After blowing up his Aunt Marge, Harry Potter was pretty sure he had nothing left to lose. Gathering up his meagre belongings from his cupboard under the stairs and where they had be strewn about his bedroom, he had little time to think of what he could do next. After his first warning the year before when Dobby the house elf had magicked a pudding on top of one of Uncle Vernon's client's wife's head, he had been warned that his next misstep would result in his expulsion from Hogwart's school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Still, he thought as he retrieved his homework and birthday presents from where they were hidden under a loose floorboard, even if he couldn't go back to Hogwarts anymore, there had to be something for him to do that wasn't here. If he couldn't do magic anymore, at the very least he could choose to go not do magic as far away from the Dursley's and number four as possible. Hagrid had been expelled his third year, and while groundskeeping wouldn't be Harry's first choice in professions, at least Hagrid got to stay at Hogwarts.

By the time he was out the door, dodging Uncle Vernon's cries for him to 'Put her back!' Harry had a half formulated plan. He would write to Dumbledore and ask to be put on as the assistant groundskeeper. His only problem was that he had sent Hedwig away for the duration of Marge's stay, so getting that letter out might be somewhat of a problem. He had told her that she needed to be gone for a week, and it had only been two days since Marge's arrival. Two days of her had been enough to do what the entire horrible summer at the Dursley's had been unable to cause.

Dragging his heavy trunk behind him down Magnolia Crescent quickly used up most of the angry adrenaline that his running away had provided, and soon he was too tired to continue marching angrily into the darkness of the cool summer night without any idea where he was actually going. He had no idea how to get to Hogwarts from here, or really anywhere. Surry wasn't exactly the epicenter of magical activity after all. Instead of wasting more energy on a fruitless task, Harry dropped his trunk on the pavement and sat down on it heavily, blowing his sweaty fringe out of his eyes and forcefully rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

Never before had he blown up at Aunt Marge. Her insinuations, or rather, bold accusations of his parents as well as his personal habits had never managed to get such a rise out of him. He wasn't sure if being aware of his magic made it more likely to do his bidding, and thus subjected him to more embarrassing bouts of accidental magic, or if the mere fact of finally knowing that his parents were good and had loved him had tied them more closely with his emotional state, making the defamation of their character more likely to cause his own angry outburst.

As he was thinking about these things, a sudden movement distracted Harry from his wallowing and attracted his gaze to a large section of shrubbery across the street. Without a thought, Harry whipped out his wand. He was already going to be expelled for the magic back at number four; it wasn't like he could get more expelled by defending himself.

Before he could speak any of the spells that weren't coming to his mind, a huge triple decker bus interrupted his line of sight to the dark figure lurking across the way., its sudden arrival knocking Harry to the ground.

"Hello, my name is Stan Shunpike, welcome to the Knight Bus, transportation for any stranded witch or wizard." The spotty young man had gotten out before he had noticed that there was no one standing, waiting for the bus. He scanned the street, right to left, before finally looking down to where Harry was lying. "Whachoo doin' on the ground then?" he blurted out, professional demeanor forgotten.

"I fell," Harry said, obviously.

"Whad ya do that for?" Stan seemed genuinely curious, as if lying on the ground and calling public transportation was some new fad that he didn't want to miss.

"Well I didn't do it on purpose," Harry grumbled. He struggled to his feet, tripping a bit over his hand-me-down trousers which had gotten twisted over his too-big-trainers. Stan didn't deign to help him, which led to a bit of an awkward silence as Harry got himself sorted and Stan just stood there watching. When Harry was finally vertical and had a handle on his belongings, Stan spoke again.

"It's 11 sickles for a ride anywhere you want to go, on land of course, we don't do underwater, and 15 sickles for a hot chocolate and a toothbrush." Harry followed him onto the bus, taking in the mismatched beds placed haphazardly across the Bus. It was unlike any public transport Harry had ever taken, but then, Harry had very little experience with wizard forms of transportation.

"Woss yer name anyway?" Stan once again broke from his rehearsed script to inquire after the strange little wizard in the dumpy muggle clothes.

"Neville," Harry blurted, "Just Neville." He had almost been about to attach a very long last name to his lie, but before he could Harry realized that he did not actually know who knew whom in the Wizarding World. For all he knew, Stan could be the real Neville's cousin, and frequently popped 'round for tea.

"Well then, young Neville, come on in." With that invitation, Harry hauled his trunk up the steps into the bright purple, triple decker bus. Seating himself on one of the many mismatched beds, he fished some wizarding money out of his trunk, and handed it to Stan. Stan received payment absentmindedly, as he was already resuming a conversation with the driver, Ernie, an elderly old man with thick glasses.

Harry lay back on the bed, letting the conversation wash over him, and allowed a himself a moment of relief before BANG! The bus lurched into a ridiculous speed, nearly throwing Harry from the comfortable bed. He managed to hook one of his feet over the edge, all thoughts leaving him as he clung for his life.

They stopped somewhere in Wales to let a witch off, and the next time they started, Harry had started to get the hang of things. He was still unable to focus on anything other than keeping his dinner inside of his stomach until he noticed a rather familiar face on Stan's open copy of the Daily Prophet.

"I've seen him," Harry managed, over the roiling of his belly. "He's all over the muggle news."

"Course he was," Stan scoffed. "Where you been Neville?" He extracted the section that had captured Harry's attention and casually handed it over. "Should read more papers, you should."

Harry carelessly thanked him, hooking one arm around the brass bed post. His mind was already on the man in the paper.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

"We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

"Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it — who'd believe him if he did?"

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse. [1]

Harry gasped in a large breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The man in the picture looked like he belonged in some sort of gothic horror story. His long, dark hair was lank and matted, his eyes sunken and mad looking. His skin was pale and waxy, and his smile was the stuff of nightmares. Harry shuddered.

"E's mad," Stan confirmed, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "Spent the last twelve years in Azkaban, 'swat happens to everyone."

"What's Azkaban?" Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Wizard Prison. Nasty place. Wot's where they put anyone on the wrong side of the MLE."

"So, it's just a jail?"

"Jest a jail? Ha, hear that Ern?" Stan crowed, causing the man in the bed in the corner to snort and mumble something about slugs. "Naw, mate, Azkaban is guarded by Dementors." Both Stan and Ernie shuddered at that.

Harry wondered if he should be asking, "What are Dememtors?" but the words were already out of his mouth before he could instil caution.

"Dementors, well, no one really knows wot they are." Stan turned a bit white under his pimples. "They suck the happiness out of a place, that's fer sure. Anyone who stays there, longer than a few mo's? Crazy. Bat-shit insane, if you don't mind me sayin'."

Harry gulped. Currently, he was on the wrong side of the wizarding law. He was on the run. "Talk abou' somethin' else Stan," Ernie changed the subject, "Bloomin things give me the collywobbles."

Stan turned the conversation back to Sirius Black, the man in the article, for it was clear that the subject was rife with gossip, and Stan was a lover of gossip. Harry let him speak; absorbing the information he was freely granted while trying to decide what to do. Surprisingly, despite Harry's considerable fame, not one of the people had questioned his identity as Neville, the lost boy from Surry. Catching a glimpse of himself in the bus windows, Harry realized why.

He tried not to visibly react to the sight of his classmate staring back at him from his own, almond shaped eyes. His hair was brown, and for once in his life, lying flat. His nose was longer, and his distinctive eyes had faded to a warm hazel. He was still skinny, and a little more angular, but without his most distinctive features drawing attention to him, his scar was almost unperceivable. He looked like Neville Longbottom's long lost brother.

Harry Loved Magic.

[1] Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban