Summer did not suit Harry Potter. He had spent the past nine months at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, learning magic. He had devoted nearly all his time to his studies during the school year, but was not allowed to use magic over the summer; at least, not in the middle of a Muggle town. Most school children were thrilled to have time away from their studies, but Harry Potter was bored. He had nearly memorized all his first year spellbooks, and had not received a list of the ones he needed to purchase for second year. In short, there was very little for him to do.

He spent most of his days wandering through Privet Drive. He had lived most of his life in Little Whinging, but had never really explored his neighborhood. For most of his first eleven years, he had worked to be the best in his primary school, but had lost his interest in the Muggle World after one year at Hogwarts.

He was able to get lost in his mind during his daily explorations. He discovered a small park, where he could sit lazily on a swing and think about his time at Hogwarts. After his adventure at the end of the year, most of the students started to think of him as powerful. Truthfully, he reveled in the respect, but knew it was not entirely earned. He was not as powerful as they believed. Not yet.

Perhaps the worst part of summer was the lack of post. He had not expected many people to write to him, but had hoped to see letters from Hermione. She had, after all, promised to write every day. He had written to her daily for the first week of the holidays, but his letters had gone unanswered. He had not yet received a single thing.

His Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were the same as always, but his Cousin Dudley had gone out of his way to avoid him. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him this summer. Apparently, Dudley did not support the prospect of training Harry to better defend himself.

Harry awoke early on the morning of his birthday. He did not expect the day to be anything other than normal, but had trouble staying asleep regardless. He supposed it was only natural for a twelve-year-old to be excited about his birthday.

He took breakfast with his relatives, and was not surprised when they failed to even speak to him. Dudley avoided making eye contact with him, apparently working under the assumption that looking into his eyes would prove to be fatal, and rushed away from the table after finishing his meal.

Harry could not help but wonder what today would have been like had his parents not been murdered. In his mind, he saw images of a cake and presents stacked high on a table. He imagined the warm embrace of his mother and his father patting him on the back in pride.

His reverie was interrupted by the telephone's ring. Uncle Vernon rose from the table grumbling something under his breath about salesmen. "Dursley residence," he said, forgoing any pleasantries. Vernon's face showed his confusion at their response. He pointed at Harry. "For you," he said gruffly.

Harry rose to his feet and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Happy birthday, Harry!" He recognized the voice immediately. "It's Hermione. I found your relatives' phone number in the White Pages. Where have you been? Why did you stop writing me back?" she asked, going into rapid fire question mode. It was something she often practiced in class.

Harry chuckled softly at his best friend's enthusiasm. "Thanks, Hermione. I've been here at Privet Drive all summer. I stopped writing after a week when you hadn't sent me anything."

Hermione paused before answering, "But I have been writing you, Harry. Every day."

"I haven't gotten any post since I came back to Privet Drive."

"Someone must be intercepting everything. I sent you a copy of Charms for the Contemporary Duelist, but I doubt you'll get it now," she said, suddenly upset.

"It's alright, Hermione. It's not your fault," he admonished.

The conversation became more pleasant after that, and they spent the next few minutes talking about their holidays, until Harry saw that his Uncle was waiting impatiently for him to finish. "Hermione, is there a way for me to get to Diagon Alley? My relatives don't have a Floo connection."

"Well, you could take the Knight Bus. I read about it in the package they give to all the Muggleborns. You just need to hold your wand in the air to call for it."

"Alright." Harry took another look at his Uncle who had begun tapping his foot. "I'm glad you called, Hermione, but I've got to go."

"Okay. Call me sometime, Harry. Goodbye."

"Bye, Hermione."

After ending his call with Hermione, Harry decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head. The idea of someone stealing his post frustrated him more than he cared to admit.

As he moved toward the swing he had been frequenting this summer, he heard someone hissing at him, seemingly from the ground. "Get out of my way, human."

Harry turned around, trying to find the person who spoke. He looked down, and saw a small, green snake slithering over the grass. "Are you speaking to me, little one?" he asked curiously.

The snake paused and raised its head, looking almost perplexed. "You speak the language of the serpents?"

Harry considered this for a moment before coming to his conclusion, "Well, I am talking with you now," he reasoned, "So yes, I suppose I do. Is that unusual?"

"Very. You are the first Speaker I have encountered." Harry's eyebrows rose as he contemplated the implications. This was another rare talent he possessed, and he decided to do some research on it when he returned to Hogwarts. Was it possible that he truly was worthy of pride and respect? And someday, perhaps, even love? "You will be great, young human."

Harry walked back to his Aunt and Uncle's home in the afternoon, with the snake's words still reverberating in his head. It was the first time he could recall being told that he was on his way to greatness. He was often praised for his work, but he had never before been given such an assurance. He was thrilled by the reptile's faith in him.

As he stepped over the threshold and into Number Four, his Uncle addressed him, "Harry, we need you out of the house tonight. Your Aunt and I are entertaining some potential clients, and they don't know about your-" he hesitated, "condition."

"Could I not stay in my room for the evening?"

"Well, yes, I suppose you could, but you've already skipped lunch. We're paid to keep you fed, and we've always held up our end of the bargain. Take this," Vernon handed him a ten pound note, "and find something to eat. There's a pub a few streets over."

Harry could not help but be upset with his Uncle. The man had almost seemed concerned for his wellbeing, until he had admitted that he was just honoring his part of a business transaction. Harry made for the door, wand in hand, ready to flag down the Knight Bus for a trip to London.

Harry emerged from the bus, slightly worse for wear after the nausea inducing journey, and walked into the Leaky Cauldron. He recognized the barman from his previous trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid, and the barman obviously reciprocated his recognition. "Harry Potter," he said, looking up from the glass he had been rubbing with a rag.

"Evening, Tom."

"What brings you here tonight, Mr. Potter?"

"I need some dinner and a room for the night." Harry did not particularly want to see the Dursleys again tonight. Besides, he would be free to practice magic in a room at the Leaky Cauldron. He had done a great deal of reading on the enforcement of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. As he understood it, the Ministry did not monitor individuals, but areas, and left it up for magical parents to enforce the law. A room in the inn would not be under such supervision.

Harry found the shepherd's pie he had for dinner to be very satisfying. It was easily the best meal he had taken since the end of term at Hogwarts. His relatives always provided him with enough to eat, but his Aunt was not a talented cook. The food was always there, but it lacked in flavor.

He decided to make the most of his night away from Privet Drive and explore Diagon Alley without the presence of an observer. He found himself mesmerized by the Alley after dark. Cascades of magnified candlelight from shop windows illuminated the cobblestones in an almost ethereal glow. Passing witches and wizards cast shadows in the light from the storefronts and the crescent moon overhead. The white marble walls of Gringotts seemed to shine in the dark.

The exuberant crowds that graced the Alley during the day were replaced by cloaked individuals who rushed past each other and did not exchange pleasantries. As Harry approached a seedier looking Alley that connected with Diagon, he heard the drawl of someone walking behind him, "Heading for Knockturn, eh Potter? What could the Golden Boy be looking for in there?" Harry turned to see the sneering face of Draco Malfoy. So, this was Knockturn Alley. He had expected it to look more… evil, but this was just shabby.

"What's the matter, Draco? Won't daddy let you shop at Borgin and Burkes yet?"

"For your information, Potter, my father purchased me a rather exquisite piece from Mr. Borgin earlier this week."

"I'm glad to see he's getting you started in the Dark Arts at a young age. Does he ever let you wear his old Death Eater mask?"

Draco scowled and reached for his wand. "At least I don't live with a pair of common Muggles. They should be put down, the lot of them."

Harry reached for his wand, not in anger at Draco's remark about his relatives, for he was too upset with the Dursleys to defend their honor, but in response to Draco drawing his own. He pointed at the other boy's wand. "Put that away, Malfoy, before you hurt yourself."

Draco's face contorted in rage and he leveled his wand at Harry's chest. He lowered it almost immediately as another voice drawled, in a fashion that Harry found to be eerily similar to Draco's, "Now, now, Draco. It would be unwise to be seen attacking our… Saviour."

"Yes, father," he said as he stowed his wand.

The elder Malfoy addressed Harry, "My apologies, Mr. Potter." His gaze shifted to Draco, "My son seems to have forgotten his station."

Harry nodded at the older man, and he grabbed his son's shoulder roughly and led him into Knockturn Alley.

Harry was quite contented when he retired for the evening. He had purchased a book on advanced Charms from Flourish and Blotts and a delectable sundae from Fortescue's. He sat on the bed in his room at the Leaky Cauldron reading through his new book, and preparing to try some of the spells. A loud cracking sound from the foot of his bed caught his attention. He looked up from the text and saw a… house elf?

"Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is glad to be finding you."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, more curious than alarmed.

"Harry Potter sir is a great wizard, and must not be getting hurt. Dobby is here to be warning you."

His curiosity piqued, he asked, "Warning me about what?"

Dobby looked remorseful. "Harry Potter must not be returning to Hogwarts."

"Why shouldn't I return to Hogwarts, Dobby?"

"Dobby cannot say. Harry Potter must be trusting Dobby that Hogwarts will be too dangerous this year."

"I do trust you, Dobby. In fact, I'd be surprised if nothing dangerous happened, especially with Voldemort trying to return. But I have to go back."

Dobby appeared to be on the verge of tears, "No, Harry Potter, sir-"

"I have to learn how to defend myself and my friends, Dobby," he interrupted. "I can learn the most at Hogwarts."

"Harry Potter is great to be protecting friends who do not write to him."

"Ah," Harry said as something fell into place. "It was you. Give me the letters, Dobby."

Dobby pulled a stack of letters and a package from his pillowcase. "Does Harry Potter agree not to be returning to Hogwarts?"

Harry pointed his wand at the stack of parchment. "Accio." The letters and package he assumed to be the book Hermione had sent him for his birthday zoomed into his outstretched hands. "I'm going back to Hogwarts, Dobby."

A sad smile crossed the elf's face, "Dobby will be stopping you," he said simply. With another cracking sound, he disappeared.

Daphne loved the summer, because it allowed her to be alone, wholly and unequivocally alone. She was usually alone at school, but in her bedroom at home, with the door tightly locked, she did not have to worry about the presence of anyone else. She was free from the playacting of Draco Malfoy and the love-struck simpering of Pansy Parkinson

She was able to continue practicing magic over the summer. Her parents did not know she was doing it, and probably would have been disinclined to say anything about it if they had known. It was one of the few perks of living with disinterested parents.

Her annual shopping trip to Diagon Alley occurred near the end of the summer, when she finally received her booklist. She flooed into the Leaky Cauldron by herself; she supposed that her sister would ask to accompany her next year, but she would deal with that problem when the time came. Her father had given her just enough money to purchase her supplies. She did not have to make secondhand purchases, but could not afford anything superfluous.

Her first stop would be the bookstore, but not because she was looking forward to the trip. On the contrary, she felt compelled to get it over with if she was to have any chance at enjoying the rest of her day. Gilderoy Lockhart, fraudulent author extraordinaire, was having a book signing, and she was required to purchase everything the man had ever written for Defense Against the Dark Arts. When she first looked at the booklist, her hopes for a satisfactory year in Defense were squashed; no competent instructor would assign anything written by Lockhart.

She briefly considered hexing the people who were waiting in line to get their books autographed. If they were obtuse enough to believe that Lockhart was anything more than a pretty face, they would not put up much of a fight. She wondered how they would react to seeing their hero apparate away with his tail between his legs.

The man behind the counter was shooting Lockhart the occasional reproachful glare. He did not appreciate that his shop was even selling the man's books, let alone providing him with a venue to smile for the cameras. Daphne decided to place her order with him, rather than dealing with any of Lockhart's sycophants.

As the man was finding her books, she noticed a commotion breaking out in the front of the store. Two men, she recognized one of them as Lucius Malfoy, had apparently forgotten they were wizards and were exchanging blows with their fists. A gaggle of redheaded children surrounded the other man, seemingly shouting their encouragement, though she could not make out what they were saying because of the noise within the shop. She recognized some of the children and guessed that the man fighting Lucius must be the Weasley patriarch.

When the men were separated, Lucius sneered at the other man, and picked the books out of the Weasley daughter's cauldron. He stared at them in disgust and said something to the Weasleys with the smirk still on his face. He threw the books back in the cauldron, but he attempted to conceal something. Daphne noticed that he had added another, nondescript old book to the stack. It did not appear to be anything dark, but was probably potentially embarrassing for the Weasleys. She decided not to say anything about the book; she saw no reason to help the Weasleys. The twins were notorious pranksters who terrorized Slytherin House, and the younger son was not a pleasant individual. Besides, she did not want to make an enemy of Lucius Malfoy if she could avoid it. She would keep her eyes out for the book at Hogwarts, but would not tell the girl about it.

She paid for her books, and was grateful to leave the shop. She quickened her pace and looked down at the ground as she passed the Weasleys and Malfoys, avoiding eye contact with all of them. She did not even notice a boy entering the store until she collided with him. She felt herself teeter and began to fall backward. Moments before her arse hit the floor, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist and stabilized her. She glared and prepared to berate the person who had been so careless, until she looked up and saw who it was. Harry Potter. She had been thinking about Harry Potter, thinking about him a lot, actually. But there was no reason to let him know that. "You can let go of me now, Potter."

Harry blushed, and lowered his arms from her waist, before deftly attempting to change the subject. "Good holiday, Greengrass?" He would prefer to call her Daphne, but that could wait until she stopped calling him Potter.

"Until you ran into me." She tried to look angry, but her voice lacked venom.

"That hurts," he said in mock indignation as he clutched his chest.

Daphne was barely able to conceal a grin. "It'll hurt more when I hex you for running into me."

"You wouldn't hex a friend," he said confidently.

Daphne considered that for a moment. The part of her that desperately wanted to agree with him was outspoken by the part that had decided to never have any friends. "You may be right about that. But I'd definitely hex you, Potter."

Harry chuckled as he walked into Flourish and Blotts. "Whatever you say, Greengrass. Whatever you say."