This is based upon my love for Owl City (and the brilliant song of which I have titled this) and Harry Potter of course, so I'd love any reviews, thanks! There'll be a couple of chapters, about five, so I'll update as soon as I can!

That's what I had promised Ron. I told him I'd be in Diagon Alley, the day before we were supposed to head off to the Burrow again, like he said. Harry's coming in two days, supposedly, and I was going to get most of my books today. Why isn't anything going to plan?

Now I'm standing here, waiting. He always messing things up like this- didn't he get my owl? It's a simple predicement, if he forgot today of all days my parents had dropped me off in the Leaky Cauldron, and left me to fend for myself, he would realise soon enough. It's not like I told mum and dad that Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"He's useless."

I'm talking to myself. Why am I talking to myself? It's soliliquous of course, that when people talk to themselves they are speaking the truth. Ha, so Ron really is hopeless. I look up at the dusty old clock on the wall of the Leaky Cauldron, hanging above the bar. Ten minutes to two... maybe I'm being harsh, he's only running behind a little. I bet he's still asleep, dozy sod. I should get going, Tom, the barman, looks peeved off. Ah well.

I head to Diagon Alley, using the wall in the back of the pub. I smile to myself, knowing if Ron was here he wouldn't have a clue which bricks to tap. They slide apart simply, and I see that the street's quite busy today. Well it would be, in summer, everything's on offer now. Quidditch shop, darn, it's full. No way will I be able to buy Harry anything at the moment. I look down at my shoes, surprisingly unsuitable walking down a cobbled road, the heels of my suede boots clipping annoyingly against the stonework.

It's not a lucky day though, is it? Ron's not here. I can't get Harry's present. Oh, great. I gaze up to the grey clouds, hoping they have a silver lining, but yes, it's going to rain. In the middle of summer... how odd.

I Summon my coat from my bag, a velvety violet shade, that I wrap around me before rushing into Florian's Ice Cream Parlour, just across the street. Good thinking on my behalf, I'm pretty hungry...

Ice cream. One of the world's greatest inventions, in my book. And Florain must be the best man ever to make these... I look up at the board of different flavours, and realise there's more flavours this time... Acid Pops... eurgh, dangerous. Simple me, I choose vanilla, my favourite.

"Hey, could I get..."

I notice someone at the other end of the counter and trail off. If there was anyone with white blond hair and such an annoying smirk across his face, I would immediately know it was the almighty Draco Malfoy. Arrogant git. He's sitting alone, though he's not eating anything. Why aren't Crabbe and Goyle around? Even more odd, he always has his "henchmen" around to do his dirty work. He's looking at me, gosh, I bet he's going to come over and torment me any time now.

"Yes, dear?" Mr Florian is cleaning some sundae glasses behind the counter, smiling.

"Oh, sorry, vanilla, please. Two scoops."

I cross my arms, leaning against the glass ledge overlooking the ice creams, pretending to examine the drinks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see he's still there... What if Ron knew I'd met him today? Silly me, I haven't actually met him yet. He's just sitting on the barstool. Hmm, doesn't he know it's me? Well, my hair is surprisingly straight today.

"Eating outside? Here's your ice cream."

Good idea. Malfoy doesn't look in such a great mood, or at least not as content as he would be beating up some second-year student. Maybe it's his father. Of course it is... he must be upset over the news at the Mnistry. Merlin, what am I thinking? Am I pitying Malfoy, the greatest Pureblood supremacist of all time?

"Thanks."

I make my way over to a small table in the sun, just outside the parlour, noticing that most of the clouds have headed west, away from here. Wow, lucky me. I stretch, and smile, waiting for Ron still... another ten minutes, he is so in for it when I see him. Searing pain shoots through my ankle and I swear, which is extremely unlike me. I turn, to see Draco has kicked me before walking off. What the hell was that all about? Just out of anger, I grab my wand and shoot it in his direction, tying the laces of his shoes so he fell.

I smile, oh, how sadistic of me. I should help, no, he kicked me first, for a completely unprovoked reason. He turns, sitting on the ground as if he can't believe what I've just done. Or at least as if he knows I'll regret it, which I doubt.

"You should really treat others better, Mudblood, or you'll get a bad reputation."

He says this with a slight bitter tone as he picks himself off of the ground and walks over. I ignore his remark about my blood lineage.

"That makes two of us then." I reply, still smiling sweetly, dipping my spoon into the vanilla swirls of my sundae.

"Shut up and mind your own business." He stands by the table, looking down, blocking my sunlight.

"I was until you so rudely interrupted me. It's not as if anyone cares anymore what you think, you know. It was all over the papers about your stupid-"

He looks away, not listening to my rant, unsurprisingly. There's something on his mind. Should I ask?

"What's your problem then?"

"Family... why the hell would you care?"

"I don't. You just seem down. And no-one else will ever listen to you in this state."

I can't believe I just said that. How did I say that? And why exactly would I tell Granger about my problems? I must be ill, heatstroke or something. But she might understand...

"I hate my father, that's what."

"Hate's a strong word, you know." I say, trying not to look shocked.

"Well, it's true. I'm glad he's in Azkaban."

"Well, if that's all..."

"No, it's not." He interrupts, sitting down at the table, which really does shock me. "I've had it with everything. The Death Eaters, school, just- I don't have a clue why I'm telling you this, to be honest."

I seem to smile sympathetically... or at least that is what my mouth is doing. He has been through a lot, but I never thought he really had anything to do with Death Eaters. I just thought he was an arrogant-minded dolt.

She's smiling. Does she find this funny? Good. What the bloody hell am I actually doing?! If any Slytherins were here I'd be in for it, not that I care anymore... maybe I should keep talking.

"I'm sorry. I never thought-" I find myself babbling with compassion, as if I'm not even saying this all. How can I say sorry to him? "Look, I didn't mean for any of this to happen..."

"I know. It was Potter." He says bitterly, angrily looking down at his hands, avoiding my eye. "Even if he is your friend, he's a bastard."

"You might think that, and I might even think that occasionally, but you don't have to go into a huge rivalry against him, I mean, you're not a Death Eater, are you? I'd hate it if you were just to go against him, please. You really can't let Voldemort win this, Harry knows."

"What? So it's true? He really is the chosen one?" He says the last words in an equally sour voice, yet intrigued. He raises his eyebrows. Wow, he has the most amazingly silver eyes... What am I thinking?! I nod, trying not to blush. "No... I'm not a Death Eater..." Trailing off, he sits back in his chair, looking at me intently.

"The thing is, Ron said he'd be here by now... that's why I've been waiting here."

I check my watch, but find it pointless now, as I doubt he'll ever get here. Draco is about to stand up, as if not wanting to see Ron at any given moment. Well, of course he wouldn't. It's Ronald Weasley, for crying out loud. I pause, then get up and walk after him, putting a hand on his arm. I think he's smiling, or smirking, either way.

"You don't have to go, you know. Ron won't get here for ages, and I don't care anymore."

He turns his blond head back, and smiles genuinely. What am I playing at? Ron would have a hissy fit!

I sit back down, and offer him some of my icecream, which I don't think I want to eat anymore. I've lost my appetite. Strange...

He takes a spoon from the stand on the table and helps himself to a lump, and smiles mischieviously as he eats, like the cat who just got the cream, or ice cream at least. About to take another spoonful, he obliterates another scoop, but instead of eating it himself, he moves it towards my lips, slightly parted, and I oblige. I always wondered why vanilla was my favourite flavour.