Harry Potter and his world belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and re-read my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes and questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas, this being one of them.

Author's Note

Technically I'm currently working on Chapter 3 of "Through The Veil Strangely", except I got waylaid by a plot bunny, as you do. This one was really persistent and just wouldn't go away, and wouldn't be fobbed off with half measures either.

It started off something like this…we've all seen those fics where the Goblins, for various reasons, give Harry some super-duper credit or debit card so he can access his account(s) in the muggle world. But this is the Magical World, notorious for being very behind the times, and rather insular…so what if they gave him a cheque book instead…

It just spiralled out of control after that (sigh)…

A Little Warning

There's quite a bit of violence in this little story of mine, of a domestic abuse variety, so if you are of a delicate disposition I would recommend covering your eyes…now.

So What Is It Good For Anyway?

Harry looked at the long narrow book dubiously. Gringotts Bank, Cheque Book it proclaimed in gold lettering on the dark blue cover. He'd been hoping for one of those debit card thingies like Aunt Petunia had, maybe, they looked dead useful. But of course this was the Wizarding World, always at least sixty years behind everybody else. A nasty little thought occurred to him.

"Erm...does it come with a cheque guarantee card?" he asked the Potter account manager nervously. The goblin glared back from the other side of the expensive mahogany desk. "Guarantee card?" it sneered. "Some ridiculous muggle contraption no doubt. No, boy, this is it, the most modern method of finance available in the Magical r Muggle world. Take it or leave it."

oOo

What the heck was he supposed to do with a cheque book? Harry thought as he sloped down Diagon Alley, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in his school cloak and a giant hooded t-shirt in a particularly nasty shade of orange. Dudley had worn it approximately once before gifting it to Harry with a spiteful smirk.

Fortunately, everybody seemed far too preoccupied with their own troubles to take much notice of his outlandish getup.

So what could he do with a cheque book without a guarantee card? Regular shops were out, which left mail-order. He winced at the thought of Uncle Vernon intercepting something he'd ordered. That would earn him a slap around and several back-breaking chores at least, if he wasn't just locked away for the rest of the summer just out of hand...and where would he mail-order from, anyway?

He cursed the Dursleys and their life-long campaign of keeping him isolated from...well, just about anything, as he shuffled past the Apothecaries' display of pickled newt eyeballs (only nine knuts per scoop). It wasn't as if he had much experience of the Muggle world either, despite his living there for most of his life. Which of course meant that, ordinarily, there was absolutely nothing to distract him from the yawning black pit in his life. A black pit the exact size and shape of one shaggy disreputable looking animagus, and just like a sore tooth he just had to poke at it over and over again.

In sore (literally) need of distraction he had resorted to his usual remedy, an adventure, a muggle adventure for a change, where upon he had hit a significant snag. To do almost anything in the muggle world required money, anything out of the ordinary anyway. Hence his sneaking into Diagon Alley to talk to the goblins.

And now here he was, stuck with a near useless cheque book…problems, problems...

oOo

Yet again he was stuck inside in the stuffy house. Dudley and his friends had had a film night and sleep-over the previous evening, so naturally the living room looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind of sweet wrappers, crisps packets and drinks cans. He sighed heavily as he pulled a pop bottle out from where it had wedged itself under the sofa. Seriously, Dudley was just a heart attack waiting to happen.

Wiping his forehead with his already sweaty t-shirt, Harry paused in his drudgery. If only he could open a window, but he'd been forbidden and previous experience had shown him that dire retribution would follow if he disobeyed. So no, he was going to spend the day sweltering.

Groaning, he pulled the drift of magazines off the coffee table, gossip rag,

"...my aunt stole my inheritance and left me to starve..."

"…DOUBLE BETRAYAL! My mum stole my boyfriend and then my baby!"

"…lost ten stone on the chocolate diet and now my boyfriend won't have sex with me…"

Oh and another one, "...I was the victim of a date rape drug, and now I don't know who's the father of my baby!"

Harry sneered; what a load of rubbish, it could even give the Daily Prophet a run for its money. And Aunt Petunia thought the Wizarding World was stupid. Huh, muscle car magazine, well, Uncle Vernon could dream couldn't he? Harry sniggered at the thought of his corpulent uncle attempting to get in and out of one. Dumping them (tidily) in the magazine rack, he paused. What was this...oh, he'd forgotten about this.

The Brian Mills catalogue.

He looked around guiltily; he might not have another opportunity like this.

oOo

Harry rolled over in bed looking up at the shadowed ceiling with a sigh; there was no way he was going to get to sleep. Not with Sirius's death so recent. He scrubbed at his prickling eyes, he was just tired; it wasn't tears, not at all. Well he wasn't going to get to sleep like this was he, might as well do something constructive.

The catalogue was thick and heavy, resembling a phone book with how substantial it was. Harry couldn't believe he'd managed to pull this off, having snuck the thing up stairs and hidden it successfully. He rolled over under the tented sheet, freezing when Vernon's snoring stuttered and stopped a moment, turning his pilfered torch off. False alarm, he sighed, as the familiar snorting rumble began again. How Aunt Petunia put up with it, he'd never been able to understand.

Shaking his head, Harry went back to his prize; what did Brian Mills offer that he could possibly want?

It seemed everything under the sun, from heavy gold chains and bracelets for men that looked like they could anchor a ship, to fitted carpet by the square metre, including to his amazement, the kitchen sink...and even in a section stuffed at the back just past the toys, Christmas decorations and hampers. So that was what Aunt Petunia always ranted about every year; he'd never understood why it was so terrible that Mrs No. 6 received a huge parcel every December.

He didn't need furniture or table lamps, or even a bicycle, no matter how much he'd love one, or even a Walkman. He didn't really have a taste in music, never having had an opportunity to develop one...there was always clothes. Now that was a point, he could really do with new underwear, and pyjamas, and a proper winter coat and shoes that actually fitted, and...well everything really.

It was as he was looking at the jeans that something rather important occurred to him; he had absolutely no idea what size he was. Was he still a child's size or did he need to looks at the men's things? It was completely pointless looking at the labels of the garments he already owned since they could nicely fit a baby elephant, thanks to Dudley's love of chocolate and cake and crisps and chips and…well, food in general.

So how did he find out? Oh look, at the bottom of the page...for size charts turn to page 1987...

So he did that.

Harry blinked in surprise; had he accidently picked up a disguised Arithmancy text book? He checked the cover. No, no it was definitely a muggle mail order catalogue in his hands. How the heck was he supposed to work out his size from this sea of numbers? He trailed a chipped nail down the side of the table, waist, chest, inside leg...he could understand all of those, but shoulder-to elbow? Centre-back ? What? Why would he need those?

And how was he going to measure them even? He'd got a ruler, he'd mended it with sellotape himself. Something for the morning he thought, as he carefully stuffed the catalogue down the side of the bed where it would be hidden against the wall.

oOo

Maybe the ruler wasn't such a good idea after all. He'd tried measuring his upper arms three times so far and managed to get a different result each time. Most of the problems was the ruler didn't exactly bend and he kept losing where he was measuring from, too. He growled in frustration as the ruler slipped again. How was he supposed to do this?

What if he marked the start point with something? He eyed the drift of Dudley's old rubbish critically. Surely there was something in all this that would make a mark, an old felt-tip or something. He started digging through the broken old toys, abandoned gadgets and untouched books, yelping in triumph as he finally pulled free a half pack of felt-tip pens. These would do nicely.

"Quiet up there you little hoodlum!" Uncle Vernon bellowed from downstairs.

Harry froze, waiting nervously for the heavy tread on the stairs, but to his intense relief it didn't come. Uncle Vernon must be in a relatively good mood today, the emphasis being on relatively. Slowly, he stood up; how had he got down there? Strange he had no recollection of crouching down like that.

Shaking his head, he carefully marked a line on his bicep; surely this had to work. His tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he set to work, except it still really wasn't really helping. He sighed in frustration as he realised he'd just managed to measure his arm at a complete diagonal for the second time. Was there some special ruler or tool or something he needed for this? Did it say anywhere?

He consulted the instructions again…a tape measure…he had to use a tape measure. He gave the ruler a glare; useless stupid thing.

But where was he going to get a tape measure from?

Maybe Aunt Petunia had one; he did have vague recollections of her measuring Dudley for something with one…or was it two taped together?

"What do you think you're doing standing around doing nothing, you lazy brat!"

Caught completely off guard, Harry nearly screamed as he dropped the ruler, whipping round to find Uncle Vernon looming in the doorway of the smallest bedroom. Clutching the edge of the desk in support, he tried to sidle unobtrusively in front of the incriminating catalogue. "No…nothing Uncle, just…just thinking…things..." he trailed off hopelessly as Uncle Vernon's mean little eyes narrowed, his large face beginning to flush that dangerous shade of purple he'd never seen anywhere else.

Suddenly the large man lunged forward, unstoppable like an angry rhino, the floor vibrating beneath his rampaging bulk. Harry yelped as he was unceremoniously shoved aside, half sprawling across the bed, his glasses knocked askew. Adjusting them with shaking hands, he was just in time to see Uncle Vernon swell with rage, face darkening alarmingly as he brandished the Brian Mills catalogue. "YOU THIEVING LITTLE SHIT!"

Harry didn't even see the fist as it caught him in the face knocking his glasses clean off.

oOo

Well, he supposed it could have been worse, he mused as he hoovered the Dudley free living room, at least his glasses weren't broken. That was something to be positive about. Shame he could only see through one eye though, and it felt a bit funny when he tilted his head on one side. Oh well, at least he was alive, he had a lot to be grateful for as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept telling him.

Should he give up on his ambition of clothes that hadn't had a previous owner? What else would he do with his summer? Slave and clean and toil and…the sight of Sirius's look of surprise as he fell backwards through that empty arch rose unbidden taking him completely by surprise, leaving him reeling.

Gasping, he wiped tears away from his cheeks with the back of a shaking hand…or he could do that. Anything than that, he'd rather be beaten black and blue by Uncle Vernon than dwell on that.

Right…he pulled himself together. So what did he do now? He'd lost the catalogue, it was sitting there in the magazine rack like some sort of forbidden fruit, and he hadn't a clue where it came to his size and even what he should measure…

If only Hermione was here, he sighed to himself as he packed the hoover away in his old bedroom, she'd know exactly what to do. Of course she would, he slapped his forehead in exasperation, wincing as he caught the edge of the bruise. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Stupid, stupid, stupid…first chance he got he would write to her, but in the meantime…

He padded silently back into the living room; he might not be able to half-inch the catalogue at the moment…he listened to the house, tense and nervous but Aunt Petunia seemed to still be washing her hair…

Quickly he pulled the catalogue out of the magazine rack, the picture of cheerful ladies standing on a beach in brightly coloured dresses at sharp odds to his mood. Flipping to the back, he tried to rip the size chart out as neatly as possible, folding and stuffing the incriminating pages down the front of his trousers before starting the dusting.

oOo

A cooling breeze flapped and tossed the faded curtain as Harry sat at his rickety desk pondering on what to write, would asking Hermione about clothing sizes come over as weird? Would she be able to send him any sort of answer considering the restrictions on his communications at this time? Would he even understand the reply considering how insane that size chart looked?

In the end he tried to lay out his predicament in as straight forward a manner as he could, but it sounded ridiculously serious so he threw in the whole thing with the broken-mended ruler just to try and lighten the mood. Now all he had to do was wait for Hedwig to return from the Order and her delivery of the weekly "I'm okay" message.

Should he tell them about Uncle Vernon hitting him? It was just Uncle Vernon being himself, what with his nasty temper. It wasn't as if he was being locked in his room or being starved and beaten, and he really didn't want to come over as some sort of mardy cry-baby…so maybe not…

He came back from dinner to find his snowy owl friend snoozing inside her cage, a small roll of parchment attached to one leg.

"Hey girl, missed me," he greeted her, "I know it's very soon after the last one but…up for another trip?" he asked as he removed the letter from her leg.

Hedwig eyed him sleepily for a moment, huffing softly, ruffling her feathers. In a flurry of motion she swooped over to the window sill looking up at him expectantly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Harry gave the large bird a lopsided grin as he gave her the letter, "have a good trip."

Hedwig gave his fingers an affectionate nip before launching herself out of the open window into the growing darkness. Harry watched her until she was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Sighing to himself he gazed up at the tattered drift of little clouds that covered the sky, now staining pink and purple as the sun gradually dipped below the horizon. Hopefully Hermione would be able to help him, and quickly too…

A primal bellow sounded from below followed by enraged shouting, and Aunt Petunia's shrill twittering. Harry froze, oh no…slinking out of his chair he sidled as far into the corner of the small room as he could, his heart racing as he listened to the ominous pounding of heavy footsteps up the stairs.

Uncle Vernon slammed the bedroom door open so hard it bounced off the wall nearly hitting him in the face, and Harry desperately bit back the laughter that threatened to burst out of him; no need to make the situation any worse that it already was.

Stalking forward, a motion which looked utterly ridiculous considering Uncle Vernon's prodigious weight, the large man held the Brian Mills catalogue out before him opened at the incrimination page, the tattered edge where Harry had removed the size chart clearly visible. At least he'd got it carefully stashed away, wrapped up in his invisibility cloak with his wand and photo album, under the loose floor board.

"You did this," Uncle Vernon hissed, his moustache bristling dangerously, his face a disturbingly blotchy purple. Maybe he would actually succeed in giving Uncle Vernon a heart attack at this rate, a part of Harry's mind that wasn't currently gibbering in fear commented.

And then the wrecking ball hit, an open hand catching him clean across the side of the head, his glasses flying off, hitting the wall with a distinctly plastic crack, his ears ringing, more heavy blows following as he instinctively curled up in a ball in an attempt to protect his vital organs.

Through the pain and the buzzing of his ears he could dimly hear Aunt Petunia's shrieking, "Vernon! Vernon! Stop…stop it…it's not worth it!"

But that couldn't be right, since when had darling Aunt Petunia ever stepped in to defend him.

"What will the neighbours think?" Aunt Petunia warbled.

Oh, that's more like it, Harry thought as he raised his head cautiously squinting muzzily up at his relatives. Uncle Vernon loomed over him, panting like the Hogwarts Express as his hands clenched and unclenched, Aunt Petunia hanging onto his arm.

"And what if his lot find out? The boy does have to send those letters after all…"

"Mum…Dad…" Dudley's voice came from the doorway filled with worry.

oOo

"It could be a lot worse," Harry muttered to himself as he carefully examined his reflection on the wardrobe mirror. He was now sporting another black eye, giving him the appearance of an anorexic panda, a short-sighted anorexic panda he corrected himself as he took in the rather cobbled together mend he'd been forced to do on his glasses. Fortunately he'd found a stray reel of electrical tape in among the utter junk that still tended to accumulate in the smallest bedroom. Otherwise he'd look like a blind anorexic panda; pity the stuff was striped green and yellow, but you couldn't have everything.

But the real prize were his lips which had swelled up to almost five times their normal size, and looked almost as bad as when Seamus had been hit with that Engorgio in Charms once. That had been hysterical, he winced as he grinned, the split in his lower lip pulling painfully. So now what?

"Now what" turned out to be a day of hard labour, but all of it indoors, large quantities of it completely pointless to Harry's mind, just made up on Aunt Petunia's whim to make him feel even more miserable. Precisely why else would the very top shelves of the kitchen cabinets need to be cleared off and then cleaned so thoroughly Harry could practically see his face in them. Actually, it was almost as if darling Auntie knew his head was still spinning and his balance was off, so was deliberately giving him tasks that required a certain degree of climbing, probably hoping he'd fall off the stepladder and brain himself, Harry thought grimly as he sprawled stiffly across his bed; and he was going to have to do it all over again tomorrow. Harry groaned aloud at the thought.

A rustling at the open window caught his attention. Propping himself up on his elbows, he found Hedwig had returned looking rather pleased with herself.

"That was fast," he complemented the owl as he removed the fat letter she was carrying. "Wow, Hermione," he muttered as he took in the veritable essay she had written him; she had even included a tape measure for him, and he'd been worrying she wouldn't want to help him. Showed he should have more faith in his friends.

"…you only really need your chest and waist measurements to work out your size for most garments…"

What! He glared at the letter. Then why the hell did that insane size chart exist demanding shoulder-to-elbow distance, and upper arm circumference, and length from hip to knee…just utterly ridiculous…unless it was some sort of Ravenclaw plan to take over the world through bizarre initiation rituals hidden in muggle publications. He shook his head; he'd been having more and more thoughts like that recently, like he was a male Lovegood or something…

"…you may need your inside leg length measurement when choosing trousers, so they're not too long or short…"

…well, he supposed it would be annoying if they dragged on the ground, though definitely a novel experience. It wasn't something he'd ever experienced before, Dudley's cast-offs always being on the short side for him…

"…and if you're really pushing the boat out and picking smart shirts you'll need your neck measurement…"

…right, okay. That simplified things…but Hermione didn't finish there…

"…I know your relative are not very nice people, so I had a little chat with Mum. Basically we have Brian Mills too, so if you send a list of what you want with a cheque to cover the cost (don't forget postage and packaging) Mum will order for you and have everything sent to us. Then I'll send it to you via Hedwig. Et voila, problem solved, completely avoiding your relatives. Just make out the cheque to…"

Wow, Hermione…the lump in his throat was almost painful as he swallowed…

"…it may take a few weeks for your cheque to clear especially since you don't have a guarantee card, so this may take a while…"

…so he would have to be patient, ever so patient. Just like hunting for the snitch, and hopefully the rewards would be just as great.

Retrieving the size chart, he whipped his brand new tape-measure around his waist and chest, carefully making note of the measurements. The moment of truth…he dragged a finger down the columns of numbers with a deepening frown. Too small for men's sizes then, he checked the child's chart. Oh yes, he glowered at it, still stuck firmly in the kid's clothing then. He had to grow at some point, didn't he? At least it radically cut down on the number of pages he had to wade through, a tiny little silver lining to an enormous black cloud that did little to make him feel better.

Now he just needed to get his hands on the bloody catalogue again.

Which turned out to be fun, and he meant that in all sarcasm. If he thought he'd been carefully watched before by his disapproving relatives it was nothing compared to the almost constant surveillance he now experienced, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon dogging his every step, almost daring him to step out of line just so they could punish him anew. Uncle Vernon particularly seemed to enjoy adding to his impressive collection of bruises.

He did consider telling the Order about it but in the end didn't. All they'd do was confront his relatives a bit and then leave, and then he'd have to deal with an even angrier and more unpredictable Uncle Vernon. Thanks, but no thanks.

Of course they couldn't watch him all the time. A few days later he was dusting the hideous droopy shepherdesses figurines that Aunt Petunia seemed obsessed with, when the lady herself stormed into the living room shopping bag in hand. "Duddy darling," she simpered at her so who was semi-comatose on the sofa watching cartoons on the television, "I need to nip to the shops. It's a disaster, I've run out of fennel, and dinner will be ruined without it."

Dudley grunted in his oh-so articulate fashion.

"Watch him," Aunt Petunia jerked her head with a disapproving glare in Harry's direction. He ignored her, picking up yet another droopy shepherdess, a pink one this time with an equally droopy lamb sitting in her lap.

Dudley heaved himself upright, face slack and anxious. "Yes, mum," he managed to mutter.

Aunt Petunia gave one last disapproving sniff and left, the sound of her court shoes rapidly disappearing down the drive.

Harry peeked through the fussy net curtains; yep, she'd gone, and Uncle Vernon wouldn't be back from work for hours. So now it was just Dudley, and he really didn't care about what his cousin thought about the whole thing. Dinky Dudders could hang his opinion out to dry for he cared.

The Brian Mills catalogue still in the magazine rack, exactly where Uncle Vernon had left it, in fact he'd taken to checking its location every evening he'd become so obsessive.

"Why are you so interested in it?" Dudley blurted out. "It's just a boring old catalogue. All you're doing is getting in trouble."

Harry eyed the larger boy in disbelief. "Are you serious?" he snapped. "I have to wear your cast-offs, including your underpants. Do you know how disgusting your pants are?"

Dudley opened his mouth to protest but apparently thought better of it. Looking rather pale he finally nodded. "It shouldn't be like this," he muttered, "I…I won't say anything about…" He gestured weakly towards the catalogue in Harry's hands.

Harry nodded warily. Who was this, and what had they done with his thoughtless bullying cousin? Sprinting up the stairs, he pulled his little clothing list out and began checking through the relevant section, hastily scribbling down the details of what he wanted, and then it was a frantic dash downstairs back to the living room and a nervous Dudley. He dumped the incriminating catalogue back in the rack and went back to his domestic chores, Dudley slumping on the sofa once more with a sigh of relief.

He was feeling calm, for him, by the time Aunt Petunia made it back with her bundle of fresh fennel. Obviously she must have run into one of the neighbours and had a really good gossip as she looked almost cheerful.

"Haven't you finished yet, you lazy boy?" she snapped as she put her head around the door.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry muttered resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

OOOOOO

Hedwig was delighted to accept another letter so quickly after the last one, and was soon winging her way over the rooftops of Privet Drive. Harry watched her go, a little bubble of excitement building in his chest. Hopefully Hermione would be able to understand what he'd written. Had he ordered too much, or was it too little, had he got the size right, and had he written the cheque out correctly, put the date on, that sort of thing? He just wasn't used to used to being able to pick his own clothes, no matter what happened he was guaranteed an adventure of some kind.

A thunderous bellow of rage erupted from below, and Harry groaned. Didn't Uncle Vernon have anything better to do? His heart sunk as heavy footsteps thundered their way up the stairs, the bedroom door wrenching open violently.

"YOU TOUCHED THE CATALOGUE," Uncle Vernon screamed "I KNOW YOU DID. DON'T DENY IT!"

Harry turned, trying not to cringe away from the furious man who's face, to his amazement, was so dark with blood it had gone through purple to some sort of stage beyond. That couldn't possibly be healthy.

"YOU LITTLE BASTARD," Uncle Vernon lunged forward, "I SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU WHEN WE FOUND YOU!"

In the confined space of the spare room Harry hadn't a chance of getting away, meaty hands grabbing the loose neck of his t-shirt, holding it so tight it cut of his air, and then the other meaty hand began pounding away.

To his bewilderment he could hear Dudley's voice through the buzzing in his ears.

"Dad! Dad! Stop it! Stop it! I moved it! I moved the catalogue!"

More incoherent bellowing from Uncle Vernon.

"If you don't stop I'm calling 999. I'll do it!" Dudley was threatening. Harry had the distinct idea that Dudley was cradling the upstairs phone to his chest ready to do the deed, but to be honest reality was becoming a little hard to hold on to right now.

"I'm not going to let you become a murderer, I'm not!" Dudley's voice slowly faded away.

Wasn't it strange, Harry thought later in the dark and quiet of the spare room, the pain of the beating and the ringing in his ears reassuring him that he was in fact alive, in a way, in a strange way he had won. He had actually beaten Uncle Vernon and got what he wanted for a change. Even if Uncle Vernon did manage to kill him, he still would have won, after all he'd still have the clothes (even though he'd be getting buried in them, probably) and Uncle Vernon would be in so much trouble with people queuing up to have a chance to take chunks out of him.

He grinned as he spat blood and a loose tooth on to the floor, yes he had won, and the cherry on the proverbial cake…Dudley had sided with him, even come to his aid.

Wow!

oOo

It was a bit like how he'd always imagined Christmas would feel as a child, this never ending waiting for something wonderful. Okay it was going to be a small pile of rather basic clothes, and other stuff, socks…underpants.

It was, to be quite blunt, the only thing that was keeping him going, after three weeks of waiting, stopping him from dropping into the black pit of despair that waited from him, with what looked suspiciously like a beckoning Sirius Black sitting at the bottom.

There was also the mystery of the deformed sandwiches that kept being posted through the cat-flap, he considered the matter thoughtfully wiggling his tongue in the gap where Uncle Vernon had knocked out an incisor; hopefully, Madam Pomfrey would be able to grow it back. He was pretty certain (and he was still rather sceptical at this point) that Dudley was making them, which was just plain weird, and also Dud's career as a chef was most definitely over before it began, especially after the cheese and banana horrors. It was the thought that counted he supposed, or so Aunt Petunia always said, which put her behaviour into a strange perspective.

Painfully levering himself up off the bed, Harry reached awkwardly for his glasses, the view out of the window coming into sharp focus. The houses of Privet Drive looked just as ordinary and dull as ever with their carefully manicured patches of lawn and car filled drives, the very epitome, in Harry's opinion, of everything boring in the world. Wouldn't it be fun to have a hippogriff rampage down the street demolishing cars and obsessively trimmed hedges as it went, or…or, how about a dragon. Harry grinned broadly, not even noticing as his lip split anew, a small dribble of blood trickling down his chin.

Oh yes, a Norwegian Ridge-back rampaging through the neighbourhood, crashing through fussy houses and crushing utterly the topiaried roses and twee garden ornaments, people running screaming down the road as their homes and cars were engulfed in huge sheets of flame. He giggled to himself, lost in his fantasy, so when the owl tapped on the window he was so surprised he fell of the bed letting out a startled yelp despite his best efforts.

Harry lay there not daring to breathe, dreading the stump of large feet, the growling, the snick of the locks, the beefy bulk of Uncle Vernon standing in the doorway…but no, the saw-mill snoring started up again.

Letting out a huge sigh of relief he pulled himself painfully to his feet, opening the window for the mystery bird. To his surprise Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and an unfamiliar owl were also waiting for him, carrying between them a large and most definitely muggle cardboard box.

Looked like Hermione's family had treated themselves to a new vacumn cleaner recently.

"…5 x more cleaning power than other leading brands…"

…and,

"…Winner of the Which? Consumer Award 3 years running…"

…the box screamed. It looked like the exact sort of thing Aunt Petunia would approve of. But why would his small selection of garments require such a big box? Mysteries, mysteries….now all he needed was some scissors…or something sharp. He looked around the gloomy mess of the spare bedroom, something anything he could stab through brown tape, he wasn't feeling particularly picky.

The sharp pointed corner of the broken ruler made short work of the brown tape, and he paused to get his breath back; that had been hard work. There were even bright spots in front of his eyes; he tried blinking them away with little success. Should he have a nap; maybe that would make him feel better? But no, he had this big box full of rustling plastic, and that wonderful new clean smell to investigate.

Half way down the box, he came across a letter from Hermione…

"…your check only took five working days to clear. Mum was very impressed. It goes to show how efficient the Goblins are…"

…that was nice, and apparently…

"…we added some extras we thought you might need but had forgotten. I'm sorry if you don't like them, I tried very hard to pick things that would look nice with the stuff you'd already chosen…"

…which explained the navy blue cable knit jumper, and the grey woollen coat, and the plain darker grey jumper, and the tracksuit bottoms, and the dark red jumper with a cream pattern round the neck. It was almost maroon, Ron would hate it. He'd totally forgotten about winter things, thank goodness for Hermione and her forethought. Then there were the things he'd actually wanted, jeans that didn't look like they would fit a baby elephant, a rainbow of t-shirts and shirts that didn't look as if he'd pulled them out of the rag-bag, but there were also things Dudley had had that he'd always secretly coveted, a rugby shirt, soft brown cords, pyjamas with cartoon characters on…

"…you should be being picked up soon. I should get to see you soon too, can't say where because of security, I'm sure you understand. I hope you've got all your homework done, if not I'll be here to help…"

…he grinned. Hermione never changed, he thought wistfully as he sobered up, and considering how bad, and just plain odd, this summer was turning out to be he really hadn't made much headway at all. The last few had been particularly hard, though being half-starved wasn't exactly helping his concentration or his ability to think clearly.

The trainers he'd rather tentatively added to his list were near the bottom in their box; they were so crisp and white and new and just…he was almost scared to try them on in case he spoilt them.

The underpants though, they were special; he'd never had new underpants before, always having to put up with the humiliation of Dudley's mangy old y-fronts. He carefully peeled the clear cellophane open, gently tugging a pair of grey and green striped boxers free. They were so perfect, fresh and new and clean, crisp with no holes…or suspicious stains. Without a doubt they were the most beautiful things he'd ever seen, and he now had enough to last him weeks. He rubbed at his cheeks, he wasn't crying, he wasn't, it was just grit in his eyes or something.

There was a loud crash from downstairs and Harry held his breath. What if Uncle Vernon woke up? What if they were being burgled? Did he really care? He relaxed and went back to admiring his new garments, it wasn't as if he could actually do anything anyway. He was in pretty poor physical condition, and also the bedroom door was locked which really put a crimp in his going off to confront possible burglars, and investigating his new socks was much more interesting…stripy ones, patterned ones…boring black ones (that must have been Hermione again), ones with cartoon characters on. He'd have to watch those in case Dobby tried nicking them.

There were footsteps on the stairs now, and the murmur of voices. Considering Uncle Vernon was still blatantly asleep, Harry was seriously considering the involvement of magic. He rolled his eyes as someone fell up the stairs with a yelp and a bang followed by much shushing. That definitely proved it.

He didn't even look up when the locks on the door clicked open one by one, accompanied by much grumbling about paranoid and over-protective muggles. Yeah, right, Harry snorted as he dubiously examined the Hawaiian print shirt he'd decided on in a moment of madness. Maybe it was a little too bright? It was probably best to ask Hermione what she thought first before he did anything drastic to it…or he could give it to Ron for Christmas. It wasn't maroon, and it was brand-new…and muggle. He might like it.

The light of the lumous charm was startlingly bright, and Harry frantically blinked his eyes, only to find Alastor Moody standing in the door with what looked like most of the Order of the Phoenix peering over his shoulders in horror.

"Look," he said brightly, holding up a pair of the most beautiful underpants in the world, "I've got pants!"