Title: (Chapter 01)
Author Name: creamtea-from-FAP
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OoTP, HBP.
Genre: Book 7. Adventure, thriller.
Main Character(s): H. D.
Ship(s): Ships are touched on as part of the narrative, but the story isn't about the ships. Ships are: H/L, D/Hr. These ships: H/G, R/Hr, D/G are included – but not in a good way!
Summary: ALT BOOK 7: STORY ALREADY WRITTEN AND BEING PUBLISHED WITH FREQUENT UPDATES. FORTY CHAPTERS. What's it about? Love potions; emotional shoot-outs, expulsions, hex-fights, fist-fights, kidnappings, bank-jobs, secret weapons and castle-battles. And … DRACO!
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 1

Privet Drive, Little Whingeing, prided itself on being the kind of place where nothing ever happened – nothing unsavoury that is. It wasn't near any council estates, it didn't have any sink schools, it's local amenities weren't pound-stores and charity shops. It was a nice place, a normal place … a very narrow-minded place.

Privet Drive wasn't just normal, it was almost aggressively normal. It liked things the same. It liked a nice matching set. It liked everyone to have a nice detached house with a neatly trimmed lawn with nice clipped hedges and a block-paved drive – russet red, mind you, not that nasty, common, yellow. It liked a well-polished car, dwarf conifers either side of the front door and, just lately, it had taken a liking to vertical blinds. Vertical blinds were the current fashion; the population of Privet Drive had, with the wordless communication of a flock of birds, decided one day that vertical blinds had replaced net curtains: you were now slightly odd if you had net curtains.

And no-one on Privet Drive liked to be even slightly odd.

Despite all its complacent disapproval, Privet Drive didn't mind strangers, what Privet Drive didn't like, was 'strange'.

They'd have had the vapours if they known the truth about 'that funny boy' at Number 4.

And this Saturday in mid-August, despite having been 17 for about two weeks, 'that funny boy' was still somehow at Number 4 and still very, very strange.

Harry Potter was a wizard. Not that you'd know it to look at him. Instead, he looked like an ordinary seventeen-year-old boy: faded jeans, t-shirts that had been too many times in the wash, scuffed trainers and hair any passer-by would despair of. He had one distinguishing feature: a thin, red, lightning-bolt shaped scar that ran down one temple, the scar he got when Voldemort tried to murder him by firing a killing spell at him and the spell rebounded to vanquish Voldemort himself.

Harry had been sure that, on the second he turned seventeen, he would have been kicked out, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem aware that he could and Aunt Petunia couldn't quite seem to get around to it. She'd even given him a birthday present this year: a card left over from Dudley's birthday and an orange; she'd shoved them at him with her face turned the other way.

Harry had wondered if she'd gotten a bit clingy because Dudley was finally 'leaving the nest' and Petunia was getting a bit tearful about it. Dudley had 'left school early' and was going into the Army; Harry quietly thought Petunia was lucky he wasn't going into jail!

The Dursleys had always explained Harry's absences at Hogwarts by telling everyone that he attended a place called St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. But their choice of explanation had come back to haunt them as Dudley had been shown up as 'incurably criminal' himself: he had been expelled from Smeltings for getting under-age boys drunk, selling them booze he bought cheap at an obliging off-license.

Smeltings was a very expensive school; Harry considered that it had finally proved itself worth the money when it kicked Dudley out.

Uncle Vernon had been outraged: "There have been Dursley's at Smeltings since – since –since a very long time!"

The Head had held his nerve though – not an easy thing to do in the face of a blustering, walrus-sized Vernon – as Smeltings was determined that its reputation would not be that of allowing its under-age charges to be illegally dosed-up until they were incapacitated. Dudley had been 'rusticated'.

Vernon had gotten Aunt Marge around for a war counsel. Aunt Marge had, as usual, addressed all present as though she were on a parade ground or was disciplining one of her unruly Bulldogs from a distance, her bellow bouncing off the walls.

"Not your fault, Vernon. I always say it – but when a whelp goes wrong, look to the bitch!"

Harry's eyes had nearly popped. Aunt Marge had once said something nasty like that about his mum, but Petunia Dursley was actually sitting in the room!

Aunt Marge had cast the meekly horrified Petunia an appraising look, as though sizing up a piece of horseflesh – Harry was amazed she didn't promptly start examining Petunia's teeth.

"Always was something rum about the mother's family, Vernon! But Dudley's got good Dursley stock on his side though. Nothing wrong with him that department. Nothing wrong that a proper, bracing, set-to won't sort out!" At that, her voice got even louder, "A boy needs to be away from the influence of his mother, Vernon. I say that there comes a time when the maternal influence has a weakening effect on the pup! I don't like to see a weak pup. A good, fierce little biter is best. Nothing too thoughtful. A dog that'll just follow orders. After a while, the maternal instinct just confuses the pup, is what I say!"

She promised to have a quiet shout with her great friend, Colonel Fubster. "Leave it to me Vernon! I'll sort something out for the boy. Lad needs a bit of discipline, that's all. I'll have a word with Colonel Fubster, he's still got an awful lot of pull with his old regiment. Dudley will go into the Army – that's the place for him!"

Luckily for Vernon and Petunia, Dudley had already turned 18 and Colonel Fubster had been able to pull a few strings. Now Vernon could puff his chest out to the neighbours, "He's going to Officer Training School. Smeltings was useless for Dudley – a boy like that needs a man's job, not pansying about in lessons! Always been Dursleys in the army. Tradition. Goes back centuries!"

He may have been all bluster to the neighbours, but at home, after Aunt Marge's firmly expressed feelings about 'bitches', he had taken to looking darkly at Petunia and muttering about 'mother's influence'.

Petunia had meekly tried to voice an objection to Dudley's military future - "but Dudders is too delicate to go into the Army!" - only to be met with an increasingly reddening Vernon who exploded.

"Will you shut up, woman! Do you think sorting this mess out has been easy? Marge saves the day for us, and all you can do is complain?"

Petunia's hand had flown to her mouth and her eyes had gone very large.

"My family have generations of service to the nation at their backs," Vernon had barked on. "Generals, Majors, seniors in the church, and every one educated at Smeltings. But what were your family? They were wit – wiz – that sort! And worse," he had then choked slightly, "worse," he had spluttered, "worse - you were a family of - a family of," - Harry had been round eyed, what could be so bad that Uncle Vernon could hardly bring himself to say it? "Worse," he had finally forced the words out, "you were a family of shopkeepers! Lower-middle class rubbish, all of you! Holding your forks funny, eating peas with your knives and you, Petunia, you … drinking tea …" Vernon had made that odd choking sound again and Harry's mind had galloped, what on earth could be wrong with drinking tea? Even the Queen drank tea! - "with your little finger stuck out and putting milk in the cup last! To think I married you! What on earth possessed me?"

"But Vernon, you married me because you loved me!"

"I married you because you were pregnant! You deceived me! You got yourself up the duff knowing I had to marry you. You did it deliberately!"

Petunia's eyes had gone wide and horrified.

Harry had been astounded, that wasn't true was it?

"You got yourself pregnant and married me to get away from your family!" Vernon had roared, eyes closed and fists balled so that he looked like a very bad-tempered baby. "I was just the first likely fellow who came along! You didn't even tell me about your bally sister and your family's," he had flung a searing glance at Harry and hissed, "your family's weirdness - not until you'd safely got the ring on my finger! I was just an escape from your family! You tricked me!"

Petunia had trembled for a second, whimpered, then burst into tears.

Harry had been astonished, it had been a bit like being plunged into the middle of one of Petunia's torrid day-time soaps.

Petunia had gotten a bit odd after Vernon's accusatory outburst, though. Harry had passed her once as she sat in the lounge, a large, stiff book on her lap: a photograph album. He'd thought it was pictures of her and Vernon and Dudley, until he'd seen that a lot of photographs were in black and white. He saw a picture of two small girls, cuddling and grinning together. She'd been tracing the lines of their faces with her finger; remembering. When she'd seen him looking, her expression had grown clenched and shuttered and she had kicked the door shut against him.

For his birthday he'd gotten a Firebolt broom-care kit from Ron and two tickets to the Quidditch Cup Final from Hermione. 'Two tickets, Harry, one for you and one for that Someone Special.' She had given a big, broad conspiratorial wink at that. 'Honestly Harry, take her with you – you see so little of her that anyone would think you'd split up! The only reason I know you haven't is because you would have told me if you had.'

Uncomfortably, he had looked away from her at that.

Harry had gotten a flurry of birthday cards and one, addressed in big, loopy, girly handwriting, still lay unopened. He wasn't ignoring it, he told himself, he just hadn't got around to opening it yet, that's all … In any case, he hadn't gone to the Quidditch match, and nor had he left Privet Drive. Fred and George Weasley had not yet got his flat-above-the-shop ready, but even so there were other places he could have gone. Grimmauld Place for one, but it held miserable memories of Sirius who had never liked it there and as a consequence neither did Harry. He could have also gone to The Burrow …

Harry jolted and surveyed his bedroom: he'd been making a half-hearted effort to pack his trunk and leave for The Burrow in time for Bill and Fleur's imminent wedding and the room was, quite frankly, a bit of a pit. Empty fizzy-drinks cans lay about, smelly socks lay abandoned and old copies of the Daily Prophet were strewn everywhere. Harry glanced at an edition, catching its screaming headlines of doom and disaster. 'Last year's Brockdale Bridge disaster re-examined! Unexplained collapse into the swift-flowing river … Hundreds of corpses were never found! Is an Inferi army being built?'

Exasperated, Harry stuffed the copy into an already-full waste-paper bin.

Apart from screeching coverage of the Muggle 'Inferi Killings', the Daily Prophet had other preoccupations: one being the death of Dumbledore. 'Where had Dumbledore been that night and was Harry Potter - Boy Saviour! - there with him?' But one of the things that really ate up the pages were sensationalist articals on – 'Dumbledore's Killers!' - Severus Snape and … Draco Malfoy.

The Daily Prophet photograph of Snape showed his sallow face repeatedly trying to turn itself away from the viewer. In contrast, Malfoy glared up out of the frame looking like he might bite you, either that or he'd burst into tears and run away. Harry had a feeling it was one of Colin Creevey's photographs, taken of Malfoy after one Quidditch loss too many.

The headlines and articals on Malfoy had been almost glamourising, almost as though they were advertising him as a shiny new product: 'Brilliant but evil, Draco Malfoy achieved what no other has done – he got the Death Eaters into Hogwarts!' Just lately they had moved onto his personal life – 'Rich-boy Malfoy broke a string of hearts at Hogwarts! His charming but ruthless lothario ways saw scores of girls taken up and dropped … devastated girls could regularly be seen sobbing in the corridors …'

It was all complete rubbish! Harry thought it was up there with that drivel in fourth-year about he, Hermione, Viktor Krum and love potions. He'd been snooping on Draco Malfoy enough times with the Marauders Map to know that if Malfoy had been manipulating females - well, females who hadn't turned out to be Crabbe and Goyle in disguise - he certainly hadn't been doing anything that had shown up on a map! And how could the Daily Prophet shamelessly promote Malfoy as some rich, stonkingly successful bird-puller when they had already reported that the Ministry of Magic had frozen the Malfoy funds?

Not that reality was ever allowed to get in the way of a good story. To cash-in, a leprechaun 'music promoter' had set up a wizard boy-band: Drop Dead Malfoy. Four, young, pretty-faced, boy-wizards wearing silver-tinsel wigs and sneers; they were a huge success with lots of besotted wizarding girls, all wailing, screaming and sobbing after fantasy boys who didn't really exist.

Harry knew that the reporting on Draco Malfoy was unfair: Malfoy was not that good-looking, as to being 'brilliant but evil', he was not that smart, and if Harry was forced to admit it – Malfoy was not that guilty.

Apart from Draco Malfoy himself, Harry Potter was the only human being alive who knew that, on that tower-top with Professor Dumbledore a helpless target, Malfoy had been lowering his wand when the Death Eaters had burst in. It had been plain that Malfoy was under the ultimate duress to kill the Professor - his own life and the lives of his parents were forfeit to Voldemort if he did not - but even with that, given an offer from the Professor that there might be another way out, Malfoy had begun lowering his wand.

In those few seconds of grace, Malfoy might not have been ready to do a running-jump to stand shoulder to shoulder with the good-guys, but he'd been about to abandon the bad ones.

Not even Ron and Hermione knew that. If it got out about Malfoy lowering his wand, Harry thought that the blond boy might very well be killed – by his own side. Harry didn't hate Draco Malfoy, he felt a shred of pity for him, instead he saved all his hate up for Snape, the man who had murdered Dumbledore when Draco Malfoy was never going to. Harry saved all the hate up for Snape, the one who was Voldemort's 'most faithful servant'; Voldemort, the beast who would live forever unless stopped …

Abruptly, heart pumping, he turned on his heel and grimly commenced hurling things into his trunk: weighing scales, his cauldron, books …

He halted as he was about to hurl in a heavy, stiff-backed volume: this one really was a photograph album, it was the wizard-photograph album which Hagrid had painstakingly pieced together of Harry's mum and dad.

Harry treasured it but he half-dreaded it too: it was one of the few things he had of his parents whilst being a painful reminder of all he had lost. He tentatively opened it, turning the pages toward the photograph that he treasured best but which upset him the most: the photo of his parents' wedding day with his mum, dad and Sirius. It was the only photo he had of all three of them together, and the only photo he had of Sirius at all. Sirius, Harry's Godfather, had spent twelve years falsely imprisoned in Azkaban, only finding the spirit to escape when he knew he must to rescue Harry, and then later dying while rescuing Harry again in the Department of Mysteries –

Harry snapped the album shut and stuffed it down the side of the trunk for safe-keeping. He would not think about the Department of Mysteries, he would not think of how Voldemort had led him there with a false trail and of how Sirius had been killed when he had then come to rescue Harry. And if he did think of it – well, it had all been Voldemort's fault! Voldemort had led him there, tricked him – he'd only gone there with the best of intentions - and Bellatrix Black had shot the spell that had done for Sirius! And okay, yes, Harry had been rash in heedlessly bolting after the false trail when Hermione had begged him not to and he had shouted her down but –

He froze again as an edition of the Daily Prophet slid off a toppling pile on his chest of drawers and landed on the floor, open at its centre-page.

Photographs of Ginny Weasley were printed all over it.

The story of them 'going out' had broken the moment school had ended, with about half the kids deciding to make some money by selling 'exclusives'.

Photographs of her at Hogwarts, photographs of her by the lake, photographs of her playing Quidditch, hair streaming heroically in the wind '… Ginny's brothers, Fred and George Weasley of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, reported in an exclusive to the Daily Prophet that flame-haired Ginny uses Wonder Witch products … The famous couple do respect their privacy! No-one has yet interviewed Harry, and Ginny has refused to speak – but rest assured, when she does the Daily Prophet will get the scoop on what's really going on!'

The Daily Prophet was obsessed with the topic. Harry bitterly thought that the only way the Daily Prophet could have it any better was if it unearthed some laughable story of hopeless unrequited attraction from - Dumbledore's Murderer! – Draco Malfoy for – Gryffindor Golden Girl! - Ginny Weasley.

There were even more photos of Ginny Weasley taken during the Summer holidays as she'd visited Diagon Alley. Harry thought they must have been touched up because he didn't remember her ever wearing that much make-up, or her hair ever being that straight and sleek. She seemed to be wearing different clothes in each photo too – really fashionable stuff, with short skirts and knee-boots. In the moving photographs she clearly knew that the camera was on her yet her mouth was small and unsmiling. With hair flowing, skirt rippling, boots kicking and wearing what looked to be very fashionable Muggle-style sunglasses that took up half her face, it was as though part of her liked the attention whilst another part was very uncomfortable.

On the same page, Harry saw that the Daily Prophet was running one of its competitions. 'Be like Ginny! Win your own Pygmy Puff! Sales of the cute little fluffballs have rocketed since it became known that style-setter Ginny has one. Supplies can hardly keep up but the Daily Prophet has three – yes, THREE! – for the first three young witches or wizards who …'

Harry looked at the photo of a Pygmy Puff: a furball with big eyes and a vaguely mean-looking little mouth. He definitely couldn't see the attraction but he thought the Daily Prophet must be out to get every kid in the wizard country to have one! He looked back to the artical on Ginny Weasley.

'Pureblood Ginny, the one bright thing on Harry's horizon, brings a breath of fresh air wherever she goes. As the Girl Who Got Harry she has become a style-leader among teenaged witches who see a girl their own age being a figure of independence and strength. Close personal friend of the couple, Colin Creevey, gave an exclusive to your reporter: 'I think what he likes about her is that she didn't spend ages scheming to get him.' In a further comment, Colin jokes, 'He fancied her for years, it was obvious. He always pretended to ignore her when she spoke to him, and he barely spoke to her or looked at her, but that's how you can tell a boy's interested can't you - when he's scared to be caught looking at a girl?'

Harry grimly recommenced hurling things into his trunk. Telling himself he knew exactly where he was going, he painfully stubbed a toe on a heavy Gringotts money sack that sat on the floor. Wincing and hopping about, he collapsed on the bed, holding his foot.

He had emptied his parents' account at Gringotts yesterday.

Getting the money out had been like wrestling trolls.

"Sir should be leaving more of his money in the Bank, not less! Sir should be putting all his precious things in the Bank – that's what a bank's for: guarding precious things! Look, Sir - we even train our own Security Trolls!"

At that, Harry had been waved in the direction of what he had thought were two badly carved statues but which had actually proved to be two unformed and armed trolls. When Harry had looked dubious, the goblins had offered, "One of our special accounts, one our anonymous accounts that we offer to select young wizards when they come Of Age. You even get a password! A bit like being a spy, Sir! If you've got one of our special accounts there's nothing anyone can do to stop you from accessing your money in case of … difficulties."

When it became clear that Harry only wanted to empty the Potter account and not the high-security Black one, all talk of 'special offers' had been abruptly dropped and the rest of the visit had gone as Harry expected: hair raising high-speed cart journeys over bottomless crevasses, low growlings from mysterious monsters, vault-doors that sucked you inside – the usual. The only smudge on Gringotts' reputation had been a break-in to a high security vault six years ago. That had been played down by the Goblins, but no-one ever had found out how anyone had gotten in …

Harry had been accompanied by a goblin called Griphook – Harry suspected he may have been the same goblin who had escorted he and Hagrid on Harry's first visit. Griphook had asked Harry if he wanted to 'by-pass security' and pay 'an unofficial visit' to the Black vault: number 711 in the high security area. "Of course, it was only a suggestion," Griphook had said slyly as Harry had looked very doubtful. He had then straightened and looked a lot more like a Gringotts goblin should, "No need for Sir to give it any further consideration."

On the way to and from the bank, Harry had hurriedly shot past Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, hat pulled low over his head.

He wasn't avoiding anyone, he told himself, he just didn't feel like company, that's all …

Another Daily Prophet slid from the toppling pile on the chest of drawers and Harry's heart sank, it had fallen open upon yet more stuff about Ginny Weasley. This years' O.W.L. results had just been published – the remaining exams had been postponed after Dumbledore's death but not cancelled – and someone at the Ministry had leaked Ginny's grades: two Ds for Dreadful, a P for Poor and the rest only 'Acceptable'. Without really wanting to, Harry scanned the print … 'Acceptables are respectable results for a girl, Ginny knows it doesn't pay for a girl to be too smart! … Romilda Vane, a Hogwarts pupil, said: 'She got nothing better than Acceptable? No wonder, seeing how she spent the last five years scheming to get Harry Potter instead of paying attention in lessons! I'm surprised she even did as well as 'Acceptable'!' Colin Creevey – friend of the famous couple – says that Romilda tried to get Harry for herself. Are we just a little jealous Romilda? … Remember now, boys and girls: 'Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies'.'

Harry rolled his eyes and flung the paper aside but then simply caught sight of the results of the 'Win A Pygmy Puff!' competition in a later edition. The winner was a little girl called Fenella Dupely; there was a big picture of her clutching her very own Pygmy Puff. Harry thought the Pygmy Puff looked faintly cross … 'Young Fenella sums up the hopes and wishes of thousands of little girls all over the wizard country when she says 'I want to be just like Ginny' …'

Ginny Weasley, Ron's little sister, was even more famous than Harry these days: she was famous for being Harry Potter's Girlfriend.

Annoyed, Harry shoved some necessaries into a big shoulder bag: Invisibility Cloak, some clothes, spare pyjamas … his wand was already down his sock, he kept it on him constantly these days. He took a wodge of money from the Gringotts sack and poured the rest of the coins under his loose floorboard. He chucked Hedwig under her chin, fed her some owl-treats and told her to fly to The Burrow, saying that he was following on; he gave her a note to Ron about it. He forced the rest of his belongings into his trunk and locked it. He looked at it. Might as well leave it here, no point in dragging it all the way to The Burrow and then all the way back again when he got his flat.

He bunged Hedwig's cage on top of his trunk and one of it's wire struts got bent. Harry shrugged: no matter, Hermione could fix it later, Hermione could fix up anything.

Harry knew it was quickest to Apparate but … well, he hadn't had a broom-ride in ages. And okay, so it was late afternoon – almost early evening - but he had his Invisibility Cloak, he could ride under that, no-one would see him. Besides, it might be for the best: the Aurors and the Order who were undoubtedly watching Privet Drive might notice the magic of Apparition but he could take off and fly invisibly without a spell. It would take longer to get to The Burrow, that was a fact …

He looked about him; with everything packed, the bin stuffed to bursting and the bed made, the room looked quite bare, as if no-one had ever actually lived there. Disgusted, Harry almost turned on his heel and left right then but he remembered that he hadn't Incedio'd the contents of the waste-paper bin. There would be little point in carefully packing away every last little magic thing if he were to blithely leave behind a bin-load of back-copies of the Daily Prophet with its shrieking headlines about wizarding issues and photographs that moved.

He pointed his wand but saw that he was aiming to shoot at the blond, surly Malfoy whose picture glared up at him, lifting it's eyebrow, sneering. Harry took a breath, steadied his wand, and aimed to shoot again. The Malfoy in the photo held a defensive expression now and stared up at the about-to-shoot Harry.

"Oh - alright!" Harry ripped the photo out of the page and, half-annoyed at himself, stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

Before he left, his last action was to straighten, aim, and shoot an Incendio at the rest of the bin without even a second thought.