Harry stood and stretched, wincing as his back popped in several places. Pulling off the gardening gloves he tossed those into the basket he used to hold all the smaller gardening supplies like trowels and shovels before taking it all back to the garden shed. With some difficulty he managed to wedge his way around the clutter inside – apparently Dudley had begun to store unwanted items in the shed – and placed it all back on its shelf.

Now it was time to make the Dursley's dinner. Aunt Petunia had not told him what she wanted him to make, so he hoped that he could figure something out with whatever was in the fridge. Most of the time his aunt told him what to make, or already had most of the ingredients prepped, but sometimes he had been made to guess and had made the wrong dinner. Those nights the Dursleys would eat but Uncle Vernon would take the belt to him afterwards. And he definitely did not get any leftovers then.

He was quick to wash his hands with the garden hose, he did not want his aunt yelling at him for getting grimy hands on her clean backdoor, only to find the backdoor locked. With an aggrieved sigh he went around to the front and found it locked too. He tried the side door to the garage. Again, it was locked, and a peek through the door's window showed Harry that the car was gone.

The Dursleys had left! Where had they gone? When would they be back? How was he supposed to get inside and go to his room and pretend he didn't exist if the doors were locked?

Frustrated, Harry went around back and settled on the back steps. The only thing left to do was wait for the Dursleys to return.

Only they did not return. At least, they weren't returning at the moment. The sun began to set, and Harry's stomach grumbled loudly. Maybe they were out to dinner and wouldn't be back until later. If they were gone longer, they would have made him go to Mrs. Figg or locked him inside the house.

The sun disappeared behind the horizon. The streetlamps came on. Clouds began to roll in and a chilling breeze picked up. It smelled like rain. Sure enough, Harry felt a few raindrops begin to fall. He hurried to the garden shed but discovered that something inside must've shifted or fallen when he had left the shed earlier because now the door was stuck. With a groan he slammed his hands against the side of the shed, uncaring that his knuckles began to bleed and mix with the rain now steadily falling from the dark sky.

He was going to have to suffer in the rain it seemed. Not for the first time he cursed Dumbledore for making him return to Privet Drive, cursed Voldemort for killing his parents, and finally, cursed his relatives for being the worst sort of Muggles. He sank to the ground, willing himself not to cry. He was thirteen years old! This was not the first rainstorm he had spent out in, though the last time he had managed to squeeze into the garden shed. He could survive this.

Eventually, though, he decided he could not stand it any longer. The rain was coming down hard and it was starting to hurt even though it was also soothing his sunburn. Resigned, he made his way over to Mrs. Figg's house, only to find it as dark as Number 4. A quick press of the doorbell proved that no one was home. He did see a few of her cats peek out the window, but they were no help.

Frustrated, Harry turned to head back to Number 4, only to hear his name being called.

"Harry!"

Startled, he paused under a streetlamp, looking around. His gaze landed on the open door of Number 10, diagonally across the road from Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Frankson came hurrying out into the rain under a large umbrella which she was quick to cover Harry with.

"What are you doing out in the rain, Harry?" she cried.

The Franksons were a family Harry could no put his finger on. They were a prominent family on Privet Drive, as prominent as the Dursleys at least. Mr. Frankson was one of the top executives at an investment firm, and Mrs. Frankson was well respected for her charity work though until Aria's visit last year, Mrs. Frankson had been more than happy to let Aunt Petunia lead the little gaggle of neighborhood ladies. Now, though, it appeared Mrs. Frankson was the leader of a breakaway group of women who no longer viewed the Dursleys with the rose-colored glasses Petunia and Vernon had worked so hard to have their neighbors see them through. She had given Harry some of her eldest's hand-me-downs and had started the trend on the street of keeping an eye on Harry when he was outside doing his chores.

"The Dursleys locked me out of the house," Harry told her. "They're not home. I thought maybe Mrs. Figg might be home, they usually send me to her when they're gonna be gone. But she's not home either."

"Oh, you poor dear!" Mrs. Frankson cried, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. He tensed at the unfamiliar gesture. Aria, Ron, and Hermione were the only ones who regularly embraced him.

"Come into the house," Mrs. Frankson ordered, guiding him towards Number 10. Mr. Frankson met them in the front hallway with a set of towels.

"Sorry," Harry chattered, dripping onto their hardwood floor. "I can clean it up."

"Nonsense," Mr. Frankson answered. "Hardly you're fault you got caught in the rain."

"Why don't you go hop in the shower?" Mrs. Frankson suggested, guiding Harry up the stairs. Number 10, like all the houses on Privet Drive, were built with the same floor plan. "I'll find you some dry clothes. You can spend the night and then we'll have a chat with Petunia and Vernon tomorrow."

"You don't have to do that!" Harry cried. Uncle Vernon would be so mad! Mrs. Frankson hummed as she gently pushed him into the bathroom. Harry stood there, dripping onto the bathmat. What was going on? Never had anyone invited him into their home before. He was the neighborhood hooligan, the one you kept your eye on, the problem child.

Mrs. Frankson poked her head in.

"Here's something dry," she told him. "I hope it fits, it's Jason's." Jason was her eldest. Harry thought he was fourteen or fifteen. Then there was the twins, Victor and Vicky, who were ten.

"After your shower you can put your clothes in the wash," Mrs. Frankson told him.

"Okay. Um . . . thanks."

Mrs. Frankson patted his shoulder and left. Harry was quick to hop into the shower. He made sure not to stay in long, he did not want anyone getting mad at him for using too much hot water. The Dursleys never let him use hot water, so this was a luxury for the summer. He pulled on the basketball shorts and t-shirt. They were a little baggy, but at least the shorts would not fall off like if they were Dudley's.

Coming out of the bathroom he padded down to the kitchen and found the little laundry room just off the kitchen. Unlike the Dursley's little laundry room which was painted white to match the white washer and dryer, this room was painted a pleasant mint color with one wall wallpapered with creeping vines.

Once his clothes were in the wash he hovered at the door of the laundry room, unsure what to do now. Mrs. Frankson peeked into the kitchen.

"Have you eaten, Harry?" she asked.

Harry thought about lying. No way was he taking food from the Franksons and being indebted to them like that! His stomach, however, growled loudly and he felt his face flush. Mrs. Frankson laughed and made her way to the fridge.

"Sit," she instructed. "I'll warm up some leftovers. Hope you like curry."

Harry nodded though he had never had any before. The Dursleys did not habitually have non-English dishes. Or at least, non-European dishes. There were a few French recipes Harry knew how to make, Petunia liked an oeufs en cocotte and both Vernon and Dudley liked bratwursts especially when Aunt Petunia got them from the specialty grocer.

Soon, a warm plate of Sri Lankan lamb curry with rice was set in front of Harry, alongside a side dish of naan and lentil cakes.

"Eat what you can," Mrs. Frankson told him. "Don't worry if you can't eat it all." She opened the fridge again and poured him a glass of soda.

Harry decided that he loved curry. He was going to have to ask Parvati and Padma if there were any curry restaurants in the wizarding world, because this was delicious. He wondered briefly if one could suggest foods to Hogwarts. How did Hogwarts deal with food allergies? Did wizards have food allergies? Or religious food requirements?

Once finished with both the curry, naan, and one lentil cake, Harry washed up and ensured the remaining lentil cake was wrapped and put away in the fridge. Mr. Frankson called him into the living room after that and he shuffled in, feeling out of place seeing the whole family there.

"We were just about to start a game," Mr. Frankson said, holding up Monopoly. "Want to play?"

"I don't know how to play," Harry admitted.

"It's very easy to learn," Vicky assured him. "Even Victor can play." Her twin punched her shoulder.

"Basically, your goal is to own the board," Jason told Harry as Harry came and sat by the older boy. "You can put houses and hotels on the different color properties and collect rent. The person with the most money at the end wins."

"Okay," Harry muttered. "That seems easy enough."

"You say that now," Jason said, "but Dad's an investor and this is his sort of thing." Mr. Frankson laughed, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

They played until one of the twins got too tired to play. By then Harry had managed to amass all four railroads, the two utilities, and was making a lot of money every round because he had all three light blue properties, Connecticut, Vermont, and Oriental Avenues with hotels on them.

Once the game was done, Mrs. Frankson brought Harry up to the guest room after he collected his laundry. In the Frankson's house, the bedroom that the Dursleys designated as the guest room was the twins' bedroom, and the room designated as Dudley's room was Jason's bedroom. The guest room, therefore, was the same as Dudley's second bedroom, which Harry found ironic, but it was the smaller of the four bedrooms so he could understand why the Franksons used it as their guest room.

Unlike Dudley's second bedroom though, the room was painted a nice light gray color with white trim. The double bed was covered with a burgundy duvet and the sheets were a nice cotton with little leaf patterns.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to come get us," Mrs. Frankson told Harry. "Or if you need a drink, you're welcome to go downstairs and get one. Please, make yourself at home."

Harry nodded, suddenly unable to say anything. Mrs. Frankson, thankfully, did not seem to expect him to say anything, and left, closing the door behind him. Here was a family who had treated Harry better in one evening than the Dursleys had ever treated him in the 12 years he had been with them. Why couldn't the Franksons have been his family? Why did he get stuck with the Dursleys? It wasn't fair!

In the morning Harry was up at his usual time. He was not sure what he should do. Should he sneak out and go to Number 4? Would his relatives be expecting him to be out in the backyard where they had left him? What would they do when they found him gone?

Unfortunately, the choice was taken from him when he went downstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Frankson were already up, sitting at the breakfast table eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Mr. Frankson was dressed for work, though his suit coat hung over the back of the chair.

"You're up early," Mr. Frankson commented. "Usually, Mel has to drag the kids out of bed during the summer holidays." Mel must be Mrs. Frankson, Harry thought, glancing at the woman. She was still in her pajamas, with a nice silk robe over them. Her hair hung loosely in a ponytail, and she was practically curled into the chair as she sipped her morning tea.

Aunt Petunia would never be caught dead looking so casual, Harry thought. She was always dressed with her hair and make-up done even before Harry woke up.

"I'm always up at this time," Harry answered. "It's my . . . chore to get breakfast ready for Uncle Vernon."

"Well, they're just going to have to suffer without you," Mrs. Frankson answered. "Since you're having breakfast with us."

Harry blinked in surprise.

"Breakfast?" he questioned. "Oh . . . you don't need to bother. You fed me dinner last night."

"And you're our guest," Mr. Frankson told him. "We will feed you so long as you're here."

"What do you want?" Mrs. Frankson asked, uncurling from the chair. "We've got cereal, but I can do a whole fry up if you'd prefer?"

What was he supposed to say? At the Burrow he just ate whatever Mrs. Weasley whipped up for a meal. She didn't ask what anyone wanted. And the Burrow was really the only context he had for spending the night at someone's home. He did not want to put anyone out.

Jason shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed with hair still tousled from sleep. His dad gave him a suspicious look over his mug of coffee as the teen made his way over to his mother, draping himself over her back, wrapping his arms around her.

"Mum," Jason whined, "can we have a fry up?"

"Are you feeling all right?" Mrs. Frankson asked. "You're never up at this time."

"I want a fry up." Jason's voice was muffled by his mother's shoulder. The two Frankson parents looked at each other with some bewilderment.

"We can have a fry up," Mrs. Frankson told Jason, running her fingers through his hair. Harry wondered what it would be like to have a mum run fingers through his hair. "You want to sleep a little more while I do it?"

"I'll help," Jason answered, shuffling over to the fridge.

"I'm going to get going," Mr. Frankson said, draining his cup, "if any more miracles happen today, let me know and I'll be sure to go . . . pray or something."

Mrs. Frankson rolled her eyes.

"Would you like me to help, Mrs. Frankson?" Harry asked after Mr. Frankson had kissed his wife and left. She looked at him for a moment, appearing as if she were going to say no, but then she smiled at Harry.

"If you'd like to help," she said. Together, the three of them worked at cooking up a full English. Mrs. Frankson turned on the radio to an oldie's station and was soon embarrassing Jason by singing and dancing to the songs. Harry couldn't help laughing as he watched the mother and son with each other, even as a pang went through his own heart. What sort of music would Lily have listened to? Or James? Would they have danced in the kitchen with Harry?

As Harry finished setting the table, Jason went upstairs and hauled his siblings out of bed. The twins were laughing and shouting by the time the three came back, each one tucked under Jason's arm like a football.

The five of them enjoyed a hearty breakfast together. Victor and Vicky talked several miles a minute detailing exactly what they were going to do all day, part of which included going back to bed after breakfast on Victor's part and going to the library on Vicky's part. Apparently, there was going to be a reptile exhibit, and someone was bringing live snakes to the library. Harry thought that sounded a lot of fun. Victor did not think so. Jason was going to go across to Magnolia Crescent to where several teens from school lived and he was going to play soccer and maybe go to the mall with them.

"I've got chores," Harry told them when Vicky asked what Harry was going to do.

"You're always doing chores," Victor commented, wrinkling his nose. "That sounds boring. Mum makes us do chores too. Like we have to make our beds and keep our rooms clean."

"Does Dudley do chores?" Jason asked Harry, "or does he just terrorize neighborhood kids?"

Harry felt his face flush even as Mrs. Frankson scolded Jason for the question.

"Come on, Mum!" Jason whined. "It's not like he hasn't tried coming after Victor and Vicky!" To Harry he said, "I chased him good last summer. Tried to steal their allowance."

"I'm . . . sorry Dudley did that," Harry said to the twins.

"Wasn't just Dudley," Victor muttered, "that Piers guy was with him."

"I think we've soured our breakfast enough," Mrs. Frankson said sharply. "If you two are done you can go get dressed. Victor, you can spend another hour in your pajamas if you're not going to the library with your sister."

"Yes, Mum." The twins scampered away. Jason started the washing up.

"I've gotta go," Harry said, looking at the time.

"If you find yourself locked out of your house again, just knock on our door," Mrs. Frankson instructed, walking him to the front door. "I don't want to find you drenched like a cat again, all right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Frankson," Harry answered, though he wasn't sure she was serious. "Thanks for the food. And the bed."

"It was nothing," Mrs. Frankson replied. "You be good now, all right?"

The car was gone when Harry arrived at Privet Drive, but his aunt was home. Petunia was quick to swoop in on him, grabbing Harry by the ear and yanking him around the house.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "We get home last night and go to let you in and you're now where to be found!"

"I . . . I . . ." Harry scrambled to say something, should he tell her that the Franksons let him spend the night? What would she do if she found out? What would Uncle Vernon do?

"Never mind!" Aunt Petunia snapped, shoving Harry into the table. "I've got Bridge Club this afternoon. You'll need to make the finger sandwiches and the punch and then help me take it down to the community center."

Harry made several different finger sandwiches. First there was the cucumber-butter and watercress-butter sandwiches that his Aunt Petunia liked. Then there was the salmon-cucumber with cream cheese, and then the sliced asparagus sandwich that Mrs. Polkiss adored. He used only the tips of the asparagus and sliced them lengthwise to make them thinner and the sandwich less bulky, layering them on buttered bread and finish them off by drizzling lemon juice and olive oil over them. The fifth and final type of sandwich he made with the baguette Aunt Petunia had fetched fresh from the French bakery that morning. He spread butter and fig jam onto the bread and layered prosciutto and sliced pears for the filling, seasoning with a little salt and cracked pepper. All this he arranged neatly on the tiered sandwich tower Aunt Petunia had for occasions such as this. Once the sandwiches were arranged, he secured the cover over the tower so that it could be carried by the handle.

Next, he made the punch. It was a recipe that everyone complimented Aunt Petunia on. 1 cup of sugar was mixed with 1 cup of strong black tea, 4 cups of orange juice, 4 cups of pineapple juice, 4 cups of lemonade, and 1 large bottle of ginger ale. Harry made sure to give it an extra stir so that all the sugar dissolved. Aunt Petunia had been mad at him last time he had made the punch because all the sugar had not dissolved and had settled at the bottom of the pitcher. He put all this in the travel pitcher and stuck it in the fridge to keep chilled.

At 11:30 he followed Aunt Petunia down the road to Little Whinging's community center. It was a nice brick building that had been renovated inside a few years back, so the inside looked nice and new even if the outside still gave the feel of a building built prior to World War II.

They found a few other neighborhood women setting up for bridge. Harry set the sandwich tower down on the refreshment table while his aunt went and found a glass pitcher for the punch in the kitchen. Harry could hear her already gossiping with Mrs. Polkiss.

He spotted a few kids his age and a little younger playing over in the youth room, just across the way from the main room where the bridge club was setting up. There was a pool table and a popular air hockey table. He crept over to the doorway, peeking in. He recognized a few kids from primary school. He had had no friends during those school years, Dudley and Piers had made sure of that. He wondered what they would do now if he went in and asked to join in their games.

"What are you doing?" He gasped as Aunt Petunia grabbed his ear and yanked it. "You've got chores to do at home!" Petunia smiled at the kids in the room as they looked over at the commotion. "Sorry about that, my nephew won't bother you again." She pushed Harry out of the community center with strict instructions not to return until 2pm when it was time to help her carry things back. Both of them missed Mrs. Frankson entering the community center with Victor shuffling in behind her.

Shoulders slumping, Harry made his way back to Number 4 where he found Aunt Petunia's chore list on the kitchen table. At least, he thought bitterly, they were indoor chores today. He grabbed the cleaning supplies from his cupboard and made his way up to Dudley's bedroom. He took a moment to stand in the middle of the disaster of a room and wish he was at the Frankson's or even at the Burrow. Anywhere, he thought, was better than Number 4, Privet Drive.