Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and
owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to
Bloomsbury Books, Scolastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros.,
Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.
That is: I do not own! Please do not sue me! (Trust me, it wouldn't be
worth it).
Warning: This story will contain slash (Harry/Draco) so if that is not your
thing, please have the sense not to continue reading. This is for the best
beta ever Em-age
The doorbell rang at the house on Privet Drive causing several owls to stir and flutter in the smallest upstairs bedroom. Harry ignored the buzz that tried to cut thought the haze of pain and loneliness that he had wrapped around himself like a child's blanket during the first part of the summer; now well into the hottest part of July Harry wallowed in the comfort of numbness.
"Get up you!" the screeching voice of his aunt called to him from what seemed like far away. "Even that good for nothing that my sister lowered herself to marry wasn't a lay about. Now listen. A new family has moved in down the street, and that meddling Arabella fig told them that you were a good worker. Humph, she must be getting senile in her old age. Even those odd friends of yours can't get upset with you doing good, honest work. She even said that she would pay you. Now get up; they are doctors!" With that she grabbed his hand, pulled him up, thrust his trainers into his free hand, and pushed him out the door to his room. "Twenty-five is the house number!" She called out to him only to be answered by the slam of the front door. Harry wondered down the street as the sweat pooled at the small of his back. For a moment he considered wearing long pants in the dead of summer, but soon his comfortable haze returned leaving him blissfully unaware. Before he realized it he was standing on the porch of a tall Victorian house at the end of the street, number twenty-five. He paused a second, and then pressed a button for the chime. He could hear the clear tones echoing throughout the home. Staring at the whorls and spirals in the etched glass, Harry was not prepared for that small squeal and the much larger voice that came hurdling at his back. He merely watched as a great brown blur tackled him to the stoop. "Harry, I'm so glad to see you!" The blur started to tell him as a slow recognition bubbled through the stupor. "Did you like our little trick on your Aunt? My parents wanted to set up a less seasonal practice then they had in Brighton, so I suggested her, and they were fine with it! I asked Professor Dumbledore of course, and he convinced Mrs. Figg to sell us this second property that she owned. Harry, we are neighbors!" The girl tumbled out while beaming. "Oh, hello Hermione. What are you doing here?" He asked flatly. "Haven't you been listening? I live here. Now let me show you my room; we need to start our summer assignments." With that the pair of teens headed into the house, and up to a second story gabled bedroom. It all felt odd to Harry. Which was most of the problem. It felt. Most of the summer Harry had spent in a cloud that had allowed him to feel nothing, but, unlike the Durdselys, Hermione was not willing to leave him to a slow depression. She was making him live. "Even Ron wouldn't make a mistake like that Harry; try again."
He tried to ignore her, but Hermione was never one to be ignored.
"No, it's a double flick to the left. Please stop swishing Harry!"
As the day wore on Harry felt the fog lift, so he did the only thing he could do. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, broke down and cried on his best friend's lap.
The doorbell rang at the house on Privet Drive causing several owls to stir and flutter in the smallest upstairs bedroom. Harry ignored the buzz that tried to cut thought the haze of pain and loneliness that he had wrapped around himself like a child's blanket during the first part of the summer; now well into the hottest part of July Harry wallowed in the comfort of numbness.
"Get up you!" the screeching voice of his aunt called to him from what seemed like far away. "Even that good for nothing that my sister lowered herself to marry wasn't a lay about. Now listen. A new family has moved in down the street, and that meddling Arabella fig told them that you were a good worker. Humph, she must be getting senile in her old age. Even those odd friends of yours can't get upset with you doing good, honest work. She even said that she would pay you. Now get up; they are doctors!" With that she grabbed his hand, pulled him up, thrust his trainers into his free hand, and pushed him out the door to his room. "Twenty-five is the house number!" She called out to him only to be answered by the slam of the front door. Harry wondered down the street as the sweat pooled at the small of his back. For a moment he considered wearing long pants in the dead of summer, but soon his comfortable haze returned leaving him blissfully unaware. Before he realized it he was standing on the porch of a tall Victorian house at the end of the street, number twenty-five. He paused a second, and then pressed a button for the chime. He could hear the clear tones echoing throughout the home. Staring at the whorls and spirals in the etched glass, Harry was not prepared for that small squeal and the much larger voice that came hurdling at his back. He merely watched as a great brown blur tackled him to the stoop. "Harry, I'm so glad to see you!" The blur started to tell him as a slow recognition bubbled through the stupor. "Did you like our little trick on your Aunt? My parents wanted to set up a less seasonal practice then they had in Brighton, so I suggested her, and they were fine with it! I asked Professor Dumbledore of course, and he convinced Mrs. Figg to sell us this second property that she owned. Harry, we are neighbors!" The girl tumbled out while beaming. "Oh, hello Hermione. What are you doing here?" He asked flatly. "Haven't you been listening? I live here. Now let me show you my room; we need to start our summer assignments." With that the pair of teens headed into the house, and up to a second story gabled bedroom. It all felt odd to Harry. Which was most of the problem. It felt. Most of the summer Harry had spent in a cloud that had allowed him to feel nothing, but, unlike the Durdselys, Hermione was not willing to leave him to a slow depression. She was making him live. "Even Ron wouldn't make a mistake like that Harry; try again."
He tried to ignore her, but Hermione was never one to be ignored.
"No, it's a double flick to the left. Please stop swishing Harry!"
As the day wore on Harry felt the fog lift, so he did the only thing he could do. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, broke down and cried on his best friend's lap.