Disclaimer: If you think I own this, then you're wrong. I don't think I've horribly plagiarised anyone, but if I have, tell me, and I'll stop writing and apologise profusely. There's a little quote from Hilaire Belloc's poem "Lord Lundy" in there, and the rest is Harry Potter. The Association of Consumers and Taxpayers (ACT) is a real political party in NZ, as is National. The election's coming up later this month, and I'm a politics student, so I have it on my mind.

Rating: PG-13 Rude language. Sexual innuendo. Might contain slash, eventually, if it fits with the storyline, which is doubtful at this stage.

Author's note: There's a little dictionary of NZ slang terms at the end of every chapter, in case anyone is confused and can be bothered. Feedback would be nice.

An Antipodean Adventure

By maudlinrose

Part Two

It happens then that the Potter children, named as they are after English monarchs, grow up to be not in the least bit noble. Oh, no. They are tall, yes, and good looking - sturdy looking creatures from suburban Auckland, but not in the least bit upper class. They shop at Takapuna and Milford, go to the movies, and generally amuse themselves with the strange combination of the muggle and magical worlds they find themselves living in.

At eleven, they'd gone off to the New Zealand Institute for Magical Learning, rather than being sent to the local intermediate, and there they have stayed. The teachers might be disillusioned with the whole education thing, and prone to going on strike for improved pay and conditions whenever they felt like it, but the students learn all the required curriculum, including making Portkeys and how to avoid the magical law enforcement in other nations.

Harry is fifteen, tall, athletic looking, and bored. The other Wizarding boys his age are trying to set up some kind of Quidditch match - North Island vs. South, but Harry doesn't really go in for team sports. Or, in fact, any kind of sport. He may look like he dodges Bludgers for a living, but he truly despises anything that makes him sweat. Except sexual activity. He hasn't quite figured out that there is a connection between being seen playing dangerous sports and having young witches and wizards fall at your feet in anticipation, but he's young. He'll get there.

"Harry, you know you'll never pass Potions if you don't study."

"It's January, Mum. We're on holiday. You know, that thing called summer?"

"You know, that thing called sarcasm? Don't. Teenage rebellion is one thing, but outright disrespect is another. We can always send you back to England, you know, and you'll have to go to boarding school."

"Mum! That's a horrible thing to threaten me with!"

"Well, why don't you go outside then, it's a nice day."

"I don't want to."

"I don't care. Go to the beach. Swim. Annoy the girl next door. I don't care... just... go, Harry. I have stuff to do."

"You never tell Will or Liz they have to go outside, not if they don't want."

Lily sighs. "Harry, how many times have we had this conversation? For the love of Christ, it's because they're the good children."

"Fine, fine, whatever. I'm going. I need money."

"Muggle or Wizarding?"

"Doesn't matter. Lots, though. Haven't bought Dad a present yet."

"Harry! His birthday is tomorrow."

"So?"

"So? So, you're supposed to plan things better than that. You know, shop in advance?"

"Don't like shopping."

"Make him something then."

"Bit late for that, isn't it? It's his birthday tomorrow."

Sometimes, Lily muses, she regrets having children in the first place.

*

"Harry? Come down here for a moment," Lily calls her errant son.

"Yes, mum?" asks Harry.

"Look. You know the Ministry back in England has sent a representative out here for a month?"

". yeah." says Harry, sounding doubtful.

"Well, the funny thing is, your father and I went to school with him and his wife. Of course, he was a few years ahead of us, but Mrs. Malfoy was in my year. And they brought their children out - something about their oldest not liking boarding school much, and getting all resentful and uncommunicative, so they took the opportunity to spend a month with him. There's only a few official meetings for Mr. Malfoy to deal with, so they're going to explore the country a bit as a family while they're here."

"Okaaay. I really don't see what this has to do with me."

"Er, well. Draco - that's the oldest - he's your age. And I told Mrs. Malfoy, and she agreed, that it would be nice if you showed him round town while he's here. You know, show him what you kids do?"

"So, mum, what you're saying is you want me to spend my valuable summer holiday showing around some aristocratic kid whose parents are supposed to be taking the time to 'get to know him' but apparently want to fob him off on me instead?"

"Yes, Harry, that's precisely what I'm saying. You will be nice. You will be kind. You will make your mother proud. You understand? It'd make your father happy, too. He didn't like Mr. Malfoy much when he was at school, and doesn't want it to look like he's still holding a grudge."

"Alright then. Do I get paid for this?"

"Your father and I have agreed to refund you any and all reasonable expenses you may incur during your time with the Malfoy's son. Reasonable does not include the purchase of chocolate or sweets. You will provide us with receipts."

"Woohoo! So, technically, we could go to McDonalds for lunch everyday, and you'd have to pay me back, because it's, like, cultural and shit."

"McDonalds is not cultural, Harry."

"It so is. I mean, the guy's an English pureblood, right? And, like, McDonalds is an icon of muggle life. It's symbolic of the enforced Americanisation of New Zealand culture. One cannot truly experience the muggle lifestyle without choking down a Quarter Pounder once or twice. The Quarter Pounder is a case in point, mum. New Zealand doesn't even use the imperial system of weights anymore - not since, when, 1967? Yet we constantly - "

"Harry."

"Yes, mum?"

"I'm not paying you to take some boy to McDonalds."

"God, you're so horrible to me."

"Like I said, you're not the good child."

*

"Harry, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is my son, Harry." "Um, hi."

"Hello."

"Harry, do you want to take Draco to the beach?"

"What, now?"

"Oh, for the love of. yes, Harry, now."

"Right then."

The two boys head outside, Draco following the taller Harry. Nothing is said for a while. There seem to be a lot of hills in Auckland, and Draco is panting, a bit. They stop at the top of a hill, and look down towards a sandy beach. Harry speaks.

"Draco? Draco Malfoy?"

"Think my name's funny, do you?"

"Your name is Draco. What do you think? I mean, I thought Henry was bad. At least nobody calls me that."

"Henry?"

"It's my real first name, stupid. Everyone calls me Harry though."

"You're right. It's not as bad as Draco. Wasn't one of the muggle English kings called Henry?"

"You really don't get out much, do you?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "There were eight English kings called Henry. The eighth beheaded two of his wives, changed the entire English Church so he could divorce his first, and had a boil on his thigh you could stick a fist in."

"Oh. Heh."

The silence between the two is broken only by the sound of rubber slapping on the tarseal. Sun shines through the trees. The sky is a fresh, clean blue. Seagulls squawk as they make their merry way down to the beach, in search of food. Draco wishes he'd thought to bring a hat along. His pale English skin is no match for the burning New Zealand summer. The ozone is thin, here, and he'll be as red as a lobster by the end of the day. Harry looks unconcerned by the heat, and slaps absently at a fly.

"Well, this is it. The beach."

"I can see that."

It's strange. Most guys Draco knows are not bothered by silence. Conversations with his Slytherin housemates are dominated by it, and punctuated with grunts. He's never worried about it before. But silence with Harry is different, hard somehow. Twelve thousand kilometres of culture shock sits between them like a glass barrier. For once in his life, he doesn't know what to say.

"Look, Malfoy, I'm going to go up to the dairy. Get an ice cream or something. D'you want one?"

"Er, okay. Can I come?"

"What, to the dairy?"

"What else would I be talking about, Harry?"

"Fine. It's just up the road. See the sign?"

Draco is confused as to why a dairy would be signposted, but it becomes clear to him as they reach a rather decrepit building and Harry stops, turns, and looks at Draco expectantly. "So, what d'you want?" It seems that, in New Zealand, a dairy is a kind of general shop, like those found in more rural areas of Wizarding Britain.

*

It's not until they finish their iceblocks that Draco feels the need to make a snarky comment. After all, Harry's the one who bought the sticky blue iceblock that has dripped all over Draco's fingers because he'd been too slow in eating it; he doesn't even have anything to wipe them on, except his clothes.

"So, Harry, you like New Zealand? The isolation, the natural beauty? The complete lack of basic amenities?"

"Well, yeah."

Damn. "And you like being the most mediocre member of a mediocre family"

"Yep, less pressure."

Does the guy not understand that he's being insulted? "So. I hear that your school doesn't even have a Quidditch Tournament. Or even a real curriculum."

"Why the hell are you asking me about school, anyway? I'm on holiday, for Christ sakes. And, like, why are you even here - shouldn't you be in school? You know, with the snow and the cold and the shared bathrooms?"

"My father took us off school for the month."

"Good for him. I'm going swimming."

The fucking git. "Thanks for the. iceblock?"

"Whatever."

*

Dictionary of Terms:

Takapuna and Milford: suburbs on the North Shore

Intermediate: students normally start intermediate at age 10 or 11, and go on to High School at age 12 or 13.

Rubber: presumably from the soles of their shoes. I don't know why I felt the need to clarify this.

Tarseal: refers to the surface of the road. On really hot summer days, the tar melts, and your jandals - called, variously, flip flops, thongs, or Japanese sandals - stick to the road. It sucks.