Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

“It wasn’t me! It was a couple of dementors!”
<…>“And what the ruddy hell are dementors?”
“They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban,” said Aunt Petunia.
Two seconds’ ringing silence followed these words and then Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word. Uncle Vernon was goggling at her. Harry’s brain reeled. Mrs. Figg was one thing — but Aunt Petunia?

“The second one was from my friend Ron’s dad, he works at the Ministry.”
“Ministry of Magic?” bellowed Uncle Vernon. “People like you in government? Oh this explains everything, everything, no wonder the country’s going to the dogs . . .”

His mind was racing. . . .
<…>
“Right,” Harry said, “I’ve changed my mind, I’m staying.”

Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. There was only one thing for it. He would have to run — now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn’t know, but he was certain of one thing: At Hogwarts or outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to leave the kitchen.

“Get out of the way,” said Harry quietly.
“You’re going to stay here and explain how my son —”
“If you don’t get out of the way I’m going to jinx you,” said Harry, raising the wand.
<…>. “I know you’re not allowed to use it outside that madhouse you call a school!”
“The madhouse has chucked me out,” said Harry. “So I can do whatever I like.

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon’s head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, and turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.

“What did he do to you, Diddy?” <…>. “Was it — was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use — his thing?”
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.

he was still very green and clammy looking.

“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.

“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.