Someday, I will own something of great value. This will not be Harry Potter, as J K Rowling already owns that. I actually don't own anything of this story, just the events. No characters, no places, no spells... It's actually kind of depressing.

Summer Break (sigh)

Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the newly elected most-elegible-bachelor- in-Hogwarts, the last hope of the wizarding world, was bored. Bored. B. O. R. E. D. He had just turned 17, had less than four weeks before term started, and numerous birthday cakes Dudley knew nothing about, but none of this really made him happy. For one thing, he wasn't allowed to use Hedwig, for fear she'd get intercepted. For another, he was only allowed to use magic if all the Order members patrolling Privet Drive were killed or disabled in an attack. Most frustrating of all, Dumbledore had decreed it was too dangerous for him to leave the Dursleys' until two weeks before term.

So he was stuck. He had exactly two people at all interested in talking to him. Dudley, same as since they were toddlers, still loved to bait Harry. All summer long, a constant natter of 'you don't have any friends, family, blah, blah, blah,' as Dudley showed off his new gangster-style outfits, thinking himself so cool. Dudley had grown out of his baby fat, unfortunately developing into a 250lb linebacker build. Luckily for Harry, he hadn't gotten any faster, so he was still able to get away from him with comparable ease.

Mrs. Figg was the only other person Harry made regular contact with, and he much preferred her company. She at least knew about magic, knew his life, and would never dare to taunt him about having no family. The batty, cat- loving squib always had chocolate cake (with a light dusting of cat fur), comfy chairs (better than his bed, but covered with a thin coat of cat fur), and never told Harry to do chores (other than sweeping cat fur off of whatever he tried to touch). Unfortunately, as a squib, she had to rely on owls for news too. She knew a little more than Harry, as Lord Voldemort obviously didn't think much of a squib so communication with the Order was possible. The information she had, however, was not exactly a lot. Voldemort (she still flinched when she read the name) was somewhere wandering the countryside, but none of his Death Eaters had declared themselves yet. The Order was trying to glean more members, but not having a lot of luck, due to trust reasons. The occasional lone witch or wizard had gone missing, so everyone had stopped going out alone.

Basically, nothing was going on. The war was at a standstill. There wasn't even any homework to do. You knew Harry was bored when he'd finished Snape's grueling mandrake restorative draught essay, and rewrote it twice. Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, he'd finished everything for all of them. Hermione would be pleased, he thought with a grin. And then got sad again because he was so entirely, out-of-his- mind lonely. This was the dullest summer... ...Well, maybe not the dullest. Two weeks into vacation, Dudley had won four season passes as a door prize to a country riding stable. Luckily, Mrs. Figg was drawing the tickets, and loudly proclaimed, "Well, that's just perfect then. All four of you can go for a nice family day. It's so kind of you to treat your nephew so nicely." So they had to take Harry, or be looked down on as cruel caregivers.

And off they went, Harry holding all the luggage on his lap, while Dudley took up the other two thirds of the back seat himself. Oddly enough, it wasn't so bad. Harry's experiences with Buckbeak ensured he could convince the horses to carry him, and quidditch training meant he would never fall off. Once he proved himself a competent rider (even though it was the first time he'd ridden an actual horse) the ranchers allowed him to split off from the Dursleys, something they thoroughly endorsed.

It had actually been kind of nice, at first, Harry mused. He'd gotten his dappled gelding to take a less used sidepath, hoping to get away from the crowds of people. It worked. Unfortunately. He was just entering a thick copse of trees when he heard a snap, as a foot on a dry stick. Harry had wheeled his now spooked steed around as best he could, but too late. Bellatrix Lestrange was blocking his path, wand raised. He rolled sideways off the horse, chanting a shield spell Hermione had been determined to teach him as he landed in a crouch. Good thing he'd actually learned it well, too. Bellatrix's incendio spell ricocheted off his incomplete spell, igniting a tree. That was it for the horse. It got its scorched, spotted rump out of there, narrowly avoiding Crabbe and Goyle Sr. as they stepped out from behind a large oak. Malfoy, Nott, Avery, nearly all of Voldemort's inner circle had managed to trap Harry here, away from even muggle help.

Thanks to the Triwizard Tournament in the fourth year, and an Auror as a DADA teacher in the sixth, Harry had quite an arsenal of jinxes, curses, charms, hexes, and other offensive and defensive dueling spells at his disposal. He wasted no time in firing off a Furnunculus curse at Nott, the closest, starting to finish his shield almost before the previous spell left his wand tip. Once it was woven into a glowing bubble, he started to methodically curse off the Death Eaters, closest ones first. Their spells were rebounding, or simply being absorbed, so Harry held them at a shaky stalemate. Of course, then, they got smart. In order to have such an effective magic barrier, it could only affect magic. Avery, struggling out of a thorn bush, launched himself at Harry. They hit the ground, Harry frantically grappling with the heavier and more experienced Death Eater to stay in his protective circle. Avery's left hand was groping for Harry's throat, his right hand occupied with Harry's wand hand. Without warning, as his fingers brushed the skin, a flash of pain shot through Harry's head, and Avery fell back with a yell.

Not one to waste opportunities, Harry scrambled up, spelling his barrier into mobility to protect his escape. Lucius grabbed at his arm, fingernails digging through the torn fabric of Harry's shirt. He gave a grunt, clenching his teeth as Harry's scar jabbed with pain again, but held on. So, Harry reached out and grabbed his face. Now Lucius let go, stumbling backwards clutching at his forearm and face, shrieking with pain. If he hadn't been so busy running, Harry would have joined him. His head was aching with the repeated scar flashes, and with the effort of maintaining his shield and firing off other spells. He didn't seem to have much choice with either. Another curse reverberated off the barrier, throwing him forward into Crabbe and Goyle. He wasted no time, grabbing at any skin he could see to burn them off like a couple of parasites. They too, fell off, and Harry ran, buffeted by curses until he'd nearly reached the ranch.

There were already Ministry wizards there. The Dursleys were actually looking worried, but that was mostly because Kingsley Shacklebolt was questioning them, no doubt looking very intimidating to a bunch of muggles. Harry had yelled for them to check the woods as Bill and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley fussed over him, but the Death Eaters had already disapparated. He'd been told by Mr. Weasley that he must stay in his home, as the Death Eaters were getting much better at tracking him. And as the orders came directly from Dumbledore, Harry really didn't have any choice but to follow them.

So, he'd been stuck in Number 4 Privet Drive ever since. Of course, this meant he'd had a lot of time to think. Quirrell, in the first year, had been unable to touch him, and he couldn't remember Tom Riddle even trying. But in the fourth year, Voldemort's resurrection had done something strange to his mother's love magic. Voldemort could touch him, although Harry was in agony, but it appeared the original magic was still in play. He'd noticed Malfoy being just as pained by his forearm as his face, where Harry had actually grabbed him. It had to be the Dark Mark. Voldemort's magic was clashing with his own given power, and unfortunately for the Death Eaters that came in contact with him, they became the medium. Poor Death Eaters. Not.

He heard Aunt Petunia shrieking from the kitchen for supper, and Dudley and Uncle Vernon thundering down the stairs, bellowing for Harry to move his ungrateful, anemic (well, they were the ones who had been starving him for 17 years. It wasn't his fault) ass into the kitchen so they could start supper. Only two more weeks, two more...

Author's note: So, what do you think? It's part of an idea that popped into my head, but wouldn't fit in Ryua's story. Of course, if you don't like slash, just substitute Ryua's name for Draco's.