry, as dinner is served.”

McGonnagal snapped her fingers, and just like at Hogwarts, the small tables filled with a variety of foods. Chicken-roast, fried sausages, mashed potatoes, peas and corn, gravy and stewed rhubarb.
“Man, I’m starving,” Ron groaned and reached for the chicken. “How was your summer Harry?”
“Same as always,” Harry answered absentmindedly. Hermione poured them all some ginger ale from a large slender carafe and arched a brow in concern. “You look at little pale, Harry.”
In fact Harry wasn’t really paying too much attention to the meal or his friends, even though he was very happy to be with them again. He couldn’t get the ‘guide of the dead’ out of his mind, which was once again back to the topic of Sirius.
“Mave mur mar meen mactin’ mup?” Ron asked with his mouth full.
“Eh, what… oh, sorry,” Harry replied and poked at the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“Oh, Ron, that’s disgusting,” Hermione said and wrinkled her nose.
Ron swallowed and wiggled his brows. “Do you think they have house-elves making the food onboard this airship as well?”
“Yes, they do,” said Ginny and waved a small pamphlet in her hand. On the front it read
’Captain Maximillian: Truly magic Tours’, and it had a picture of him in front of his ship, illuminated by a setting sun.
Hermione just rolled her eyes.
“Well, actually,” Harry muttered, and glanced over his shoulder at the back of the chair seating Alistair. “Just a few hours ago, my scar hurt so badly it made me faint.”
“Have you been practising Occlumency?” Hermione asked and combed her hair from her eyes with a hand.
Harry just nodded, and took a bite of mashed potatoes. And realised that he, too, was starving. “Have your parents and Percy made up yet?”
Ron shook his head: ”Not even close, mate. You’d have thought that Percy would’ve admitted to being wrong after Voldemorts return was made clear and all. But he’s worse than ever. He hasn’t visited mum or dad once this summer. Says that he’s too busy.”
“If you ask me he’s just too stuck-up to admit that he was wrong,” Ginny grumbled.
“Yeah, well… he can just…,” Ron spat under his breath, and helped himself to a second serving of chicken.

Suddenly the clinking and chinking of cutlery and the buzzing of voices seemed to fade. Harry’s eyes widened. He’d just caught sight of a Thestral, gliding slowly and majestically, like a dark omen of death outside the windows of the lounge. Actually it wasn’t just one. They were all, and there must’ve been at least fifty, defying the storm, and seemed to be following the airship.

So where's the part where they run into Jack, Sam,Tilk, Jonas and Daniel?
Sorry, Temple of Anubis, very Stargate Sg-1... 😉

MORE..MORE....WHERE'S THE REST?

wow this just like reading the 6th book! good work!!!!! 😄 🙂 😄

Hope nobody minds me moving this to the fan-fiction area.

Moving...

I'll let this one stay. It's actually a story, rather than a carry-on...

but it was moved just like others have been...why?

Because they don't belong in the Harry Potter section. The HP section is for discussion of the books and movies. As writing projects, they belong in the Fiction section, as this one is.

The others that were moved here went to the RPG section, because they were carry-ons.

NEON......WHERE'VE YOU BEEN? THIS WAS A GREAT STORY.......NO RUSH OF COURSE

thats great! keep goin!

cum on wheres neon... keep goin!

cum on... no offence to da other people who rote harry potter fan fics but this one is the best i've read so far... you and the one made by qwerty. but hey, now that i've sed dat... maybe other people will try to make great fan fics ✅

Hey Neon, your writing style is just like Rowlings, but just add a bit of humour next time, and how come Cho and Ginny are in the ship? They are not in 6th year man. Anyway, your story is pretty good actually, and please, please write a part where Snape insults Sirius infront of Harry (in a secluded area so that McGonagol won't hear him) which makes Harry so mad that he does something very horrible to Snape (maybe the Cruciatus curse) but Ron and Hermione happens to be the there, and they put the memory charm on Snape, which makes him froget, but the pain remains there for several days to come.
Anyway, I really don't like that 'back flip thingy' in the pit of Harry's stomach when he sees Cho, make her disappear, and be sure to hook up Ginny with Harry.