Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter; all characters/ settings etc, from the books and or movies are property of J.K Rowling and whatever Movie producer attached additional copyright to the franchise. I write merely for my own amusement and to improve my skills.


The Best Summer Ever

Lenore

The cool, salty sea breeze wafted in though arced double doors thrown open to the lush green of an interior courtyard, white stone walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. Lenore Pottér de Varga, sat alone at her writing desk, carefully composing a letter. Often she paused to look critically at her neat, left leaning handwriting before continuing. A finished letter already sat on the corner of the desk, neatly secured in an envelope addressed Harry Potter. When the second letter was finished, she brushed aside the short strand of her long golden hair that was always stubbornly falling into her clear grey eyes, and addressed the letter to Severus Snape, Number 13 Spinner's End, New Mills, Hope Valley, England. She slipped the letter addressed to her nephew into the letter addressed to Snape, sealed it, and tied it to the leg of the owl that roosted in the den. She carried the sleepy owl into the courtyard, and released it. She watched as it disappeared over the walls of the castle.

"Severus," she murmured to the sky, "please don't hesitate this time."

Harry

Dementors have just attacked me. I'm all right, but I didn't do anything. I want to know what's going on and when I'm getting out of here.

The moment Harry was up in his room he copied those words out on three separate sheets of parchment. Then he filled out all the Ministries forms and tied the lot to Hedwig's leg as the snowy owl swallowed a whole frog.

"Now, deliver the message to the Ministry first. Then you take these straight to Sirius, Ron, and Hermione, and you don't come back until you've gotten good long replies, you here? Keep pecking at them until they've written descent-length answers, you hear?" said Harry harshly.

Hedwig hooted dolefully, blinking her wide amber eyes. If she had lips Harry was sure she would have smiled at him.

"Well, off you go then… and be careful, Hedwig," Harry added in a softer tone.

Harry watched her leave, and sighed. They would write back quickly. They couldn't ignore a Dementor attack, could they? He was sure that he'd wake up in the morning to three fat letters full explanations and sympathy.

Hedwig was nowhere to be seen in the morning.

The rest of morning was typical of Number Four. Harry woke up early and started breakfast, it had become an easier chore since Dudley went on a diet, mostly boiling porridge and slicing fresh fruit.

His Aunt and Uncle ignored him, as usual; Harry could tell they were pretending that nothing had happened last night. He knew they would never forget, or forgive him for what happened to Dudley, but Harry knew them well enough that unless someone else brought it up, they would never mention it again.

At eleven thirty Harry walked down to the park on Magnolia Crescent, there was a few groups of children playing tag and ball games in the field. Harry took a seat on his favourite swing to wait for James, he watched the children idly, sometimes he would catch them looking his way, they all stayed clear of him on account of Dudley and his "boys" but Harry could tell they were curious. He was an odd looking sort to be hanging around the super-suburban Little Whinging, dressed in Dudley's too big, misshapen cast-offs, and with his hair looking like he'd just stepped out of a wind tunnel.

Harry rocked back and forth in the swing. He hardly ever actually swung on it anymore, but he remembered when he was little, very little, he used to think of it as the closest someone could ever get to flying. Now that he'd actually flown on his very own broomstick the swing had lost its charm. While he rocked back and forth, Harry's thoughts turned inward to the twisted labyrinth of growing bitterness, feelings of betrayal, insecurities, and isolation.

"Why the long face, Harry?"

"James! When did you get here?" said Harry, startled.

"Just now actually. I got a bit turned around in the Crescents, Walks and Boulevards." James sat down in the swing beside Harry's. "I remember these things. Used to love them when I was little, seemed almost like flying. Have you had lunch yet?"

"What?"

"Have you had lunch yet? I haven't." James repeated.

"No, but – "

"Well then, lets go out for lunch. My treat. I saw this great little burger joint on my way in. It's not far." James grinned, laughing at Harry's disbelieving stare.

"Lets make your shadow earn their keep eh?" said James winking. "Come on then. I'm hungry."

The burger joint was a great place to eat; it had booth seats covered in stuffed leather, and the greatest wedge-cut fries, the thickest shakes and the best burgers Harry had ever tasted. James talked throughout the meal, it was light conversation, he talked about a few funny stories from when he was younger, about movies he enjoyed, about his favourite Quiddich – and other sports (for a wizard he was surprisingly knowledgeable about Hockey) – teams, and about his hobby of building motorcycles. Harry talked about Hogwarts, about Ron and Hermione, and argued (in the way that two sports fans do) about the Quiddich teams. The two boys found they were very similar.

They spent most of the rest of the afternoon cruising around on James' motorcycle; a sleek, sporty, black, red and gold machine that James' had custom built.

When James dropped him back off at number four, Privet Drive, Mrs. Figg was waiting for him. She didn't look happy.

"Uh… I'll see you later James." Harry said.

"Yeah, tomorrow?"

"If you'd like. It's my birthday… we won't be doing anything special…but you're welcome to come."

"I'll be here, wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Thanks…"

"G'night Harry."

As the taillights of James' motorcycle disappeared around a corner, Harry turned to face the scowling visage of Mrs. Figg.
"Harry Potter, just what do you think you're about? How can you be off gallivanting by yourself after what happened last night," said Mrs. Figg, waving an ancient bony finger in his face. "I thought you were told to stay in the house!"

"I wasn't by myself. I was with James," said Harry, irritated.

"Harry! He's a complete stranger! You don't know him!"

"I know more about him than I know about you," said Harry flatly. "Why didn't you tell me you were a Squib? All those times I came round to your house – why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, Harry! I wanted to, but Dumbledore ordered me not to. I was forbidden. I was to keep an eye on you, but not to say anything. You were too young. I'm sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys' would have never let you come if they thought you enjoyed it."

"Too young. I see. Too young to know that there just might have been someone in the whole wide world who cared. Just like I'm too young to know what is going on now? Too young to know that I have a permanent shadow, for my safety, that evidently can't be trusted to keep me safe?"

"Harry, its for your own good, Dumbledore knows what he's doing. You can't just go running off with… with whomever you like. What if he's dangerous?"

"If he'd wanted me dead, I think he would have let the Dementors finish me off."

"But, Harry, you don't know that!"

"And you don't know anything about him! Well I'll tell you what Mrs. Figg. Tell Dumbledore he can give me some answers and I just might be inclined to follow his directions. Until then, I'll do what I think is best."

With that Harry turned, walked up the garden path, and into the house, leaving a rather stunned Mrs. Figg standing alone in the street.

With a sigh he sank down on his bed, watching the room grow steadily darker around him. The twilight couldn't match the increasing darkness in the internal maze of his mind. No matter where his thoughts turned, there was something lurking – the Dementor attack, the realization that Dumbledore may have known how he was being treated his entire life, and chose to do nothing, the secrecy of his friends and Godfather, greatest of all, the failure of the wizarding world to act on Voldemort's return, and his own inability to do anything at all. Neglect, abuse, and uncaring adults who thought they had your best interests at heart. There seemed to be only one bright spot in the foreseeable future – James was coming to visit tomorrow.

On the day of his birthday a package from Hermione had arrived via the Post. When Harry unwrapped he had hoped that there would be a letter explaining what was happening, but the only thing the package contained was a thick book on historic battles, and a birthday card. The postmark showed that Hermione had mailed it a week ago. Harry sighed and had just settled down in the middle of his bed, flipping though the pages of the book, when he heard the dull rumble of motorcycle engines.

Grinning he ran down the stairs to greet James.

A shining motorbike coasted into the curb.

"Hey! Harry! Good to see you. Happy birthday mate," said James as he pulled off his helmet and stuffed it into a rucksack he had slung over his shoulder. Harry stared at it. James smiled. "Expanded the inside. I've got your presents in here. What say we find some place to open them?"

"We could go inside," said Harry, "its just Aunt Petunia today, Uncle Vernon is at work and Dudley's out with his friends. Like I said yesterday… nothing special."

Up in Harry's room, James, and Harry all sat down across from each other on the floor. Harry watched in amazement as James pulled at least a dozen large, brightly wrapped packages out of the small rucksack. Most of the packages contained ordinary clothes: T-shirts, some plain, some with stripes or designs; long sleeved shirts and light-knit turtle-necks; jeans of various colours, and styles, some with dragons or lions embroidered on the legs, along with matching jean jackets, as well as various khaki and tan cargo pants, that had all been fixed with re-sizing charms. One box held a magnificent pair of knee high motorcycle boots with red and gold lions stitched onto the black leather sides, while others held new trainers, dress shoes, and a slick pair of black half-boots that he could wear with his dress robes. Yet another held a set of books on famous Dark Wizards, the Dark Wizard Hunters who stopped them, and their magical minions. Yet another held a black dragon hide jacket with an embossed image of a Hungarian Horntail on the back. The most surprising thing came in the smallest box; it was a thin, hexagon shaped crystal, cut from some sort of banded glimmering, white and transparent stone, the size of a galleon that hung suspended in a silver hoop on a silver chain.

"What is it?" asked Harry, tilting the crystal in his hands so the white bands caught the light and refracted it in a rainbow of colours.

"It's a Speaking Stone, sort of like the Wizards version of the cell-phone. You can use it anytime to contact anyone else that has a Speaking Stone. They're very rare, but they're the most secure way to speak over distances in our world. They can't be tapped into like the Floo network," said James, grinning as Harry's expression changed from curiosity, to awe, to a look of soft humility and utter gratitude. "Now, you can call me anytime," said James taking hold of one of the many chains around his neck. With a deft flick of his fingers produced an identical necklace. "Here," James reached across the circle and cupped Harry's hands around the crystal. "Before you use it you have to attune it to you, just hold it in your hands and concentrate on the Stone, yeah! You've got it!"

The Stone in Harry's hands had started to glow, the glimmering milky bands shifted and swirled inside of the stone, expanding and shimmering until the entire inside of the crystal was filled with iridescence. Out of the shimmering depths, Harry's face appeared then disappeared, and the Stone returned to normal. Harry looked at James.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Well, now, if you want to use the Speaking Stone to reach me, you just hold your Stone in your hand and think about the person you want to talk to, if it helps you can say their name out loud, but it's not necessary. If I try calling you, your stone with hum slightly, or glow, depends."

"That's amazing. Will it work over any distance?"

"Any distance, you could be anywhere in the world. The Speaking Stones were all cut from the same source years ago, its mined out now, but because of that all the Stones are connected, nothing can separate them."

"How did you get them, if they're so rare?"

"They've been in my family for years," said James.

"You're a pureblood then, aren't you?"

"Yes... is there something wrong with that?" James asked softly.

"No! Not at all…" said Harry. "One of my best friends is a pureblood. There's nothing wrong with that. It doesn't matter to me. Just most of them can be kind of…" Harry fumbled for a word that wouldn't be too offensive.

"Arrogant, self-centred, wankers?" James supplied with a smirk. "Of course we are."

Harry gaped at James.

"A man's got to know his limitations and flaws, Harry," said James sagely. "It's often the trappings of a pampered childhood. I was very spoiled as a child. Most purebloods are, Harry. You see, children in pureblood families are rare, so each one is treated as though they were the most precious thing in the world," he laughed without mirth. "Tends to give folks a rather swelled head."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, and wondered if the abundant proliferation of the Weasleys is what had keep them all from becoming copies of Draco Malfoy.

"Hey, you want to go see a movie?" James suggested.

Harry looked thoughtfully at his new clothes.

"Sure. Uh – can I have a minute to change? I'd rather not look like a bum if I don't have too."

"No problem mate. I'll wait for you out by the bike," said James.

Just a few minutes later Harry came outside dressed in well-fitted black, boot-cut jeans tucked into the tops of his new motorcycle boots, a black T-shirt with the face of a snarling, green-eyed black jaguar on the front, and a dark-wash jean jacket.

James flicked something to the ground and coughed.

"Looking good, Harry. Ready to roll?" said James, handing Harry a helmet that had come, presumably, out of his rucksack.

"Where you smoking?" Harry asked.

James coughed again. "Of course not."

Harry looked sceptical. James was still holding out the helmet. Harry laughed and took the helmet. "Ready to roll," he said.

James came around every day to hang out with Harry. He would arrive around noon and leave around five. Once Dudley and his gang tried to scare James off. They found out the hard way that another of James' hobbies was mixed martial arts. They never tried interfering in James and Harry's friendship again.

James answered almost any question Harry asked him; what a Trace was (the way the Ministry tracks underage magic), exactly how illegal it was to have magically modified motorcycles (extremely) were among the many questions that Harry got answers to. James also explained more about Dementors, and the magic sucking Dampening Field they produced when they were hunting.

Harry found it very easy to talk to James, the older boy was an attentive listener, always asking questions to keep Harry talking, smoothly flowing through the tides and eddies of Harry's tumultuous thoughts like a master white-water rafter. He ended up telling James more about his life than he had ever told anyone else, including Ron and Hermione. Harry talked about his fears, his life at the Dursleys, the utter helplessness he felt being stuck in Privet Drive with no access to his own world every summer, the frustration he held towards his friends and Dumbledore for not telling him anything, the lingering doubt that nobody felt he could be trusted not to act rashly if he knew what was going on.

It was such a relief to be able to talk about anything. Never once did James look at him with pity, never once did James ever accuse him of making something up or of being a glory hog. Harry didn't have to talk if he didn't want to, James was always happy to fill the silence with other light hearted chatter, or to simply cruise the streets of Little Whinging together on his motorcycle. Within the week after his birthday Harry felt almost as close to James as he did to Ron and Hermione, there were times when Harry wondered if that was what it would have been like to have an older brother (although from what he'd seen of Ron's relationships with Fred and George he wasn't sure).

Sometimes James spoke with such wisdom and experience that Harry wondered if he was really only seventeen.

So it was on one rainy day that the duo sat quietly in Harry's room, listening to the bawdy voices of Dudley and his friends in the den below, that Harry got up the courage to ask James about his family.

"Do your parents mind you coming out to see me every day like this?"

James blinked slowly, and lowering his head from the contemplation of the ceiling light, answered. "My parents are dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Really."

"They were old. And since I'm 'of age' I don't really qualify as an orphan. I can take care of myself."

"Don't you ever miss them?"

James looked away briefly before meeting Harry's eyes. "All the time."

Harry took his photo album off the night table and flipped it open, tracing his fingers over the face of his mother. "I don't really remember my parents. Sometimes… when the Dementors are around, I can hear Mum's voice, defiant. It's all I remember of her. I don't remember my dad at all."

James moved next to Harry and placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. He didn't know what to say.

"I know its silly, but when I was younger, I used to hope that one day someone – anyone – would show up, proclaim they were my family and take me away from here."

"That's not silly, Harry. Without hope, there is no reason to live. You kept yourself alive by hoping."

"Then Hagrid came and told me I was a wizard, and now… for a little while each year I get to leave this place…"

"Do you want to leave? Forever?"

Harry flipped the page to the photograph of his parents wedding, and the image of Sirius Black. "More than anything. A couple years ago, I had the chance… but I messed it up."

James' eyes hardened. Harry could not tell the focus of his ire.

A sudden gust of wind drove the rain into the window with a vigorous splatter.

The bedroom door burst open. Uncle Vernon filled the doorframe, huffing and blowing. "What are you doing here while my son is in the house?"

"Staying out of the rain, Uncle Vernon," Harry said quietly.

Uncle Vernon pointed an accusing finger at Harry, and eyed James warily.

"And what have you been doing up in the attic?"

"Nothing, Uncle Vernon. Aunt Petunia told me to stay in my room until Dudley left for the movies with Mrs. Polkiss this afternoon."

"Well Dudley told me that he'd seen you in the attic doing… things."

"I wasn't! I swear. I've been in my room all day! I only left once to let James in."

James shrugged. "We've been in here since after lunch…"

Uncle Vernon eyed James suspiciously. Then abruptly left the room. His heavy footsteps retreated down the stairs. James and Harry exchanged looks, then got to their feet and went to the attic.

They poked around in the attic for a while, looking around dust-encrusted boxes and aged electronics covered with dustsheets. Just as Harry was about to suggest going back downstairs, James popped the latch on an old trunk and a Boggart leapt out. At least Harry assumed it was a Boggart, since he was quietly standing by the stairs, and not furiously shouting that James was a bloody lair, and a bloody coward. As well as other things that Harry would never have been able to repeat in polite company.

"Riddikulus!"

The Boggart turned into a chibi, pink, piggish Dudley that James then soccer punted across the room with a high-pitched squeerk. Harry burst out laughing at the rapid series of fritts and squeaks the Boggart made as it hit the wall, bounced, hit the floor and bounced several more times before disappearing in a poof of smoke. James chuckled nervously and slid his wand back up his sleeve.

When Harry stopped laughing, the boys regarded each other in silence for a long while. There was a tension in the way James held himself that reminded Harry of a deer about to bolt.

"Why are you afraid of me?" Harry asked at last.

"Not of you… exactly…" James answered. "But that you'll hate me…"

"Have you been lying to me all this time?"

"Kind of…"

Harry frowned, and reached for his wand. "You're not a Death Eater, are you?"

James smiled, and laughed, some of the tension eased, "Merlin, no!"

"You're not going to kill me, are you?"

James shook his head, "Never. I'd die first."

"… You are my friend… right?"

"Yes."

"Then what have you been lying to me about?"

James shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Well… it's complicated, and well… it's not really something I've said… more of something I haven't…"

"You don't have to be afraid to tell me."

"But I am. More than anything."

Harry wanted to demand the truth then and there. He felt anger and bitterness rising… and then he remembered the Boggart, and knew that this was exactly the reaction James was afraid off. So, instead, he took a deep breath, released it, and walked over to James and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me now… when you're ready… I'm sure you will."

James nodded, and smiled weakly.

Harry regarded James slyly as they descended from the attic.

"I know your secret," he said jokingly.

James gulped, "What?"

"You smoke, don't you?" Harry proclaimed triumphantly.

James coughed, started to say something once or twice, and then changed his mind. "It's only illegal in muggle areas…" he admitted lamely. "'Cause the age of majority is different for wizards."

"Aunt Petunia says it's the most disgusting habit anyone could ever have."

"If I was a pettier man, I'd take it up just for that," James chuckled. "But that's not what I need to tell you. Harry… I'm – "

"It can wait," said Harry firmly. "Mrs. Polkiss will be here soon, and you'll probably have to leave after that. Uncle Vernon has an old school friend coming over, and I'm supposed to make supper for them."

After the incident with the Boggart, there were times when James would fall into a sullen silence, and Harry always change the subject. In his heart he knew, that if whatever it was that James was keeping from him would ruin their new friendship, then he did not want to know about it. It seemed to be the start of what would be the best summer Harry had ever had at Privet Drive. His new friend gave him back a spark of life that Harry hadn't even known he'd been missing. As each night past, Harry thought less and less of leaving Privet Drive, and more and more about what he and James would do tomorrow. Staring out the window at the streetlamps, Harry often wished that he could have spent summers like this with Ron and Hermione. He wasn't even angry anymore that Hedgwig hadn't returned with answers yet.

Author's Notes: Warning, may contain content considered slightly spoilery if you have not read the original version of the story. Main changes to this chapter are: The addition of a scene with the previously mention but as of yet unseen Lenore Potter/Varga, James Potters sister and Harry's paternal Aunt. The removal of the characters Lenore Stag and Lillianne, James is the only one who comes to meet Harry. Also there is an inclusion of a bad habit for James, and the scene with the Boggart. I had originally wanted to make James a smoker, but had not had a good way to include the habit in the original story, so here I worked it in. Foreshadowing? If you've read the other version of the story, you already know.