I don't own anything... please, please don't sue me! (I don't have anything to give anyways!)
An oppressive mist settled over the town of Surrey. Harry Potter, in the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, walked over to the window and stared moodily at the dim sky, remembering his godfather, Sirius Black, and his wise words. In fact, Sirius had told him one of the more important truths of life: "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, walk a mile in his shoes; that way, you have his shoes and you're a mile away."
Morosely, Harry returned to bed. He had been trying to communicate with Ron Weasley, his best friend, over the summer, but his responses were terse and unsatisfying. Ron seemed distressed and preoccupied with something. So, Harry had left him alone, and wrote instead to his other best friend, Hermione Granger, only to discover that Hermione had changed rather frightfully. Her letters made consistent references to flowers and parties. She sent him a picture of herself, and Harry was shocked to discover that she had shingled her hair and dyed it to just that terrifying shade of blonde. She was wearing blood coloured lipstick and pearls, as well. As soon as Harry saw the pearls, he decided to stop writing to Hermione, in fear for his own sanity. Perhaps they were both acting strangely because they had been attached for so many years, and something had finally come of that attachment.
So he beat on, like a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past with fond memories of being with his so-called friends in Hogwarts. He remembered Hagrid's rock cakes, Quidditch, getting in trouble, the wonderful food, the comfortable dorm rooms, and even felt a pang from missing lessons.
However, Harry soon had to stop being a boat against the current, because he received a strange letter from a strange owl. Harry was surprised at this - he had lost contact with all wizards and witches, it was the middle of July; who would want to speak to him? Leaping up from the bed, he grabbed the letter from the owl, and sent it off unceremoniously. Opening the letter, he read:
It is the pleasure of Neville Longbottom to invite you to his residence in London for a dinner party, in a week from today.
Harry was now utterly bemused. Longbottom, throwing a party? He would have to attend, just to see the spectacle of it. And so, with mind decided, he plunged into being a boat against the current with renewed vigour and enthusiasm.
The days slipped by, one by one. The oppressive heat of the summer had addled the Dursley's brains, it seemed, for they were rowing all the time. Dudley Dursley sat in the living room the entire time, his enormous white shorts billowing; the poor sofa buoying up his elephantine body. Something had wrought quite a change in Dudley, for he always seemed to be staring at the swing set outside, in the park. Sometimes, he would walk eerily through the mist to the park, touch the swing set as if to confirm its existence, and walk back home, muttering in wonder, "It's really real!"
Finally, the day of Neville Longbottom's big party dawned. Harry woke early, and dressed rather well for the occasion. He left the house quickly, before anybody could question him, and caught the early bus, only to discover that Neville was practically his neighbour, living in the more posh area in Magnolia Crescent. Neville's house was magnificent; in all its shining splendor and colourfulness it resembled a circus tent. But a circus tent it was not. Jaunty dance music played loudly throughout the lawn, and Harry discovered with pleasure that the Weird Sisters were playing. Many young witches and wizards were dancing in the backyard, which seemed to be well-protected by a series of enchantments. The tables scattered haphazardly amidst the dancers groaned loudly with the weight of assortments of candy, chocolate, and fudge, apparently all from the cellars of Honeyduke's wonderful shop. Harry looked around eagerly for anyone he might know, and immediately spotted Ginny Weasley.
Ginny Weasley looked like she was balancing something on her chin. Evidently, her fame as the present Seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team was doing much for her self-esteem and pride. She greeted Harry with a curt nod, and joined him at his lonely table, as she did not have anything better to do. Longbottom was to be seen nowhere, but nobody seemed to care. Everybody did care, though. There were so many whispered conversations about the enigmatic host, and rumours were spread that Longbottom was known to use the three illegal curses quite liberally, or that he was responsible for the death of a Death Eater down at the Department of Mysteries just one month ago.
Presently, he stood up, quite intoxicated by the rum-flavoured fudge he had been devouring, recalling vaguely that rum-flavored fudge was illegal. He desperately wanted to meet Neville, whom he had heard so much about; and inquire about the sudden changes to Neville's lifestyle. With a light frown of thought clouding his face, he walked slowly around the grounds, finally stopping at a delightful fish pond located in a private area of the Longbottom estate. It was there that he found Neville Longbottom, standing straight, staring into the pond. Harry looked into the pond, and saw a large, ugly green plant, much resembling the cactus that Neville had once used to squirt Bubotuber pus on Harry.
With a start, Neville came out of his reveries, and eyed Harry. "How are you, Harry, old sport? Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Harry looked at the sky. Threatening grey clouds loomed in the horizon to the east. In the west, the sun was setting, and a couple of stars had come out. The fading sunlight filtered through the water of Neville's fish pond, illuminating the ugly green cactus, which seemed to be moving. Harry looked curiously at the cactus, and turned to Neville.
Neville sighed dreamily. "Something very sad happened to me a long time ago. I try to forget." He gazed intently at the cactus. "So like that cactus, reaching for the sunlight, I reach for better days. I want tomorrow to be better than today. That will be all, Harry. Oh, and would you please send Ginny Weasley to the fish pond. I should like to talk to her about something of a private nature."
Rather miffed at this abrupt dismissal, Harry stood up and went to get Ginny. Having done this, he observed the rest of the people at the party. All the prominent, "in-crowd"wizards were present: Susan Bones, the niece of Amelia Bones, head of the Wizengamot court, Parvati and Padma Patil, the leading pioneers of Hogwart's fashion design, Terry Boot, second only to Hermione in mental capabilities, Hannah Abbot, who wasn't special in any special way, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and many others. All of them donned splendidly fashioned dress robes, each seeming to compete with the other. Everybody was dancing.
Harry stared glumly at the crowd and waited for something to happen. An hour later, Ginny finally reappeared at his side, her cheeks red, and eyes moist. "It's crazy, Harry. You wouldn't believe it. But, I mustn't tempt you so."
Getting the feeling that nobody loved him, Harry felt stifled at the party. Ginny asked him to owl her soon. Nodding at her, he left the party feeling depressed. The moon was out. The stars twinkled merrily in the sky, all winking at him as if they held a secret that Harry wasn't special enough to know. Silhouetted against the dim, harsh light of the moon, Neville Longbottom stood, still staring at the fish pond.
Life soon went back to normal for Harry. The days were monotonous, and so were the nights. Aunt Petunia fed him toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner, sometimes feeling generous enough to add a thin slice of cheese. And suddenly, breaking into this monotone, was another letter, this one from Ginny Weasley.
Dear Harry, I have a request to make on behalf of Neville Longbottom. Would you be willing to invite Hermione Granger to Mr. Longbottom's house for tea (and of course you will be invited, there will obviously be tea, and hot buttered crumpets)?
Harry had to admit that the prospect of hot, buttered crumpets was quite enticing. He, therefore, steeled his nerve, and started writing a letter to Hermione.
The T-Day, as Harry liked to call it, dawned inauspiciously with menacing grey clouds laden with rain covering the sky. Harry felt a sort of impending doom that made his spine tingle, with anticipation for the unknown.
An oppressive mist settled over the town of Surrey. Harry Potter, in the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, walked over to the window and stared moodily at the dim sky, remembering his godfather, Sirius Black, and his wise words. In fact, Sirius had told him one of the more important truths of life: "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, walk a mile in his shoes; that way, you have his shoes and you're a mile away."
Morosely, Harry returned to bed. He had been trying to communicate with Ron Weasley, his best friend, over the summer, but his responses were terse and unsatisfying. Ron seemed distressed and preoccupied with something. So, Harry had left him alone, and wrote instead to his other best friend, Hermione Granger, only to discover that Hermione had changed rather frightfully. Her letters made consistent references to flowers and parties. She sent him a picture of herself, and Harry was shocked to discover that she had shingled her hair and dyed it to just that terrifying shade of blonde. She was wearing blood coloured lipstick and pearls, as well. As soon as Harry saw the pearls, he decided to stop writing to Hermione, in fear for his own sanity. Perhaps they were both acting strangely because they had been attached for so many years, and something had finally come of that attachment.
So he beat on, like a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past with fond memories of being with his so-called friends in Hogwarts. He remembered Hagrid's rock cakes, Quidditch, getting in trouble, the wonderful food, the comfortable dorm rooms, and even felt a pang from missing lessons.
However, Harry soon had to stop being a boat against the current, because he received a strange letter from a strange owl. Harry was surprised at this - he had lost contact with all wizards and witches, it was the middle of July; who would want to speak to him? Leaping up from the bed, he grabbed the letter from the owl, and sent it off unceremoniously. Opening the letter, he read:
It is the pleasure of Neville Longbottom to invite you to his residence in London for a dinner party, in a week from today.
Harry was now utterly bemused. Longbottom, throwing a party? He would have to attend, just to see the spectacle of it. And so, with mind decided, he plunged into being a boat against the current with renewed vigour and enthusiasm.
The days slipped by, one by one. The oppressive heat of the summer had addled the Dursley's brains, it seemed, for they were rowing all the time. Dudley Dursley sat in the living room the entire time, his enormous white shorts billowing; the poor sofa buoying up his elephantine body. Something had wrought quite a change in Dudley, for he always seemed to be staring at the swing set outside, in the park. Sometimes, he would walk eerily through the mist to the park, touch the swing set as if to confirm its existence, and walk back home, muttering in wonder, "It's really real!"
Finally, the day of Neville Longbottom's big party dawned. Harry woke early, and dressed rather well for the occasion. He left the house quickly, before anybody could question him, and caught the early bus, only to discover that Neville was practically his neighbour, living in the more posh area in Magnolia Crescent. Neville's house was magnificent; in all its shining splendor and colourfulness it resembled a circus tent. But a circus tent it was not. Jaunty dance music played loudly throughout the lawn, and Harry discovered with pleasure that the Weird Sisters were playing. Many young witches and wizards were dancing in the backyard, which seemed to be well-protected by a series of enchantments. The tables scattered haphazardly amidst the dancers groaned loudly with the weight of assortments of candy, chocolate, and fudge, apparently all from the cellars of Honeyduke's wonderful shop. Harry looked around eagerly for anyone he might know, and immediately spotted Ginny Weasley.
Ginny Weasley looked like she was balancing something on her chin. Evidently, her fame as the present Seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team was doing much for her self-esteem and pride. She greeted Harry with a curt nod, and joined him at his lonely table, as she did not have anything better to do. Longbottom was to be seen nowhere, but nobody seemed to care. Everybody did care, though. There were so many whispered conversations about the enigmatic host, and rumours were spread that Longbottom was known to use the three illegal curses quite liberally, or that he was responsible for the death of a Death Eater down at the Department of Mysteries just one month ago.
Presently, he stood up, quite intoxicated by the rum-flavoured fudge he had been devouring, recalling vaguely that rum-flavored fudge was illegal. He desperately wanted to meet Neville, whom he had heard so much about; and inquire about the sudden changes to Neville's lifestyle. With a light frown of thought clouding his face, he walked slowly around the grounds, finally stopping at a delightful fish pond located in a private area of the Longbottom estate. It was there that he found Neville Longbottom, standing straight, staring into the pond. Harry looked into the pond, and saw a large, ugly green plant, much resembling the cactus that Neville had once used to squirt Bubotuber pus on Harry.
With a start, Neville came out of his reveries, and eyed Harry. "How are you, Harry, old sport? Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Harry looked at the sky. Threatening grey clouds loomed in the horizon to the east. In the west, the sun was setting, and a couple of stars had come out. The fading sunlight filtered through the water of Neville's fish pond, illuminating the ugly green cactus, which seemed to be moving. Harry looked curiously at the cactus, and turned to Neville.
Neville sighed dreamily. "Something very sad happened to me a long time ago. I try to forget." He gazed intently at the cactus. "So like that cactus, reaching for the sunlight, I reach for better days. I want tomorrow to be better than today. That will be all, Harry. Oh, and would you please send Ginny Weasley to the fish pond. I should like to talk to her about something of a private nature."
Rather miffed at this abrupt dismissal, Harry stood up and went to get Ginny. Having done this, he observed the rest of the people at the party. All the prominent, "in-crowd"wizards were present: Susan Bones, the niece of Amelia Bones, head of the Wizengamot court, Parvati and Padma Patil, the leading pioneers of Hogwart's fashion design, Terry Boot, second only to Hermione in mental capabilities, Hannah Abbot, who wasn't special in any special way, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and many others. All of them donned splendidly fashioned dress robes, each seeming to compete with the other. Everybody was dancing.
Harry stared glumly at the crowd and waited for something to happen. An hour later, Ginny finally reappeared at his side, her cheeks red, and eyes moist. "It's crazy, Harry. You wouldn't believe it. But, I mustn't tempt you so."
Getting the feeling that nobody loved him, Harry felt stifled at the party. Ginny asked him to owl her soon. Nodding at her, he left the party feeling depressed. The moon was out. The stars twinkled merrily in the sky, all winking at him as if they held a secret that Harry wasn't special enough to know. Silhouetted against the dim, harsh light of the moon, Neville Longbottom stood, still staring at the fish pond.
Life soon went back to normal for Harry. The days were monotonous, and so were the nights. Aunt Petunia fed him toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner, sometimes feeling generous enough to add a thin slice of cheese. And suddenly, breaking into this monotone, was another letter, this one from Ginny Weasley.
Dear Harry, I have a request to make on behalf of Neville Longbottom. Would you be willing to invite Hermione Granger to Mr. Longbottom's house for tea (and of course you will be invited, there will obviously be tea, and hot buttered crumpets)?
Harry had to admit that the prospect of hot, buttered crumpets was quite enticing. He, therefore, steeled his nerve, and started writing a letter to Hermione.
The T-Day, as Harry liked to call it, dawned inauspiciously with menacing grey clouds laden with rain covering the sky. Harry felt a sort of impending doom that made his spine tingle, with anticipation for the unknown.