"I still don't understand why we need to take pictures of every snowman," Dudley said.
He and Harry were at the park in Little Whinging, and Harry was posing proudly next to a snowman that was taller than him by at least two feet. As the only two people willing to venture out since the blizzard last night, they were taking full advantage of all the untouched snow by building as many snowmen as possible.
"I'm making a point, Dudley," Harry explained, patting the snowman, which teetered dangerously. "Pansy and Draco are going to see what they're missing out on, hiding from the winter."
Dudley rolled his eyes and snapped the picture. "Why are we using a muggle camera, though?"
Harry backed quickly away from the snowman in case it fell. "Two reasons," he explained, jumping into a deep patch of untouched snow and sinking up to his knees. "The first is that I forgot to buy one when we went to Diagon Alley before Christmas." He stretched his arms out above his head and fell onto his back. Dudley walked over and took another picture, at which Harry stuck out his tongue.
"And the other reason?" Dudley asked, setting the camera on top of Harry's bag where it lay nearby. He joined Harry in the drift as the snowman collapsed to the ground.
"The other reason," Harry said as they waved their arms languidly, making snow angels, "Is that I don't think Pansy has ever really seen a muggle picture before, and I think it'd be funny to see her reaction."
Dudley snickered. "Oh no!" he said in a high pitched voice. "The poor little people aren't moving! Are they dead?"
"What have you done to them?" Harry added in a similarly high voice, laughing outright. "Did you petrify them?"
After a short while, they got up and admired their imprints in the snow. They were nearly identical, though Dudley's was a bit bigger and Harry's had large holes in it's legs where he had been standing. Harry grabbed the camera and took a picture of them as well.
Uncle Vernon was taking them to Diagon Alley later, once he got back from work. They planned to meet Neville and Anthony there. Dudley was going to spend the rest of the break with Neville, Harry with Anthony, and Uncle Vernon with Aunt Marge, who was coming up to visit tomorrow. It all worked out extremely well, in Harry's opinion, but then again, a lot of things had been working out well lately, except for that last snowman. Harry exchanged actual presents with Uncle Vernon this year, for example. (Uncle Vernon had gotten him an obnoxious red and gold Christmas sweater, but Harry figured it was the thought that counted.)
The Dementors had been removed from Hogwarts after much debate directly before break started, which meant that Harry had not been required to pass them on the way to the train, and the trip home had been decent. The traps in the secret passage at Hogwarts had not been triggered yet, either. And Harry was spending the rest of the holiday with Anthony, whom he was hoping would help him explore some of the features of the Marauder's Map that Harry still had yet to work out. There were things about the Map that Harry didn't know, he was sure of it.
"Harry," Dudley called, and a snowball whacked Harry in the head as he turned. Harry dove behind a snow bank with a yell and prepared his own ammunition. Dudley already had a handful, and Harry refused to be ambushed. The next snowball sailed past Harry's faux-fort and hit Uncle Vernon's car.
Harry poked his head out from behind the snow bank warily. Uncle Vernon climbed out of the car and promptly had to duck.
"Dudley!"
"Sorry, dad." He sounded anything but. Harry grinned.
"Are you two ready to go?" Uncle Vernon asked, watching Dudley suspiciously. Dudley nodded and let the snowballs in his arms fall as he picked up Harry's bag, which held both his and Harry's trunks inside Harry's little box of wizard space.
"Let's go," he said. Harry held his position until Dudley had his back turned and Harry felt he had a sporting chance of hitting him in the back of the head. He let fly his ammo, and his aim was true.
"l still think you're a sneak," Dudley grumbled as they waited for Anthony to arrive.
"Slytherin, remember?" Harry shrugged. "It's my nature."
Dudley rolled his eyes and glanced at Neville, who had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron by floo a few minutes ago.
"Can't trust a Slytherin," he muttered, nudging Neville with his elbow. Harry raised his eyebrow and took offense.
"'Course you can trust me, Dudders," he said with a sweet smile. "I mean, who made us breakfast this morning? If you're not worried that I might have spiked your oatmeal with, say, one or two or those Zonko's products you left in the bottom left drawer of your desk, then I don't think we have to worry about trust issues."
Dudley blanched, and gave Harry, who was grinning innocently at him, a worried look. Neville snickered and waved at someone behind Harry.
It was Anthony. "Hello," he said, nodding at Dudley and Neville. He turned to Harry. "Ready to go?"
"We'll see you at school, Harry," Neville said, tugging a now suspicious Dudley to his feet and hefting one end of Dudley's trunk. Harry waved at them and left with Anthony.
"Have you ever ridden on the Knight Bus?" Anthony asked as they left the Leaky Cauldron. Harry shook his head and eyed the large, violently purple bus waiting for them. There was a brown haired woman standing in the door.
"You'll be Harry then?" she asked, stepping aside so they could enter. Harry nodded and stepped up into the bus behind Anthony, noting with some worry the thick glasses worn by the bus driver. "I am Anthony's mother, Madeline Goldstein," said the brown haired woman as she led him through the bus. "You may call me Madeline, or 'Excuse Me, Ma'am', if you are uncomfortable with using my given name. Asking for a 'Mrs. Goldstein' will give you the attention of my mother-in-law's eccentric ghost while you remain on the property, so I suggest you avoid it."
She was interrupted at this point by a pimply boy in a purple cap which matched the bus. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency-"
"We don't need the speech, thank you," Madeline said curtly. She led Harry and Anthony over to a grouping of armchairs at the back of the bus. "Trust me, it's best if you have two walls to brace against for the first trip," she assured Harry, seating him in the corner.
Harry sat, setting his bag down beside him. The boy, who seemed to be the conductor, looked rather put out at his dismissal and went back to the front of the bus.
"Of course, I've paid your fare," Anthony's mother said in a matter of fact tone, placing her feet firmly on the ground. "You might want to pick up your bag."
Harry reached down to pull it into his lap, but the bus lurched forward very suddenly and nearly threw him out of his chair. Anthony caught the bag by the strap with his foot, though he didn't make the same mistake Harry did of leaning forward to pick it up.
"We take the Knight Bus a lot," Anthony said. "It's an interesting way to get around. Useful, too. You can hail it anywhere, it's rather like finding a muggle taxi, I believe. You just hold up your wand hand and it'll show up."
Harry nodded and felt grateful for being in a corner. The three of them discussed the differences between muggle taxis and the Knight Bus for a few minutes, until Anthony and his mother seemed to tire of the topic and decided to drift out of the conversation simultaneously. This meant that Harry, who had only been participating through nods and various thoughtful noises up to this point, was suddenly the only person paying any attention at all.
He looked back and forth between them, confused. Anthony was staring aimlessly out a window, and his mother had taken up an absentminded sort of interest in the upholstery of the armchair next to Harry's.
Good to know where Anthony got his scintillating personality, then.
The Goldstein's house was in an area that was part-Muggle, part-wizarding, and it was fairly large. Anthony had initially told him that there were only three bedrooms: one for his parents, one for Anthony, and the guest bedroom where Harry would be staying.
Harry soon realized that while this wasn't a lie, it was certainly not accurate. There were, in fact, six rooms that were meant to be bedrooms. The other three rooms had been converted to libraries, and each member of the family had their own.
"My family has been in Ravenclaw for the past four generations on both sides," Anthony told Harry promptly when asked. "Why?"
On the first morning Harry spent at the Goldsteins, he woke to silence. After showering and dressing, he set off in search of the kitchen and found it empty. All the other rooms on the first floor were in the same state. Harry assumed that everyone was still asleep, and settled down in the living room to wait.
After about a half an hour, Anthony's father appeared on the stairs. He was a tall man with dark hair and a book shaped face. Where his nose usually would have been were the words, Phantasmagoria: The Logic of the Imaginary. He disappeared into the kitchen, and Harry quickly followed, hoping that maybe food would appear now that someone was awake.
Harry watched, impressed, as Anthony's father made himself a very elaborate sandwich without ever looking up from his book. Unfortunately, this meant he didn't see Harry, and so Harry decided to speak up.
"Erm, excuse me," he said, hopeful. Anthony's father started and nearly dropped his sandwich.
"Oh, yes, Anthony's friend." He looked Harry with curious eyes as he took a bite of his sandwich. "And how are you enjoying our home?"
"It's very nice," Harry said, and decided that perhaps he would have to treat Anthony's parents the way he treated Anthony. Being blunt was key. "I was wondering what I should eat for breakfast."
Anthony's father looked surprised. "Is it breakfast time?" he glanced at a clock on the wall, and his expression switched to one of mild alarm. "Oh, dear, I've gotten the sandwich all wrong. It's meant to be egg before noon. Madeline will not be impressed." He turned to leave the kitchen again, taking a much larger bite out of his sandwich. "Have whatever you want," he told Harry as the door swung shut behind him.
Harry stood alone in the middle of the kitchen. There was no refrigerator. No stove. The Goldsteins did not have house elves. Harry was at a loss. He eventually gave up when a search of the cabinet Mr. Goldstein had procured his sandwich from produced nothing but dishes and cutlery.
"Anthony?" Harry knocked on Anthony's bedroom door, feeling guilty but hungry. "Are you awake?"
After about a minute of silence, Harry poked his head in and found that Anthony's bed was empty. His jaw dropped.
"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered to himself as he crossed the hall to Anthony's other room. "Hello?" he asked, sticking his head inside and finding Anthony at last, curled up in a chair, reading. Anthony's head came up at Harry's arrival, though his eyes stayed on the book. He did that a lot.
"Good morning," he remarked, turning a page. Harry sighed and walked further into the room, inspecting it. It was a library, of that there was no doubt. Every available surface housed books, and many, many more floated above their heads in lieu of a ceiling, spines facing downward for easy perusal. Presumably Anthony used a summoning charm when he wanted one. "I got quite a few of these after second year," Anthony said, having noticed Harry's attention on the books. "Those basilisk parts went for a good amount. You're up late."
"I've been up for a few hours now," Harry said, sitting down. "I've spent most of the morning searching fruitlessly for food. You?"
"There's fruit in the kitchen," Anthony told him. "It's all in the pantry. The door has a little painting of food on it. You can't miss it."
Harry blinked. "You mean that wall shaped area? With the leaves in the picture?"
"They're not leaves, they're spinach."
Harry gaped at him. "I'm going to go eat," he said finally. "Do you want something?"
Anthony checked his watch. "An egg sandwich, if you don't mind," he said, and went back to his book.
Harry found out about the Sandwich Rule that day. Everyone had to eat at least once every eight hours, and depending on the time, a certain type of sandwich was required if they were too busy to make real food.
There was very little to eat aside from sandwiches. The Goldsteins were busy people. They did not, as a rule, have sit down meals. There wasn't even a table, though there were a few chairs by one of the countertops. The family sometimes crossed paths in the kitchen, and Madeline apparently had a charm on the door that alerted her if one of them had not been to visit for food in the past twenty-four hours, but otherwise, they rarely saw each other.
"Mum likes to make sure we don't die of forgetfulness," Anthony told Harry one day as they made themselves lunch. Harry had a secret plan to drag Anthony outside afterward, as he had discovered that the Goldsteins actually had quite a bit of land, including a decent sized copse of trees that was the perfect cover for a bit of flying.
"That's good of her," Harry said as he ate his treacle tart sandwich. In the morning, it was required that the sandwich involve some kind of breakfast food, but lunchtime sandwiches could be filled with anything, and Harry had shamelessly taken advantage. "You know what I haven't seen in a while?"
Anthony looked at him curiously. "Hogwarts?" he guessed gamely. "Er, green grass?"
Harry grinned. "The sky," he said, giving Anthony a significant look. "We haven't gone outside once since I got here."
Anthony looked perplexed now. "But that wasn't even a week ago."
"Anthony, I like to go outside more than once a week," Harry said dryly. "In fact, sometimes I do it three, even four times a day. Strange, I know. And I found your broomsticks in the hall closet. Let's go flying."
"I have broomsticks?" Anthony asked, mystified, as Harry tugged him gently upstairs to put on their coats and scarves. "What were you doing in the hall closet?"
"I was bored. I never denied being nosy," Harry said, rolling his eyes and redirecting Anthony when he started to veer absently toward his library. "And your grandmother's ghost told me she bought them for you before she died, and you never used them. What kind of a grandson are you?"
Anthony followed Harry outside with little complaint, and Harry considered that Anthony was a fairly good friend, all things considered. He clearly didn't bother with brooms as a general rule, and Harry spent the first hour teaching him how to control the broom so that he didn't go careening off into the ether, but he was trying, and that was good enough for Harry.
The time came to take the train back to Hogwarts. Harry showed Pansy the muggle pictures he'd taken with Dudley, and a few of the moving pictures he'd managed to get at Anthony's, when they actually left the house. She shuddered, looked properly alarmed at the muggle pictures, told Harry he was mad, and pushed the pictures over to Draco with a moue of distaste.
Draco flipped through them and laughed at several. "Tell me that snowman fell on you," he begged, grinning up at Harry. "Tell me he took the picture and it collapsed a second later, and that they had to mount a rescue mission."
"Don't you think Dudley would have taken pictures of that, too?" Harry asked, laughing. "There wouldn't have been a rescue mission until he'd stood around for half an hour, cataloguing my embarrassment."
Draco sighed. "True. Damn."
They didn't go back to Slytherin until after dinner, and as they were all tired from the trip, they went straight up to the dormitory to get ready for bed. Harry was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and thinking about how nice the ride to Hogwarts had been without all the dementors, when Blaise spoke up.
"Hey, Harry, one of your presents got left here," he said, jerking his chin at Harry's bed as he changed into his pyjamas.
Harry finished brushing his teeth and went to investigate. He pulled his bed curtains open and discovered a long, thin package, just as Blaise had said.
"Who's it from?" Draco asked as Harry opened it. "Harry?"
Harry sat on his bed, jaw on the floor, staring dazedly at the Firebolt.
Draco glanced over, frowning, and dropped the slippers he was holding. "Merlin," he breathed, dropping to his knees next to Harry's bed. Harry dimly noted that he looked like he was about to say his bedtime prayers. The analogy seemed relevant, as Harry was perfectly willing to worship this beautiful broom.
They both stared in awe for a few silent moments. "Who sent it?" Draco finally asked in hushed tones. Harry shook his head and pulled his eyes away from the Firebolt to check the wrappings. Professional Quidditch players could only dream of having a broom like this, that was how new and amazing and obnoxiously expensive it was. Draco may have talked his father down from buying the whole Slytherin team Firebolts, but Harry didn't doubt that his father had been secretly relieved. Seven of these would put a serious dent in even the Malfoy vaults.
Blaise leaned against Harry's bedpost to see what all the fuss was about. He raised his eyebrow at the broom, clearly impressed. "Who sent it, then?" he asked, repeating Draco's question.
Harry shook himself and looked down at the wrappings, finally registering that there was no note.
"Anonymous fan?" he asked, giving Blaise a winning smile. Blaise's face darkened alarmingly.
"Anonymous enemy seems more realistic," he said. Harry had hoped he wouldn't go there. "Anonymous Sirius Black, maybe."
Draco's face fell, and he finally looked away from the broom. "You don't think-"
"He does," Harry said. He was pouting and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Blaise shrugged helplessly.
"I'm sorry, Harry," he said, and to his credit, he did sound sorry. "At the very least, we should tell Professor Snape about this. If there's any way that you can keep the broom, he'll find it."
Harry's shoulders were slumped, but he nodded. "I hate you," he told Blaise, staring longingly at the Firebolt. Blaise grinned.
"I know. I'm a vile bastard."
Harry brought his new broom to Snape's office the next morning. He was supposed to go anyway, to discuss their arrangement. Draco tagged along as moral support.
"It'll be a crime if you don't get it back," he said, petting the handle every now and again. Harry would have questioned whether Draco remembered he was there, if not for the fact that Draco was actually speaking to him.
Snape answered the door of his office, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Draco at Harry's side, saying goodbye to the broom.
"I'll miss you," he said as Harry stepped past Snape and into the office. Harry didn't have any delusions that Draco was actually talking to him.
"I got this for Christmas," Harry explained before Snape could ask. "It didn't come to my house. I found it on my bed when we got back last night, and there was no note."
Snape's eyes narrowed immediately. "You suspect Black?" Harry nodded unwillingly. Snape took the broom from him and examined it carefully. "I will check the broom for tampering," he told Harry. "You will have it back in top condition in three weeks."
Harry grinned. That gave him enough time to get used to it before the Slytherin/Ravenclaw match. "Thank you, sir," he said emphatically. Snape placed the broom carefully on his desk and indicated that Harry sit.
"You wish to learn duelling and nonverbal spells."
"Yes, sir." The idea of being able to jinx Draco and blame it on Blaise was too perfect to pass up. Also, it was a useful skill. Right.
Snape looked at Harry for a long moment. Harry tried not to break eye contact. A flicker of something passed over Snape's face, and he nodded.
"Very well. We will begin with duelling." Snape handed Harry a timesheet very similar to the one he had received at the beginning of the year. "We will meet directly after Potions on Thursdays and on Mondays at six o'clock." Harry nodded, looking forward to Thursday.
"Yes, sir."