Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER ONE. A MISERABLE SUMMER.

It was a sultry evening in late June, and the air over suburban Surrey was filled with the smoke of a thousand barbecues. Harry stared glumly through the car window as Uncle Vernon drove along those familiar roads. Down the High Street ... left at the Texaco filling station, down Hertsmere Avenue, then left into Greenacres. Huge, double garaged houses lined the road. Then finally, right, into Privet Drive. There was the post box on the corner, the dark green cable TV box. There was ... despite everything ... there was home. The very thought gave Harry no pleasure at all.

Uncle Vernon parked on the gravel drive. He had bought another car since Harry had last been at home ... a shiny MG Roadster. Evidently Grunnings had been doing rather well.

Harry opened the car door, and stepped out ... the back of his T-shirt was horrid and sweaty through having to sit still so long. There was no sign of life inside the house. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

Uncle Vernon didn't even stop to help him drag his impossibly heavy school trunk out of the boot of the car. Summoning every reserve of strength in his scrawny body, Harry heaved the trunk out, and it landed with a thud at his feet. Uncle Vernon had not noticed ... he was busy unlocking the door.

"Come on then. We haven't got all night," Uncle Vernon grumbled, as Harry struggled up to the front door.

Somehow, Harry managed to drag his trunk all the way up to his room, though his arms were aching through the effort. He flopped down on the unmade bed. Uncle Vernon came to stand at the door, and stared at him with a certain measure of disgust. Then he left him be. Harry stared up at the ceiling. There was a single, bare bulb hanging from a new light fitting that appeared to have been installed by a cowboy electrician. There were exposed wires hanging from the switch, which hadn't been screwed back into place afterwards.

Harry waved his wand about absent-mindedly in the air. From inside her cage, Hedwig hooted impatiently, waiting to be let out. Harry was too tired to pay any attention to her. He closed his eyes, and wished himself back at Hogwarts.

* * *

"I need hardly remind you, Draco ... that any disobedience towards myself or your Mother will be severely punished?"

Draco nodded sheepishly. He was standing in his Father's enormous study, several feet away from the vast oak desk, at which sat his Father, Lucius Malfoy, his face as gaunt and pinched as ever. He regarded the boy without pity. Draco wrung his hands, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else ... at least at Hogwarts, I don't have to be treated like an imbecile, he thought.

"Dinner will be served in twenty minutes," Lucius went on, returning to the letter he was drafting. His quill pen flew across the parchment ... the frenzied scratching the only sound in the cool, dark room. The evening sunshine slanted through the windows, casting his Father's face in shadow. "You will attend."

"Yes, Father," said Draco, bowing his head.

"You will wear full dress robes, of course."

Draco looked up in annoyance. "Father ... it's so hot," he moaned.

Lucius Malfoy shook his head gravely. "You will do as I say, Draco. Get out of my sight."

Draco turned, gratefully, and fled the study. He pounded upstairs to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. The servants had already brought his school trunk up ... and his broomstick was leaning up against the wall. Someone had very conscientiously straightened all the twigs. There was also a set of jet black dress robes draped over the bed. Draco sat down on the bed, and regarded them gloomily.

"Bloody things," he hissed. He stood up again, slipped off his school shoes, and padded over to the window. He opened it wide, desperate for some cool air, but there was no breeze outside. Down below in the ornamental garden the fountains played, and one of the gardeners trudged wearily along the path, pushing a wheelbarrow. Beyond the well clipped privet hedges, the exquisitely kept lawns of Malfoy Park stretched down to the lake, whose waters glittered in the soft tones of evening sunlight. Draco had never tired of this view. He remembered learning to row on the little lake, in an old wooden dinghy …

So musing, he turned away from the window, and padded back over to the bed. He undid his choking school tie, and flung it to the floor. Then he removed his fine silk summer robes, though he was more conscious of hanging them neatly. The dress robes were still lying there, like some sort of affront. Horrible, heavy, and black. I'm going to need a shower before bed tonight, thought Draco.

* * *

Harry woke up ... he didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it was now dark outside, and there was a large moth fluttering round his light bulb. He contemplated catching it for Hedwig, but simply couldn't be bothered to stir and make the effort, so he watched it for a few minutes longer, as it tried repeatedly to fly into the light.

His eyes drifted over to his bedside table. There was a small, leather bag sitting there, with a few Galleons in it. Just that morning, he had had a thousand of those chunky, golden coins … the Triwizard winnings …

Harry stopped himself … his thoughts drifting back, as they so often had done over the last couple of weeks, to Cedric, whose spectre still seemed to be present in the back of Harry’s mind.

He could still hear movement downstairs ... people walking about in the kitchen. It dawned on him how hungry he really was, not having eaten since a meagre snack on the Hogwarts Express. He suspected the Dursleys had probably eaten, some overcooked, fat laden, greasy feast no doubt. He couldn't help noticing, as they drove home from King's Cross, how much weight his Uncle seemed to have put on during the past year. Harry was certain he hadn't been that corpulent this time last summer. Probably he had just overindulged at Christmas, and was still working it off. He smiled at the thought of Uncle Vernon, red faced, panting on a treadmill in a gym full of equally fat people.

Footsteps tramped slowly up the stairs. Harry sat up. Hedwig regarded him somewhat suspiciously, her head on one side. He heard his Aunt's voice.

"Where should I put these clothes, Dudley?" she asked. If anything, her voice had become more high pitched ... more whiny.

A sound, akin to the mating cry of a large bull elephant, rang out from the bedroom next door. Evidently, she had distracted Dudley's attention from whatever computer game he was currently engrossed in. He heard a door slam, and a voice raised, it sounded like Dudley, but what he was saying, Harry couldn't tell. He had no particular wish to get reacquainted with his cousin so soon.

He sat up in bed, and opened the window, not caring how many bugs got in. He peeled off his school uniform, then, not even bothering to get his pyjamas out of his trunk, lay back down on top of the covers, waiting for sleep to overtake him.

* * *

Draco dabbed daintily at his mouth with a napkin. That money his parents had spent on etiquette lessons for him as a little boy had indeed been well spent. As he had always thought ... some have natural manners and charm, and some ... like that scrawny oaf Potter, have none. He had heard rumours, mainly from his fellow Slytherins, that Potter was forced to live with Muggles, of all things, during the holidays, and what was more, was consistently maltreated by them. He smiled at the thought of Harry on his hands and knees on a kitchen floor somewhere, scrubbing for all he was worth. It was no more than the boy deserved, thought Draco. Probably it was why he was so skinny.

"Did we have a satisfactory term, Draco?" his Mother was asking. She sounded like someone had rammed a poker up her arse, but then, she usually did. Draco awoke from his daydream.

"Very much so," he said, meekly.

"I am glad to hear it," said Narcissa Malfoy, refilling her glass with wine. Lucius watched her, disapprovingly. "I would expect no more from a son of mine."

"It was very satisfactory," said Draco. He pouted. "If only somebody would do something about those damn Gryffindors."

Lucius and Narcissa looked at their son with something approaching concern. "Has that bloody Potter boy been getting at you again?"

Draco nodded. "All the time. I try to ignore it ... but I know Crabbe and Goyle cry themselves to sleep most nights."

Narcissa looked to Lucius, utterly scandalised. "Something needs to be done about that boy," she said. "Somebody should speak to Dumbledore. He needs a good talking to."

"Potter needs a good beating," Lucius smiled as he remembered the events that had transpired just a few short weeks ago. "That's what's wrong with children today. Parents are too soft on them."

"Not at all like you, Father," said Draco, uncertainly. Lucius favoured him with a fatherly smile ... a rare event in their house.

"Quite, quite," said Lucius, quite unaware that Draco was sweating profusely under his heavy woollen robes. "A short, sharp shock ... that's always been how the Malfoys have raised their children."

"I dare say," volunteered Narcissa. "That these Muggles with whom Potter lives with are too soft on him?"

Lucius shook his head. "By the rumours flying around the Ministry, they are by no means soft on him. That's probably where the boy gets his attitude from. We can't be having Muggles teaching our kind their filthy ways. It's as I've always said. The more of their kind you let closer to us, the more polluted the bloodlines become. Remember we are not as feared, or as numerous, as we were centuries ago. Bad or foolish breeding could drive us extinct in two generations."

"It's what you get for marrying into a Muggle family, after all," Narcissa went on, sipping her wine. "Would we care for more dessert, Draco?"

Draco shook his head. "Thank you, we're full."

"I have partaken of sufficient sustenance," corrected Lucius. "To indulge further would be an extravagance."

"Of course, Father," said Draco, meekly. "I stand corrected."

"If I were headmaster of Hogwarts, I would reconsider the admissions policy," Lucius went on. "It simply cannot be allowed."

"That girl Granger is a Mudblood," said Draco, thoughtfully.

Lucius snorted. "I expected nothing less," he said. "She cavorts with the vagabond Potter and the Muggle loving Weasleys after all."

Draco nodded his silent agreement.

* * *

Harry, dressed for heat in shorts, an old vest and sandals that were four sizes too big for him, had been set to work repainting the gazebo. The gazebo was a nightmarish, trellised structure, painted a brilliant white, which Aunt Petunia had bought some years earlier. Harry expected that, on summer nights, it would be pleasant to sit out there, next to the large pond, watching the goldfish, and sipping a glass of something. However, any such experience was so alien to him that he could never picture himself indulging in it. For now, he was stuck up a rickety old stepladder, slapping white emulsion onto the roof with a paint roller, the sun beating down upon his shoulders. The fumes were making him dizzy ... but he knew that he wouldn't be allowed any food until the job was done, so he stuck at it, fantasising about the feasts he had enjoyed at school.

Someone was playing music loudly out of an upstairs window. Harry turned to see where it was coming from. He could see the enormous bulk of his cousin, Dudley, sitting in his room, some song Harry couldn't recognise blaring out of his radio. He didn't seem to have noticed Harry staring at him.

Slowly, he dipped his roller in the paint again.

* * *

Draco was passing a far more pleasant day. He had spent the morning lying by the swimming pool in his fluffy bathrobe, sipping on any number of glasses of lemonade, reading a borrowed book, and wondering whether or not to go for a swim, every time deciding against it. He knew from bitter experience that he did not tan easily, indeed he usually went from pale white to broiled lobster almost straight away, so he tended to avoid the sun. His Father had made a promise to take him riding around the estate that afternoon, which he was looking forward to. The weeks stretched out before him, a void of blanks in his diary, waiting to be filled. Perhaps these holidays wouldn't be so bad. There was homework to do, of course, but that could safely be left until the last week. He rang his little bell for more lemonade.

Narcissa appeared from out of the French windows, sporting her latest bathing suit (a Simon Branford creation). She smiled at Draco.

"Are you going to take a dip?" she asked.

Draco shook his head. "Maybe later ... when the sun's less strong."

Narcissa sat down on the edge of the pool, and dabbled her toes in the water. "It's lovely and cool," she said.

Draco methodically licked his finger before turning the page.

Narcissa slipped into the pool, and swam over to the other side. Draco returned to his book ...

... Dracaena Draco, commonly known as the Dragon Tree. This rare specimen, which grows mainly in southern Europe, the Balkans, Turkey and the South-Western United States, has long been prized by wizards for it's restorative powers. It was much used as a healing herb by wizard doctors before modern magical advances rendered it obsolete in the early part of the Twentieth Century. However it has enjoyed popularity in recent years, owing to its powerful hallucinogenic effect. For this reason it was banned under the terms of the Regulation of Magical Drugs and Narcotics Act (1966). Its full powers remain unknown to this day, as few specimens are in existence. It is known that it was much used by Lord Voldemort and his supporters as an instrument of torture during the early 1980s ...

Draco turned the page ...

... and it is now widely believed that the drug was used routinely by Death Eaters as well, some of whom may have used it to blank out instances of Muggle torture and other deeds.

He set down the book. He was beginning to feel quite dozy.

* * *

Lunch turned out to be half a lettuce leaf and a slice of tomato. Harry, who was famished, as he had only had a slice of dry toast for breakfast, looked at it with great disappointment. Despite himself, he found himself asking. "Is that it?"

Aunt Petunia's hawk like eyes swivelled round to him. "What did you say?" she asked, in a voice cold as ice.

Harry decided caution was the best option. "Nothing," he said.

"Don't lie to me," she snarled. "I heard you loud and clear. You said ... 'is that it?'"

Harry shook his head in deference. "No," he said.

"I said, don't lie," hissed Petunia.

Harry took up his plate, and took a step backwards. "It looks lovely," he said, hurriedly. Dudley, who was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging his horrid fat legs happily, and watching out of his beady eyes, put his hand protectively in front of his huge helping of shepherd's pie. He had still not gotten over the toffee incident the previous summer.

Aunt Petunia snatched the plate away from him. "Ungrateful little boys do not get fed at all in this house," she kicked open the pedal bin, and scraped Harry's pathetic lunch into it. "In this house, we are grateful for what we are given, aren't we?"

Harry nodded, sheepishly.

"Rest assured I will be having words with your Uncle when he gets home," said Aunt Petunia. "I wouldn't be surprised if he took the carpet beater to you."

Harry flinched. Usually, the carpet beater was used for ... well ... beating carpets. Needless to say, Harry's Uncle had found another, more entertaining use for it.

"Now get outside and finish your painting," she said. "Then the pond wants cleaning ... and when you've done that, there's Dudley's toenails need cutting."

Harry glared at her in anger so intense as he could never remember having felt before. If Aunt Petunia felt anything though, she hid it well.

"You'll be done by five mind, else you'll get no supper."

Harry turned, and slouched back out to the garden, not daring to say anything, though the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face betrayed how he was feeling inside. That is to say, cut up. He was so thirsty he thought he might try and drink the pond dry ... at least then it wouldn't need cleaning. He stopped, and looked back to the house. Aunt Petunia was standing in the kitchen window, her arms folded, an expression of the utmost distaste upon her face. Hurriedly, he picked up his roller, and righted the stepladder. Harry didn't doubt at all that she would be having words with Uncle Vernon when he got home. This was how she coped with the slightest indiscretion, and the result was usually a lecture, a beating, or some other punishment.

But all the same, he was so very, very thirsty. Still the sun beat down upon him. He resumed his wearisome task.

* * *

True to his promise, Lucius Malfoy returned early from the Ministry that day to take Draco round the estate. The Malfoys had a long history of championship horse breeding, and their stables were amongst the most extensive in England. Lucius was particularly fond of his two winged horses, imported specially from Greece ... they were thoroughbred magical creatures and won prizes ... the trophies were kept in a glass cabinet in the study.

Draco came down to the stables, freshly changed into the starchy riding outfit that he knew his father would demand, to find one of the servants had just finished saddling Nero and Salazar.

"Your Father should be along any moment now," said the servant, bowing so low his nose almost touched the floor, before speedily withdrawing, leaving Draco with the horses, which were pawing the ground and snorting. Draco had bagged some extra carrots from the kitchen, and he fed these to the horses as he waited. It was deliciously cool in the stables.

"Come, Draco," an icy voice said behind him. "I see you are all ready?"

Draco spun round. "Hello, Father," he said. "Did you have a good morning?"

Lucius Malfoy took off his white kid gloves, and patted the horses' flanks. "Barely tolerable," he said, as Nero unfolded his wings and flapped them about. "We had a meeting with some ridiculous junior in the Department for International Magical Co-Operation. Some clap trap about standardising cauldron sizes. Utter nonsense of course ... man could barely sting two comprehensible words together."

He took Nero by the bridle, and lead the beast out of its stall. "You may ride Salazar today Draco," he said.

"Thank you, Father," said Draco. Salazar was Lucius Malfoy's favourite, and usually nobody else was allowed near him. He had a beautiful silvery white coat, which matched Draco's hair almost exactly. Draco picked up his riding crop, and clicked his tongue to make the horse follow. "Come on, boy," he said. His Father had already mounted Nero, and the horse was clopping around in the stable yard outside, beating its wings.

"Come on, Draco," his Father was saying. "We won't be back before sunset at this rate. I have friends coming down from the Ministry for dinner."

Draco mounted Salazar, and holding tightly to the reins, for although he was an experienced horseman, it had been nearly a whole year since he had last ridden, followed Nero and his Father out of the stables, and down the track towards the park land.

"We were forced to repair the ha-ha," said Lucius. "We had some serious rain last Winter. There was a land slip."

Draco nodded.

"Osgoode saw to it of course," Osgoode was the Malfoy's head groundskeeper, a bitter old individual with a temper to match, who often during Draco's childhood had chased him off his prize lawns. Draco hated the man.

"Osgoode is well?" he asked, as they forded the small stream.

"As well as could be expected," said Lucius.

"And the game. Was there good hunting this year Father?"

"Some of the best we've had," said Lucius. "The pheasant shoot went off without a hitch, and the deer hunt."

Draco smiled his approval. The Malfoy's hunts were legendary amongst the magical elite, and it would have been a scandal if the hunting had not been as excellent as usual. They were riding along a narrow path through long grass, the dusty air filled with the buzzing of crickets, Draco a little way behind his Father. The horses ruffled their wings.

"I shall expect nothing but the very best results when finally this estate is handed over to you, Draco," his Father remarked. "It has been in the family for six hundred years. It would be shameful to allow it to go to the dogs."

Draco nodded. "I'll try my best," he said.

"I may well not be with you much longer," said Lucius, as they reached the top of a small hill. Around them the heath stretched away in every direction. In the distance, on a low rise, its lush lawns standing out in stark contrast against the parched yellow grass of the wilderness, was the house itself, looking quite benevolent, almost serene. In the opposite direction the land stretched away to the village, nestling in a hollow between two small hills. Many years earlier, some Muggles had tried to build a motorway through there, but the contractors had been scared off.

"It would be foolish," Lucius went on, scanning the family land with his hand held to his face as a sunshade. "Not to instruct you in the management of it. Come, Draco, there is something I wish to show you," he gave Nero a sharp boot in the side, and the horse moved off down the hill. Draco followed.

* * *

The Malfoys tied their horses up outside Osgoode's small house. Draco was unsure quite why he had been brought here, but if his fifteen years had taught him anything, it was not to question his Father's motives under any circumstances.

Lucius strode up the path, and hammered on the front door. "Osgoode!" he called. "Are you there?"

Draco, who was hanging back by the garden gate, took a step forwards. He could hear the hacking sound of someone coughing. Osgoode emerged from round the side of the house. He was wearing a dirty brown jacket, and, despite the heat, a pair of thick trousers, wellingtons and a heavy scarf around his neck.

"Afternoon, Master," he growled. "I was as just watering my tomato plants."

"I see," said Lucius. "I think Draco would like to see your new plants," he spoke conspiratorially, as if the plants were somehow unusual. Draco rolled his eyes … don’t tell me, he thought, the old man’s decided to get into botany.

"Aye, the special ones," said Osgoode. "You has better come round the back then ... take a look."

He turned round, and shambled off around the side of the house. Lucius turned to Draco, and nodded to the boy to follow. Draco pulled off his gloves, and tucked them neatly in his jacket pocket, before following the gardener. Lucius fell into step behind him.

Osgoode was kneeling down beside a small patch of earth, a small, earth stained and rusty trowel in his hand. He beckoned Draco closer.

"Now, Master Draco, do you know as what these here plants are?"

Draco crouched down next to him, taking care not to soil his jodhpurs on the damp earth. He shook his head. There were six or seven of them, all small, wispy ferns by the looks of them.

"I don't know," he said. "Bracken?"

Osgoode chuckled under his breath. "Why the young Master as thinks I'd be growing bracken is beyond me."

Draco turned to stare at him with an expression of great disgust on his face. To him, Osgoode had always seemed a minor, dirty irritation on the fringes of his existence. Draco hazarded a guess. "Isn't it good for poultices and stuff?" he asked.

Osgoode nodded. "Bracken, aye, maybes, but this stuff. No, this is a completely different game of fish."

"What is it then?" asked Draco.

Osgoode pulled up one of the plants, and handed it to Draco. Draco sniffed it cautiously.

"It's like lavender," he said.

"This is called a dragon tree," said Osgoode, taking the grubbed up plant back from Draco, and crushing it in his grip. "Have you ever heard of one of those?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Draco. "Just this morning. But why should there be some growing here?"

"It is the safest place," said Lucius, stepping closer so that he cast a shadow over his crouching son. "Nobody would think to come prying around here."

"Aye, and t'is right close, so I can keep an eye on it," said Osgoode, mysteriously.

"Draco," said his Father. "Are you aware of the properties of this plant?"

Draco nodded.

"Yes, well, you would know," he said. "I noticed that particular book was missing from my study this morning."

Draco froze.

"I am not going to punish you," said Lucius. "Initiative can oft be a virtue after all. Would you care to know exactly why Osgoode and I have embarked on this, horticultural experiment?"

Draco didn't much care to know, but he nodded anyway, and relaxed too.

"This plant, when prepared and treated properly, is a powerful narcotic. You know already, I dare say, that it was one of Lord Voldemort's favourite little 'preparations,'" said Lucius. "Do you know why?"

Draco shrugged. "Could he control people with it, or something like that?" he asked.

"I told you he wasn't as stupid as he looked, Osgoode," said Lucius, turning to the gardener. Draco blushed bright red. Lucius turned back to his son. "Indeed, Draco, you have hit the nail right on the head. It is an instrument of control. What do you think Osgoode and I intend to do with it?"

"Control people?"

Osgoode grinned. "He's gone and done it again, Master."

"Indeed," said Lucius, turning up his nose as if Osgoode was some foul odour. "Indeed we do, Draco. Lord Voldemort was returned to this mortal world mere weeks ago ... but without this ... he is useless. He is weak, and he cannot hope to regain the power of which he was once possessed. This was proven to me when he and the Potter boy duelled. Lord Voldemort needs what I can supply him with. My position is thus strengthened."

"It's genius," said Draco, blankly. He sniffed the plant again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Lucius. "It has been known to have effects even in small doses."

Draco hurriedly dropped the leaves he held. He had no particular wish to investigate further.

Lucius Malfoy put his gloves back on. "Come, Draco," he said. "There is much still to see, and the afternoon is not infinite," he turned to Osgoode. "See that the plants are watered. They must be ready for harvest by September. That is imperative."

"Yes, Master."

Lucius turned to Draco. "I trust I am assured of your silence in this matter?" he asked. "I would not hesitate to punish you severely should this get out."

Some weeks later …

Ron Weasley was lying on the grass in the back garden, looking up at the cloudless sky ... a sky that was a breathtaking, deep, aquamarine blue. It was late afternoon on another sweltering hot day, and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. The grass was still damp from the water fight they had had earlier, and Ron relished the coolness against his back. The heat wave was starting to bite ... sleep had become nigh on impossible, and there was talk of water shortages. The summer holidays were drifting lazily by ... it was now mid-August, and he was starting to get bored. He had heard nothing of Hermione, and Harry hadn't replied to any of the owls he'd sent.

He was distracted from his reverie by a shout from indoors. His mother was calling him again. Sighing deeply, Ron got up, and slouched indoors. Molly Weasley was standing by the kitchen sink, reading a roll of parchment.

"It's for you," she said, as Ron came in. She rolled up the parchment, and handed it to him. "I think it's from Hermione."

"You're not supposed to read other people's letters," protested Ron, glowering. Hermione might have had something embarrassing to say. "Especially mine."

Molly shrugged. "I like to keep abreast of all the gossip," she said.

"The day Hermione comes by any gossip to speak of, will be the day Satan goes to work on a snowplough," snarled Ron.

"You haven't read her letter then," Molly said, finally.

"I only just got it, Mum," said Ron. Flustered, he went to sit down at the table, where he unrolled the parchment.

Dear Ron,

We just got back from Greece today, hope you got my postcard

.

Ron hadn't. The letter continued;

I am worried about Harry. It's been nearly three weeks since his birthday and we haven't heard anything from him. Do you know what's happening? Is he coming to stay with you? Please write back soon.

Love, Hermione.

She had put kisses at the bottom in lurid purple ink.

"So do you?" asked Molly.

"Mum ... this is very private!" snapped Ron.

"You mean to say you weren't worried about him too?" asked Molly. "We heard absolutely nothing, even though I sent him that cake. You'd almost think he was being ungrateful. Not that he is of course," she added, catching Ron's expression.

Ron shook his head. "He's probably being kept under lock and key, as usual," he said. "All the same, if Hermione's noticed. Perhaps I should owl him again."

"You'd better invite him to stay," said Molly, bustling around with saucepans. "God knows how he's getting on with those Muggles. It's obvious they don't treat him right. He needs feeding up, not starving."

"Thank you, Mum," said Ron, firmly. "I'll write him first thing tomorrow."

"Mind you do," said Molly. "Something must be up ... it isn't like Harry to ignore letters."

She resumed her washing up, and left Ron to his glowering.

* * *

The Dursleys were having a swimming pool installed. Aunt Petunia had been spying on the neighbours again, and had been shocked to discover that several of them seemed to be trying to get one up on her. So since early July, she had been pestering Vernon to get a quote, and he had finally given way, thinking privately that his wife had actually had a very good idea. Harry had watched out of his bedroom window as several men in suits came round to take measurements, and then a couple of weeks later, just after his birthday, they had begun work with a JCB digger. The noise had woken Harry up.

Now it was finished. The crystal clear waters sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as Harry gazed longingly out of the window. He would have liked nothing better to have a dip, but knew it was out of the question.

Harry was passing the most miserable summer of his life. The Dursleys had found a wealth of new little jobs that urgently needed doing, usually ones that required Harry to squeeze into very small, dark spaces and repeatedly hit something, usually his thumb, with a hammer. He had also received nothing for his birthday. No owls, no cakes, nothing ... not even from Sirius. He knew Hermione was being dragged round Greece by her parents (though knowing Hermione, she was probably dragging them) and therefore she could be excused, but not to have heard anything from Ron, or Sirius, or Hagrid, was too bad. He felt forgotten by everybody. It hurt doubly that, though Dudley had miraculously lost several pounds and was back on his normal diet, poor Harry was still being restricted to starvation rations. He was very worried that he might be wasting away ... although he had always been skinny, he was now able to see the outlines of his ribs through his chest, and he was fairly sure that wasn't right.

He was lying on his bed, amusing himself by keeping still for as long as possible, and listening to the sounds coming from the pool, where Dudley and his friends appeared to be having fun. Harry wouldn't have wanted to join them anyway, but he still felt very left out.

He stared up at the ceiling. He had mentioned to Uncle Vernon that the light fitting was a death trap, but had had his ears boxed for his trouble, and told that he should be bloody grateful that they looked after him at all.

He would have murdered for some ice cream.

* * *

He woke up. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, though it was now dark outside, so he guessed some time. An empty feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that once again he had managed to miss dinner. The complete absence of any sound in the house told him he was quite alone. He stood up, and padded over to the door. His instincts were correct. There was nobody home. He wondered where they had gone. He went downstairs, checked all the rooms, and even opened the French windows to make sure they weren't hiding in the garden. Then, suppressing a whoop of joy, he went through into the kitchen.

There was a plate on the table with a single lettuce leaf, a grated carrot and a hunk of cucumber on it, together with a note. Harry screwed up the note without even reading it, and threw it away.

"Thanks for nothing," he said to himself. Somewhere, he could hear thumping music. Of course, that was where they'd gone. The neighbours at number six were having a barbecue and had invited the whole street. Although Vernon and Petunia hated her at number six and her pretentious ways (back in 1987 she'd had the cheek to install a burglar alarm before the Dursleys had), they were not the kind to turn up their noses at free grub. Dudley had been talking about nothing else for several days.

Harry opened the fridge. He was never normally allowed within ten feet of it, in case he should try and steal some food, so what he saw was somewhat of a revelation.

There was half of a gooey, chocolate cake, meticulously decorated beyond Aunt Petunia's culinary capability, several large bottles of Coke, two lemon meringue pies, half a roast chicken, and more. Harry's mouth dropped open.

The writing on top of the cake caught his eye. He turned it round so that he could read it. It said; 'Hap Birt Har.'

His birthday cake?

"You bastards," he said, softly. "You horrible bastards."

Not caring whether the Dursleys caught him or not, Harry took a knife out of the cutlery drawer, and cut himself a very substantial piece of the cake. He also took one of the chicken legs, and then closed the door, thinking he had better not tempt fate too much. He wrapped the chicken leg in a piece of cling-film to save for later, and took the biggest bite he could out of the cake. To a boy who had been living on gerbil food for nearly six weeks now, it tasted like heaven itself. Harry swallowed it without bothering to chew much, and took another bite. All round his mouth was stained with gooey icing.

He heard a noise. He swallowed hurriedly, and pricked up his ears ... every inch of his body tensed suddenly. Was that a key in the lock? Or was it just some cat outside?

A wave of panic swept over Harry. It was the key in the lock! He could hear the front door opening. He stuffed the chicken leg into the pocket of his shorts, and dived under the kitchen table, scraping his knees on the floor.

"Bloody good feed," Uncle Vernon was saying. "Those pork chops, really hit the spot."

"Perhaps we should have a barbecue," Aunt Petunia said.

Uncle Vernon snorted. "Might be a good idea that," he said. "You could do one of your lovely salads."

"I was thinking, more burgers," Dudley's voice.

"That's my boy! I like a lad who appreciates good food!" Vernon roared. "Burgers it shall be. None of your namby-pamby salads for our Dudley here."

"Oh no, nothing but good red meat for our Dudley!"

Harry crouched under the kitchen table, not daring to make a move. Please let them go to bed straight away ... please don't let them want a drink.

He heard Uncle Vernon's footsteps, and then the kitchen light came on. Harry froze. He was standing in the doorway.

"Is everything all right?"

"Could have sworn I heard a noise," said Vernon. "Probably just the dripping tap. I'll have to fix a new washer. Get Harry to do it tomorrow will you?"

"Of course," Aunt Petunia's high heeled shoes clicked past. Harry hardly dared breathe.

"Fancy a night cap?" Vernon asked.

"I'll make you some hot chocolate," said Aunt Petunia, opening one of the high cupboards. "You're not to have any more alcohol tonight."

"I dare say you're right, I dare say you're right," said Uncle Vernon, sadly.

"You heard what Doctor Mitchell told you. You carry on drinking like you do, and you'll give yourself a coronary before you're fifty."

Vernon came over, and took a seat at the kitchen table. He stuck out his feet, narrowly missing Harry, and kicked off his shoes.

"Ah, that's better," he said.

Harry gagged at the stench. Uncle Vernon's feet were absolutely fetid. He had never smelled anything so horrible. He was going to ... he gagged again ... then felt himself retch.

"What the hell was that?" Uncle Vernon roared.

"I didn't hear anything," said Aunt Petunia.

"Somebody made a noise."

Aunt Petunia turned round. Then she let out a little scream ... there was a clatter as the tin of chocolate powder fell to the wooden floor.

"Vernon," she was pointing at something.

"Whatever is it, woman? You're white as a sheet," said Uncle Vernon.

"There's somebody under the table," she hissed, making expansive gestures.

"Don't be bloody ridiculous," laughed Uncle Vernon. "Somebody under the table? Never heard such rot."

"There's somebody under the table."

Uncle Vernon lifted up the edge of the cloth. Harry turned to shield his face, his cake still clutched in his hand. The man let out a strangled cry.

"It's only Harry," he said. "What in blazes are you doing under there? Get out, you horrible wretch!"

Feeling weak at the knees, Harry crawled out from under the table, and got to his feet. He tried to hide the cake behind his back, it was melting and squelchy in his hand.

"Hello," he said. "I think I found my glasses. I'll … I’ll go to bed now..."

"You'll do no such thing," growled Uncle Vernon. "You'll explain what you were doing under the table. Spying on us was it?"

Harry shook his head. "Not at all."

"What are you hiding, boy?"

Harry shook. "Nothing, I'm not hiding anything."

"Don't dare bloody well lie to me," roared Uncle Vernon, his face as red as a beetroot. "You're hiding something. You've got your hands behind your back. Show me what it is!"

Slowly, Harry took his hand out from behind his back. The cake was squeezed into a nasty, sticky mess.

"Stealing!" hissed Uncle Vernon. "You've been stealing from us!"

I'm not going to stand for this

, thought Harry, scowling at his Uncle. "I was taking what was mine," said Harry. "It was my cake. It had my name on it, and you were hiding it from me!"

Uncle Vernon looked somewhat flabbergasted. He seemed lost for words. "How dare you speak to me like that."

"Very easily," snarled Harry, sounding braver than he actually felt. "I'm not taking any of your rubbish! I've had it with you!"

Uncle Vernon rose from his chair, like a tidal wave of wobbly flesh. There was murder in his eyes. Harry leant on the counter top for support. Before he knew fully what was happening, he had been slapped hard across the face.

"Never," Uncle Vernon was roaring, "have I been so insulted in my own home. Never before in my life have I been so insulted!"

Harry's face was numb with pain, he scowled more than ever, blinking back tears of pain. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

"Out of the goodness of our hearts! We've taken good care of you all your life ... and then you repay us like this? You steal from us?"

"I've not been stealing," said Harry. He could feel blood trickling from his nose.

"The evidence is there, in your hands!" yelled Uncle Vernon. "There'll be hell to pay for this boy! You realise that?"

"What'll you do then?" retorted Harry, bitterly.

"Boys who steal from me ... are nasty, horrible little worms. Boys who steal from me do not go unpunished."

Harry didn't dare say anything, he clenched his fists defiantly. Uncle Vernon removed his belt, and began to roll it around his right hand. Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and screwed up his face.

Uncle Vernon leant down close to him. Harry could smell the beer on his breath. "Boys who steal from me, are no good, low down cheats, scum. You're nothing but scum!"

Harry could stand it no longer. Gathering all his strength, he put his face up close to Uncle Vernon's, and yelled. "I am not scum!" for all he was worth.

"You're nothing but a little thief. An insolent little thief who doesn't know when he's well off."

He struck Harry with the belt.

* * *

Draco was also passing an increasingly miserable summer holiday. His Father had gone away somewhere, and his Mother, who all his life had proved outstandingly inept when it came to raising children, seemed to be ignoring him. None of the servants wanted to talk to him, which didn't bother Draco, because he didn't particularly want to talk to them. Nor were any of his friends at home. He knew the Crabbes were holidaying in Menorca that year, as he had received a postcard, but of Goyle, there appeared to be no sign. So Draco passed the days lying on his bed, or lying next to the pool trying not to get sunburned, and devising ever more elaborate ways of looking like he was doing his homework without actually doing any. He was beginning to think that the only option open to him was, indeed, to do his homework.

He was almost tempted to go and see how the little plants he had been shown were getting on ... but Osgoode had taken to patrolling the grounds with a very fearsome looking shotgun, and Draco knew very well that this probably was bad news. Besides, he found the man utterly repellent.

It was getting on for ten o'clock. He got up, showered, dressed and headed downstairs to see if he couldn't scrounge some breakfast. The house appeared deserted. His footfall seemed to echo on the hard stone floors. The Malfoys hanging from the wall in the portrait gallery eyed him somewhat disdainfully. Most of them appeared to be asleep.

"Bored, Draco?" someone asked. Draco spun round to see who had spoken. Very few of the ancestors ever bothered to talk to him. It turned out to be Temperance Malfoy (1615-1644), who sported a very wide brimmed hat with a red feather in it, and a flintlock musket.

"Rather," said Draco, putting his hands nonchalantly in the pockets of his robes, and shambling over.

"Not surprised," Temperance said. "I am too ... this lot are bloody dull aren't they?"

"They're ancestors," said Draco.

"Is that who the buggers are? I'll be damned. Bit of a bunch or rogues aren't they?" Draco could have sworn Temperance winked at him.

"Father always said you were the black sheep," said Draco. "All the others are wizards."

"None of them ever talk to me," said Temperance.

"You were a squib," said Draco ... he had been so bored that he had ended up reading the ancient, leather bound copy of 'A Familie Historye of the Malfoyes', and to his deep chagrin, had committed great chunks of it to memory.

"That's right," said Temperance. "Old Septimus Malfoy cut me off without a penny to my name. Had to earn my living, fighting for King and country."

"When did you do any fighting?" asked Draco. The history book was surprisingly deficient when it came to Temperance's later life ... he had been expelled from Hogwarts for not being able to do any magic. That was all anybody really knew about him

"Civil War," said Temperance. "Don't they teach you anything in these schools?"

Draco shook his head. "Not Muggle history," he said. "Father says it's all lies anyway."

"No insult intended boy, but what your Father thinks is very usually a complete load of horse manure."

Draco was insulted. "How can you judge him?" he said. "You don't even know him!"

"He comes down here sometimes and talks to us," said Temperance, who had produced an ivory comb from somewhere, and was running it idly through his long, curly hair. "I was killed you know. By a bloody Roundhead. Battle of Marston Moor, 1644."

"Really?"

Temperance nodded. "The bastard came at me from behind. It wasn't much fun."

"Then what?"

"Then I died, you silly oaf."

"What's that like?" asked Draco.

"It is very dull," said Temperance. "That's all I wish to say on the matter. Anyway, the rest is history ... Parliament won the war, knocked the King's head off, declared England a Commonwealth, and then cocked it up completely. Ten years later, they had to bring the King back ... apparently a lot of faces were rather red at the time."

Draco didn't pretend he was especially interested. Then Temperance leaned forwards a bit.

"You know what?" he said. "Very few people know this ... at the time, they said Parliament couldn't lose because they had all of our ... your kind on their side."

"Did they?"

"Buggered if I know. The Puritans were always very suspicious about witches and wizards ... they used to run around killing them, here and in the Colonies. They got some too. Seen Charity Malfoy, second to the left by the far door, next to the headless ferryman? Killed by Muggles in Salem."

"I knew all about that," said Draco. "They teach us about that."

"Probably it's a load of rubbish," said Temperance. "Far more likely they were supporting the King."

"Why's that?"

"The King's lot were very dashing, sophisticated. They fancied themselves, if you know what I mean. It was all floppy hats and velvety cloaks and duelling at dawn. More your cup of tea, I dare say."

"It's true about the velvety cloaks," said Draco, who had several.

"My point exactly," said Temperance. He snorted. "Well, young Draco. Nice talking to you. Behave yourself now."

Draco nodded. "Yeah, I ... will," he said. He turned to leave. "By the way?" he said. "What does my Father talk about?"

"Old loopy Lucius? He's got some bee in his bonnet about Harry Potter at the moment. Reckon the man's obsessed with him ... reckon he's 'one of those' if you know what I mean."

"It would explain the jodhpurs," muttered Draco. "Thanks," he said.

He left the gallery, and wandered off to find food.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Harry was woken early by a tapping on his window. The sun was beginning to poke up over the tall poplars at the end of the garden, and the dewy lawn was bathed in dappled light. There was also a small grey owl on the windowsill, hopping up and down as if very agitated. Harry opened the window to let it in. Hedwig regarded the visitor with scorn.

"Hello Pig," said Harry, clutching the little owl tight so that it wouldn't fly away. He undid the letter attached to its leg, and unrolled the piece of parchment. His heart lifted ... it was Ron's handwriting.

Dear Harry,

Did you get the birthday presents? Mum's really worried about you, and I think Hermione is too. She wrote to me the other day asking if I'd heard anything. Please write back otherwise I'm going to get it in the neck. Mum also wants me to ask if you want to come and stay for the last couple of weeks. We can go and pick up our stuff from Diagon Alley, I've arranged to meet Hermione there on the 29th. Anyway, please let us know, and we'll fix a time to come and pick you up. We cleared it with Dumbledore so don't worry. Please write!!!

Ron.

Harry folded up the parchment. He would have written ... he would have written as soon as he got their presents, except he hadn't got them. He would write now, if only he hadn't been banned from trying to contact any of his friends after the chocolate cake incident. Uncle Vernon had been getting in the habit of checking Hedwig's cage every so often to make sure Harry hadn't been sending her off on errands, and although he had not witnessed it himself, he knew they had been going through his things. There were greasy marks all over his copy of 'Flying With The Cannons.'

He heard footsteps outside. Quick as a flash, he stuffed Pigwidgeon under the covers, and hid the parchment ... then he closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

The bedroom door creaked open.

"Are you awake, boy?" Uncle Vernon's voice.

Harry pretended to have been just waking up. He opened one eye, yawned and said. "What's up ... what time is it?"

"Thought I heard noises," he grumbled. "Are you up to something?"

"I was asleep!" groaned Harry. "It's only six o'clock."

"If you're up to something," Uncle Vernon snarled. He left the room, though he didn't close the door completely. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Pigwidgeon was sitting on his stomach and kept pecking him.

"Get off," squeaked Harry. He grabbed the owl, and sat it down on the windowsill, where it fluttered its wings. Then he unfolded the letter, and re-read it.

"I'll have to use you to send a reply," Harry whispered, conscious that Uncle Vernon might still be prowling around outside. "I can't risk sending Hedwig."

Hedwig gave him a look of what might have been pure hatred. Harry didn't notice. He grabbed a pen, and began looking round for a scrap of paper. When he couldn't find one, he tore one of the end pages out of his old copy of ‘The Standard Book of Spells' and used that.

‘Dear Ron,' he wrote. He stopped, and sucked the end of his pen thoughtfully. Then he continued. ‘Thanks for the cake and stuff. I didn't get it because the Dursleys intercepted the package before I could get to it, but I know you sent it. Tell Hermione and your Mum not to worry. I'm fine - I've gone nearly two months without my scar hurting and everything. I'd like to come and stay but I'm banned from practically everything at the minute and the Dursleys aren't budging. You might have to use underhand tactics ... i.e. this means get me out quick!!!! See you soon!'

He signed his name.

"Take this straight to Ron," he said to Pigwidgeon. The owl hooted with glee. "No stopping, not even for other, sexy owls," he fastened the letter to Pig's outstretched leg. "You're on a mission of mercy," he said … and Pig, almost bursting with pride, took flight.

* * *

Another

week had gone by. Harry had to assume that Pigwidgeon had managed to make it all the way back to Ottery St Catchpole, which was after all, a good day's flying away for an owl. He had still not heard anything though.

It was the evening of the Dursleys' barbecue. Determined not to be outdone by her at Number Six, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had laid on a considerable spread, and by the amounts of food they had bought, seemed to have invited half the county. Harry had sneaked downstairs to steal a look in the fridge, and had been flabbergasted to find it stocked to overflowing with chickens, burgers, sausages, chops and ribs. It was a vegetarian's nightmare in there. Just looking at all the food had made him slightly less hungry, which was lucky, because he was now down to a couple of lettuce leaves a day, and was convinced he was becoming unhealthily underweight. What with the lacerations and bruises left over from that beating … his harshest yet, he was beginning to look like some sort of refugee.

To Harry's considerable astonishment, Uncle Vernon had come up to his room on the Saturday afternoon before the barbecue, and told him, in grudging tones that he would be allowed to attend. It transpired that a major client of Grunning's had been asking after him. Harry offered silent thanks to the client, whilst wondering quietly who it could possibly be. Uncle Vernon had told him to make himself presentable. He had tried in vain to run a comb through his hair, but it hurt too much to make any kind of effort. Then he had had to select his smartest clothes.

This second task had presented Harry with some difficulty. His smartest clothes were his dress robes, but to have worn them would have invited punishment. Looking through his meagre wardrobe of Muggle clothes, he was dismayed to find he possessed nothing that could be deemed smart that wasn't his Hogwarts uniform. There were a couple of pairs of jeans, Dudley's cast offs, that he had used magic on so they didn't look so ridiculous on him, some shorts, several T-shirts, his woolly jumpers (four of them, each knitted by Mrs Weasley, though the oldest were a bit short in the arm these days), his pyjamas and dressing gown, pants, socks and vests ... Harry was damned if he was going to turn up in his underwear though. Nothing that could be remotely described as smart. Reluctantly, he pulled on his least baggy pair of jeans, and a T-shirt. Then he surveyed himself in the mirror. "Face it, you're not built for Muggle socialising," he said. He adjusted his glasses.

Guests were starting to arrive. Harry could hear cars, doors being slammed, happy conversation. Praying that the Polkiss family weren't going to turn up, he made his way downstairs.

The hall was filled with people who Harry had either never seen, or never noticed before, not one of whom seemed to notice him. He squeezed through them, and went out into the garden, where Uncle Vernon was standing proudly behind his new barbecue, prodding the steaks with a spatula, and wearing a paper chef's hat.

"There you are," he said, surveying Harry with scorn. "Is that the best you could do?"

"I don't have any smart clothes," glowered Harry. "Nobody ever got me any."

Uncle Vernon snarled at him. "Now see here ..."

"Unless," said Harry. "You'd like me to wear my robes ... they're very smart," he added with feeling.

"No, no, that won't be necessary," spluttered Uncle Vernon. "That'll have to do. I suppose we can at least be thankful you don't look like a complete vagabond ... which reminds me. What's your cover story?"

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "This is very demeaning, you know," he said.

"You go to St Brutus' Institution for Incurably Criminal Boys ... and don't dare forget it. I'll expect you to set a good example."

Harry sneered. "Whatever you say," he muttered, thinking it wouldn't half be fun to tell everybody he was really a wizard, just to see the look on his Uncle's face.

"Now get serving."

"What?" said Harry, in alarm.

"Make yourself useful boy. Serve some drinks or something," Uncle Vernon returned to over-seasoning the steaks.

Harry wandered off. People were starting to spill out into the garden, standing round the new swimming pool with looks of admiration on their faces, whilst small children swirled around their legs. Harry was about to go back inside when someone, Aunt Petunia, pushed a bowl of crisps into his hands.

"Hand them round. Mind ... if you touch one of them, there'll be hell to pay."

Harry nodded glumly, and went back out into the garden. Uncle Vernon was laughing along with several other very burly men, and Dudley seemed to be holding court with some of his friends. Harry ignored them, and offered round the crisps.

"Thanks," said someone, taking a great handful. Harry was about to protest, when he looked up, and his jaw dropped.

Fred Weasley (for it was he) put a finger to his mouth. "Don't say anything," he said. "We're gate-crashing."

"We thought we'd better rescue you," said George, sidling up on his other side.

"And we might throw Ron in the pool, if you're lucky," said Fred.

"Keep acting normal, and move towards the barbecue," said George. "I'll be right behind you."

Harry nodded, wondering what they could possibly be planning. He suddenly felt very elated, like he was walking on air, to coin a cliché. Adrenaline seeped into his bloodstream. He walked slowly over to the barbecue, George following closely behind.

"What do you want?" Uncle Vernon glared at him.

"I wanted you to meet George," said Harry. "He's a friend."

George stuck out his hand, and shook Uncle Vernon's as if he had known him for years. "I'm one of Molly's kids," he said. "Remember?" Only Harry had noticed he was holding his wand behind his back.

Uncle Vernon, who wasn't sure just who had been invited, assumed Molly must be some friend of Petunia's he'd not met before. "Nice to meet you, George."

"You too. Harry's told me so much about you."

Uncle Vernon paled. "Really? Flattering things, I hope?"

"He can't praise you enough," said George. "Believe me!" he poked Harry in the back with his wand. "Play along," he hissed.

Harry nodded. "Oh yes," he said. "Very flattering indeed."

One of the men standing next to Uncle Vernon cracked a joke which Harry didn't hear. The others laughed anyway. So did George.

"Come on, Harry," he said. "You must introduce me to your cousin."

They sidled away. Vernon watched them go.

"Seemed a pleasant boy," said one of the other men.

"I've seen him somewhere before," said Vernon, suspiciously. "I just can't remember where."

George ushered Harry over to the other side of the garden, out of eyeshot behind the gazebo.

"What did you do?" asked Harry.

"Ever heard of potato steaks?" asked George. "They look just like regular steaks ... but they're made entirely out of instant mashed potato."

Harry shook his head ... then grinned.

"Neither have they," said George, gesturing to Uncle Vernon. "Dare say some of those blokes will be rather surprised come dinner time."

Harry grinned even more. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why are you here."

"Thought that was obvious," said George, taking another handful of crisps and shoving them into his mouth. "Someone needs rescuing," he added, spraying Harry and Fred with bits of crisp as he spoke.

"So where's everyone else?" asked Harry.

"Mum didn't want to come," said George. "Ron and Dad are upstairs packing your stuff."

"Then what? How did you get here?"

"By car," said George. "Dad didn't want to risk Floo Powder again ... not after last time."

"Sensible," said Harry. He spotted Aunt Petunia standing on the patio, anxiously scanning the crowd for him. "Gotta go," he said, and darted off.

He hadn't gone far when he was waylaid by Dudley and Piers Polkiss. Piers had had his growth spurt since Harry had last seen him, and was now a good foot taller than he was.

"Hello, Harry," said Piers. "Long time no see."

"You too," scowled Harry. Piers, on the other hand, had put what seemed like a friendly hand on Harry's shoulder.

"How's life been treating you?" sneered Piers. Dudley was covering his mouth in an effort not to laugh.

"Not badly," said Harry, matter of factly. "I'm already a black belt in karate, and next term they let us start with the nun-chucks. And we get to do the three R's too ... that's rabbiting, rioting, and ram-raiding."

"You always were a pathetic liar," said Piers. "Bet you've never even been in a proper fight."

"Oh, I have," squeaked Harry, not feeling particularly brave, or, for that matter, incurably criminal. "You probably wouldn't want to know about it though. It was horrible ... took them weeks to get the blood out of the walls."

"Yeah, your blood," sniggered Piers.

"No, the boy I killed," said Harry brightly. "They don't call it an institution for incurably criminal boys for nothing, you know!"

Piers started to look doubtful. He turned to Dudley. Dudley grinned. "He's lying," he said, knowledgeably.

Piers put his hand back on Harry's shoulder. "I know you're pulling my leg," he said. "You couldn't go two rounds with a bunny rabbit."

"Something the matter?" asked a voice. It was Fred and George.

"Nothing at all," said Piers, sizing up the other boys. He sneered. "Nice haircut," he added.

"All the rage at St Brutus'," said Fred.

"We're friends of Harry's," said George. "Are the bigger boys bothering you, Harry?"

Piers sneered even more. "What's it to you?"

"We don't like people who bother our Harry. Seems like we're rather attached to him," said Fred. "We don't much care for people who don't share our point of view."

"If you catch our drift," said George.

"So you go to this St Brutus' place too?" asked Piers, withdrawing his hand hurriedly from Harry's shoulder.

Fred and George both nodded. Fred said, "Only as we're a couple of years above Harry, we're slightly more criminally able. I do advanced garrotting, and George here can strip a Kalashnikov rifle in twenty two seconds."

"So you see, you really don't want to make us angry," said George, folding his arms.

"Oh no, we stick together, us incurably criminal boys," said Fred.

"That's okay," said Piers. "We were just passing the time of day. I was just saying how nice it was to see Harry again after all these years."

Dudley, on the other hand, appeared to be having some sort of seizure.

"It's you," he stuttered.

Fred and George smiled at each other. "Yes, it's us," George said. "How are you doing, pig boy?"

Dudley had gone very pale indeed. "How did you get here?" he asked. "Who let you in?"

"Oh, we did," said Fred, producing his wand. George did the same. Dudley squeaked in fright.

"What do you reckon?" asked George.

"Maybe we could use jelly legs," said Fred. Dudley was quaking with fear, Piers had gone white ... the whole scene was very funny.

George shook his head. "Nah," he said. He levelled his wand at Piers, and Fred levelled his at Dudley.

"Goodbye, boys. Nice meeting you," said Fred.

Before either of them could react, Fred and George had jumped forwards, and pushed both of them backwards. Piers lost his footing, stumbled, and fell into the pool. Dudley teetered on the edge for a brief second, looking for all the world like a ballerina, and then, with an almighty splash, had joined his friend, and transferred most of the water onto Fred, George and Harry in the process.

Aunt Petunia screamed. The entire party seemed to have stopped. Everyone present was staring in their direction.

"Harry!" Uncle Vernon roared. "What in blazes have you done now?"

Aunt Petunia rushed forwards, wailing. "Dudley, Dudley darling, get out, you'll catch your death!"

Harry looked from Fred, to George, and then to Uncle Vernon, who was advancing on the three of them with the look of an enraged rhino on his face.

"Leg it," said Fred.

* * *

Ron and Mr Weasley were just putting Harry's trunk in the boot of a borrowed Ministry car as Harry, Fred and George came sprinting round the side of the house.

"Get in!" yelled Fred. "I think we might be in trouble."

A wide grin spread across Ron's face. He closed the boot hurriedly, and jumped in. He could hear roars of anger in the distance. Mr Weasley dashed round to the driver's door, looking very flustered.

"I don't believe I wish to know what you've been up to," he said, as Fred and George flung themselves into the car, followed closely by Harry, who looked very out of breath. George reached over him to pull the car door shut, just as Uncle Vernon rounded the corner of the house. Aunt Petunia and a dripping wet Dudley were in hot pursuit.

"Dear, oh dear, we'd better get out of here," mumbled Mr Weasley, fumbling with the keys. He started the engine, and put the car in gear.

Harry waved out of the back window as they drove off down Privet Drive, leaving the Dursleys standing, livid in the middle of the road, waving their fists angrily.

"Be seeing you!" he shouted. "God bless!"

He turned to Ron, who was smiling broadly at him.

"All right?" he asked.

Ron nodded. "Good to see you, mate," he said, huskily.

"You have no idea," breathed Harry, settling back in his seat. "Anybody got some food? I could eat a horse!"