Author's Note: Hehe... I was sooo bored that I wrote a new fanfic... Anyway. It's got nothing about the real plot in it yet, except at the very end (and I won't give that away, you have to read it! Muahaha!) My muse was very kind to me today.

Eh... I just realized it's my first Harry Potter fanfic with Harry Potter in it... Oh, well. Read and review.

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Harry lay in bed, smiling to himself as he watched Hedwig chatter incessantly in her cage. He turned his attention back to his Transfiguration textbook, trying to get the most of his homework done so he could enjoy the rest of his summer. The first half had gone surprisingly quickly and uneventfully, what with his constant correspondence with Hermione, Dudley's day classes for boxing and nothing whatsoever in the Daily Prophet or the Muggle news except of the Budgy-the-waterskiing-budgerigar type. There was nothing wrong with his summer. It wasn't a particularly good summer, but there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing except…

A sinking feeling settled in his heart as he wrote down the spell for Vanishing part of an object. He had tried to ignore it, but he had to face it someday. Even if he didn't want to believe it, it was the truth.

He had been writing to Ron all summer. But Ron had never written back to him.

He had started out thinking that maybe Ron was on vacation, like he had been that summer in Egypt. But into the middle of the second month, he had realized that kind and generous as they were, the Weasleys simply did not have enough money to go on an extended trip like that. So he had started scouring the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly every time he could get his hands on them, searching for the name 'Weasley.' Maybe they were in trouble. But now, halfway through the summer, he had to accept the fact. Ron Weasley was, for some reason or another, ignoring his mail.

He could hear the Dursleys arguing about something or another downstairs. Restless, he got up, stretching his cramped legs. His mind was unable to cram in any more information at the moment, and so he stalked out the door, past the fighting Dursleys and out into the cool night. He turned down Magnolia Street, remembering what had happened the last summer he had been here; blissfully unaware of what was happening many miles away…

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"Ron," Ginny whimpered. "I'm scared. Where are we going?"

Ron gently smoothed her tangled, flaming hair, even redder than his. "I don't know, Ginny," he said. "I don't know."

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Dudley stared down at the grapefruit slices on his plate. Although he had quit his diet over the school year, Petunia had made him start up again this summer. He had just picked up one of the thin slices and was about to take a bite when the doorbell rang.

"Bloody hell," muttered Vernon as he broke off his conversation with Petunia and strode to the door. Dudley heard it open. "Bloody hell!"

Dudley leaped up and ran to the hallway, curious as usual. He stopped when he saw the boy at the doorway.

The boy cocked his head at Vernon Dursley, whose face was steadily turning a deep shade of purple.

"Harry home?" he asked.

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Harry stared into the twilight sky, watching as the stars slowly appeared, one by one. He sighed. He was not sure that his evening alone with his thoughts had done him very much good. His focus, no matter whether he had tried to keep it on Hermione, or Transfiguration, or even hexes to try on Draco Malfoy, always switched back to Ron.

Why had Ron ignored him? Was he angry with him? But what would be his motive for that? He tried to remember the last words he had said to Ron before leaving Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Had he hurt his feelings? Had he fought with him?

He suddenly remembered the moment. "We'll see you soon, mate," he had said. That in no way he could see meant hard feelings. So he ruled that out.

Was it something to do with… Hermione?

He swallowed. He had begun to notice… changes in the ways Ron acted with Hermione. Of course, they still fought frequently. He thought—with a slight laugh—that that was one of the things that would never change about his two best friends. But, even when they weren't speaking to each other, Harry had the distinct impression that Ron didn't want to be on no-speaking terms with Hermione.

And he, Harry, had almost never fought with Hermione. He had fought with Ron on multiple occasions, but Hermione seemed somehow… flexible. As if she didn't mind how Harry acted, as long as he stayed Harry. Even when she had gotten so frustrated with him during third and fourth years, for the hippogriff and the quarrel with Ron, she hadn't said anything too bad. In fact, Harry could almost say he liked her.

But now a new question came into his mind. Did Ron?

He sighed again. When would he ever understand his friend?

He got up, and walked down the dirt road. Hermione had changed, too. That time, at the Yule ball, she had seemed so sophisticated, so grown up; he couldn't help himself but be drawn to her…

His cheeks burned. What would Ron say? He tried to imagine his friend next to him after he had said that. A picture of Ron, flaming red hair and long, gawky structure and all, his brow narrowed in concentration, popped into his head.

"You know what I think it is, mate? It's a girl's charm," he would say. "When a girl wants to, she can turn on this secret charm thing, that makes all the boys stare at her, like she was pretty. Not that you aren't," he would say hastily to Hermione, who would be staring almost murderously at him at this point. "I'm just saying, if she isn't, then she'll make all the boys think she is."

Harry and Hermione would share a knowing glance. "And you would know this how?" Hermione would ask playfully.

Fleur Delacour would pass through Harry's mind.

The sarcasm would fly right over Ron's head, and he would stay serious as ever as he replied. "Ginny told me," he would say stoutly.

Harry smiled as he finished his fantasy conversation. If only that could happen, right here, right now, as the three of them walked under the stars together, three perfectly normal friends, over at each other's houses in the summer.

But he knew he wasn't normal. Not a chance.

For one thing, he was the Boy Who Lived. Pretty hard to beat that in abnormality, he thought ruefully. Second, he was a half-blood living with Muggles that hated anything to do with magic. And third, he had friends like Ron and Hermione…

He grinned. Being different once in a while wasn't so bad after all, he decided.

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Ginny stared at the smoldering wreckage of what had once been the Burrow. Tears stung at her eyes. It couldn't end this way. Nothing could end this way, with nothing but desperation, and hopelessness, and loneliness. She swallowed her sobs, and looked at the rising moon. She stopped, and her eyes hardened. She was determined now.

She must find Ron…

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Harry stood in front of Number Four Privet Drive, breathing in the familiar smell that always surrounded it. A mix of freshly cut grass, and grapefruit peels, and car wax, and cedar wood, and sprinkler water. He hated to admit it, but sometimes, this old place could actually feel like home sometimes.

He started up the walkway, counting the cracks like he had done since he was five. It had always amazed him, how a few tufts of grass could make cracks in cement, when it was so weak. Then he heard screaming. At first he paid no attention to it; the Dursleys often argued. But when a new voice joined in, a voice that he hardly dared recognize, a voice that, over the span of five years, he had heard talk about fellytones and garden gnomes and spew and Chudley Cannons, he stopped. He couldn't believe it. At his house? A Muggle house? No… And yet, it sounded so much like…

Holding his breath, he raced up the gray cement walkway, not caring any more about the cracks. He threw open the door, and a large gray thing promptly hit him in the face. He grunted and stumbled backward, pushing it off of his head. It had feathers, it was an owl…

It was Errol.

Hardly daring to get his hopes up, telling himself that he could just as easily sent him a Howler than actually be in his house, his home, he dashed down the wooden hall, skidding to a stop in front of the dining room.

A red-haired boy was sitting on the brown leather couch, his face slightly cut and bruised and his arm around a girl that could only be his sister, sleeping against his shoulder.

Ronald Weasley, Harry's best friend, looked up. With a shaken smile, he nodded and said, "Eh, hullo, mate. Reckon we could stay for a while?"

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Author's Note: So that's my fanfic! I sorta wrote it on impulse, cuz I had 4 hours of spare time... anyway, (chants) READ AND REVIEW! READ AND REVIEW! READ AND REVIEW!