Chapter One: Summer of Dreams

The summer before Harry Potter's seventh year at Hogwarts was a restless one indeed. He spent most of his time dodging in and out of hotels in Muggle London, trying to stay off the radar of all Order of the Phoenix members. He marveled at his change in attitude as he sat at a different nondescript window every night, looking down at another seedy part of the city he had never really gotten to know. He wrote constant letters to Ginny Weasley, who wrote him back with haste every time, asking to know his more exact location, when he was going to come back to the Burrow, what he was planning to do, etc. He ignored her constant questions, but kept up the exchange all the same. Tonight, he sat at his nondescript window, feeling the balmy breeze from the city outside, and wrote yet another letter to the girl he loved.

Dear Gin,

I hope your summer continues the way it has been, and that your family is thriving. Today I saw a rat on the street and thought of Ron, and then I remembered that Scabbers was never really a rat after all. I continued on my way and dwelled on the idea that everything in my life so far has been something akin to a lie. A misconception, if you will. Except for you. I am beyond lucky to have someone as genuine and true as you in my life, and I am forever grateful for your presence. I look forward to your reply, and hope that it comes swiftly, for I am constantly lonely, with only the creatures on the streets and the odd stares of passers-by for company.

Yours,

Harry.

He sent the letter off with Errol, who was waiting rather impatiently by the window, pecking the pane incessantly. He opened the small moleskin pack he carried around his neck and dug out a small notebook with a handwritten calendar on the first few pages. He crossed off another day, and counted again, as he always did. There were only sixteen more days until the first day of his last year at school.

With the death of Dumbledore still looming over him, Harry had loathed the idea of returning to the Burrow, where talk would always come to an uncertain lull when Dumbledore's name came up, where they would all want to know what his next move was, and where he would sit in furious silence at his inability to do a damn thing about the war going on in his name. He could not help but feel entirely responsible for Dumbledore's death; he had been the one who had stood there, under the Invisibility Cloak, and watched the wizard tumble to his death out the tower window. He had been the one who was being protected. He had been the One. The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, and several other descriptive phrases he had begun to hate. He could not stand being Harry Potter anymore.

So, immediately after Dumbledore's funeral, he had packed his moleskin pack, put a charm on it so it could hold more than it appeared, and fled. He left everyone behind, with only a note in Ginny's pocket that he had slipped in there as he hugged her goodbye. A few letters from Ron and Hermione had reached him, but he had never opened them, and they had slowly tapered off and then stopped altogether.

Harry settled into bed and pulled the blanket to his chin, dwelling again on his short bout of freedom. Soon, he would have to venture into Diagon Alley to get his supplies, and he would no doubt run into someone he did not want to see, and his summer would be over. He had less than sixteen days left, and he had accomplished nothing.

He hated himself.

A loud ring jarred Hermione Granger awake. She pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes and pointed her wand vaguely at her alarm clock, which fell silent mid-ring. She pulled a string on the lamp by her bedside and it clicked on, filling half of the room with a yellow, warm light. She stumbled, half-awake, into a kitchen filled with boxes, and fixed herself a cup of tea with the kettle that was waiting for her on the stove.

While the water boiled, she wrapped a few pieces of her parent's china in newspaper and stuffed them in the open boxes that surrounded her. She spent every morning, afternoon, and night like this, slowly packing away her parents' and her own things, organizing them painstakingly into cardboard boxes and stowing them away in a storage unit she had rented.

The day of Dumbledore's funeral, she had come back here, to her parents' house and placed a charm on them, removing herself from their memories. She had implanted a dream in their head that they had always wanted to go to Australia. They left with no baggage that same afternoon, and Hermione had spent the rest of the day sobbing in her childhood bedroom, hugging the small purple pillows and staring at an old family photo. The next day, she had begun what she was still finishing up today, while the kettle boiled.

Every room was completed, with the exception of the kitchen, which she had saved for last. She had hoped that somehow, something would change before she completely finished. Harry had gone missing, and was even now, presumed dead. Ron had written a few times, but Hermione had mostly ignored his letters, afraid of saying something that made her sound too emotionally invested. So she left a majority of her mail unopened by the front door, in a small bag.

A shrill whistle scared her and she wordlessly poured some of the water in a teacup, dropping a bag of Earl Grey into it. She watched the brown liquid unfurl and extend, reminding her terribly of the tendrils of the dementors right before they Kissed you and your soul was theirs forever. Disgusted, she poured out the contents of her cup and the kettle and packed it away. She picked up her quill and parchment from the empty table in the kitchen and started writing.

A loud tapping brought Ronald Weasley out of his nightmares, and he shot upward with a gasp. A small, tawny owl was tapping at his bedroom window. He pushed it open and the owl held out its foot, glaring at him until he unhooked the small note that was hanging from it. He felt his heart start to race as he untied it, knowing only two people ever wrote him. He hadn't heard from either of them for far too long, and as he noticed Hermione's neat writing, he almost ripped the note open.

Ronald,

I am terribly sorry that I haven't been responding to any of your letters. I have been trying to pack up my parents' house, and have only just finished. They have moved to Australia, and I miss them painfully. But I also miss you and Harry. Have you heard from him? Either way, I am now going to put up an ad to sell my parents' house, and I will soon have nowhere to live. I am hoping I will be able to stay at the Burrow for a few days before we return to Hogwarts? If not, then I can stay in Diagon Alley, but I would much prefer to see you and your family. Anyway, please let me know as soon as possible.

Hermione.

Ron did not hesitate. He flipped over the parchment and wrote a quick response, sending the tawny owl off into the liquid night, watching it until it disappeared into the darkness. He sat in his bed, upright, while he thought about how his summer had been.

His mother fretted constantly about missing Harry Potter. Ron could not help but feel equal parts furious and dreadfully sad at the predicament of his friend. He knew, because he knew Harry, that Harry blamed himself for the death of his mentor. He had left the day of the funeral and never returned. Ginny had been a constant wreck, her eyes always red and swollen, her attitude irritable, and Ron hated his friend for breaking his sister's heart.

But one day it had stopped. She was not happy, but she was no longer crying. She looked like she had aged ten years, cutting her red hair short, spending more time with her nose buried in a book. She spent constant time every other day writing a letter, and never let anyone read them. Ron hoped they were to Harry, that his friend was still alive, but could never persuade her to show him.

Lavender had written to him a few times, asking if he would like to see her before they all returned to Hogwarts, but he put her out of his mind. Hermione had replaced her, she had always replaced her. But when she had stopped replying to his owls too, Ron had been a hurricane of negative energy, and spent hours on end every day riding his broomstick as far as he dared, thinking on the easier days of his life, when he was young and naïve. The days when he still thought of Hermione as a friend who was a girl, not a potential girlfriend. The days when Harry had been closer to him, and the days when everyone he really loved was still alive. But those days were gone.

A quiet tap came at his window and he flung it open, pulling Hermione in by her arms and hugging her close, closing his eyes and savoring the feel of her for as long as he could. She hugged him back, and when he pulled away, he saw tears in her eyes.

"No, don't cry," he begged. "I never know how to comfort girls when they cry."

She let out a shaky laugh and opened her arms halfway again. "Just hug me again, Ronald. I've missed you."

He obliged, and thought that he would hug her for the rest of his life.

It was an unfriendly night at Malfoy Manor, but Draco was nowhere near it. He had been chosen to train the new Death Eater recruit, a teenage girl his age named Scorpia. He found himself to be the worst possible teacher they could have chosen. He was supposed to be her sparring partner, and give her a good fight. However, not only was she an exceptional fighter, he kept getting distracted.

"What do you say we try some hand-to-hand combat, Draco?" She asked, tying her blonde hair back. "I feel bad for constantly knocking you on your arse with my wand."

Draco chuckled. "So, just because you keep distracting me with your jumping around like a lunatic, you think you're going to defeat me without a wand too?"

She tilted her head and fixed him with a look he found dangerous. "Yeah, I do. And I'm not distracting you with my jumping around. You're getting distracted because you can't get past my hotness."

"I never said that."

Scorpia leaned close and brushed her chest against his. "You didn't have to." Draco exhaled heavily and lowered himself to optimum fighting stance. "I can tell."

His sharp, grey eyes met her warm brown ones, and she looked at the floor, giving him the perfect opening. He lunged at her, quick and silent like a panther, and tackled her to the floor. She landed with him on top of her, and let a smirk settle on her full lips. Before Draco even knew what was happening, she had flipped him over and was straddling him, her hands around his neck.

She lowered her upper body parallel to his, where Draco could just barely see a glimpse of her cleavage and lowered her face to his. Her eyelashes tickled his cheek, and she brought her lips to his ear. He shivered involuntarily. Her voice was low and seductive in his ear. "I could kill you right here . . ."

"But you won't," he panted, trying subtly to free his hands.

She shifted up a few inches, so their noses were almost touching. "And why's that?" She asked curiously.

He shifted to flip them, but she leapt upward with the grace of a feline and he followed her. They sparred, exchanging kicks and punches that didn't land, ducking and spinning around each other like a primitive dance of a tribe they did not know. Soon, he had backed her into a corner. His hand went to her throat.

"I could kill you right here," he growled.

Scorpia laughed. "But you won't," she replied.

"And why's that?" he repeated her line, keeping their script. She kissed his throat, right where his pulse point was throbbing, and he dropped his hand from her throat to fasten both of his hands around her waist. She ran one hand through his platinum hair and let her other hand move to his belt.

He kissed her on the mouth and let her pull him against her by his pants, prying her mouth open with his tongue. He ran his hands up her sides, slipping them under her robes, and felt her breathy sigh. She grazed his lower lip with her teeth, and his eyes fluttered closed. He surrendered to the beautiful girl in front of him, as he so often did, and all too soon, she was pushing him away.

"What, what's going on?" He asked blearily. She waited for his eyes to focus before holding up his wand with a smile.

"You little snake," he hissed playfully at her. "And here I thought you were just distracted by my hotness."

Scorpia untied her long, blonde hair and stepped closer to him again. "Don't get me wrong, Draco, I am."

"Good, then we should –"

"But I know you're reputation. You're a playboy, a womanizer."

Draco smirked. "Your point?"

"That's not how I work."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I am not A girl. I'm THE girl, and when you realize that, then you can have me. Until then, you can dream about me," she pocketed his wand and left the room, where Malfoy fixed his hair quickly and went to chase her down. He searched every corridor of the Manor and could not track down the elusive blonde with the strawberry pink lips. He found his wand on his pillow, with the hair elastic that held her hair up around the handle.

He fell onto his bed with a sigh. He hated this girl already.