Harry Potter and the Seventh Realm

July 31 broke extraordinarily hot over England. Most of the country's population was using the slight cooling breeze and the wonderfully hot sun as a delightful excuse to take the day off from cleaning and gardening and were spending the day in parks and front lawns across England.

On Privet Drive, only one person had actually ventured outside. The boy in number four's front garden was small and skinny, with the pinched look of someone who had been denied proper nutrition most of his life. Though he looked friendly enough, his eternally messy long black hair was enough to earn him a place on the neighborhoods Most Despised list, second only to Dudley Dursley, Harry's horrible bullying cousin. In their view, the bright green eyes that looked out from underneath a pair of thick round-rimmed wire glasses held the devil-may-care attitude of a hardened hooligan. The thin lightning bolt scar on his forehead only added to his exclusion as an abnormal young boy, one who was out of place in this neighborhood. Most people would be horrified of such scrutiny and lurk indoors; but fifteen-year-old Harry Potter wasn't outside because he thought he was welcomed there, rather, he was using this day to escape his horribly prim aunt and the even more careful scrutiny she inflicted upon him.

The neighbors didn't know quite what made Harry Potter different, but they were right; Harry was no ordinary boy. Under the guise of going to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, Harry disappeared for nearly 10 months of every year to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and what's more, he was famous. Famous for something he had no control over, for something he didn't even remember, save for bits of sound and vague bursts of light. In fact, the only relic of his fame, the identifying mark that put him in the history books was the scar on his forehead, for that was where an evil wizard had hit him with a curse so powerful that he was the only person ever to survive it.

Aside from his fame and hero-status in the wizarding world, Harry was just like any other wizard at Hogwarts; swamped with holiday homework. Harry knew he should really be inside, working on his homework and studying for the O.W.L. exams that would be concluding his fifth and probably most stressful year at Hogwarts. After all, the teachers had seen no reason to give them the summer off, and had assigned a combined total of 600 pages of reading and 20 feet of essays. Harry thought of what his best friends would say.

Ron Weasley's bright red hair and freckled face popped into Harry's head. "Don't worry about it mate, the O.W.L.s are ages from now. You should be outside; those damn Dursleys don't let you do much else, do they? Besides, Hermione will help us with our homework before we go back."

Hermione Granger's stern countenance and the bushy brown hair that surrounded it replaced Ron's face. "I will not! Harry, Professor McGonagall said that the O.W.L.s are really important, and you should be studying already. Here, I've made study schedules for you and Ron so you two won't have to rush so much come next May."

Harry laughed. Despite the fact that Hermione was probably right, he just couldn't bring himself to be stuck up inside the house with bony Aunt Petunia, enduring glares and barely audible huffs whenever he moved so much as a foot. So instead, he had cheerfully (much to Aunt Petunia's surprise) accepted her suggestion that he "make himself useful for once and work off that nasty smile in the garden." With Uncle Vernon at work, and his cousin Dudley on a holiday weekend with his rat-faced crony Piers Polkiss, Harry didn't have to worry about being tormented outside of Aunt Petunia's confines. He decided that once he'd finished his work in the garden, he would bring his homework outside and work on it under the shade of the big tree in the backyard.

For now, however, Harry was bent double, his head in a hydrangea bush, tugging at weeds and showering the roots of the bushes with a rain-like stream of water from the hosepipe. He occasionally pointed the hosepipe up and let the fine mist shower down on him as well. Never mind that the Dursleys would clobber him for wasting the water on himself; the Dursleys were still rather petrified that Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, would appear in the night and turn them into toads. A year after the discovery of Sirius as Harry's godfather and only wizarding relative, and Harry still hadn't told the Dursleys that Sirius was innocent of the murder he served 12 years in wizarding prison for. Harry reflected a moment on how much easier that simple omission had made these last two summers.

A loud, not-at-all-subtle throat-clearing cough at the door made him straighten and turn. Aunt Petunia was standing ramrod straight in the doorway, looking pained. Her lips were pursed tighter than usual over her large teeth, further enhancing her liking to a particularly ill-tempered horse wearing a stiff blonde wig.

"Boy, there's a phone call for you. It's that friend of yours," she said disdainfully. Her tone of voice told him that the caller was Hermione, someone that Aunt Petunia, not surprisingly, didn't approve of. Harry wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a sweaty streak of dirt there, shook his messy hair to rid it of water, and sighed gratefully. He was beginning to tire of doing Aunt Petunia's gardening. Harry pushed past Aunt Petunia, who flattened herself against the wall in a desperate attempt to keep her perfectly coiffed and made up self away from sweaty, wet Harry.

"Hello? Hermione?" Harry said, picking up the phone.

"All right, Harry?" Hermione replied excitedly, sounding almost like Colin Creevey. The Dursleys had finally allowed Harry to receive phone calls from his wizarding friends in exchange for them not sending him post by owl, by far the Dursley's least favorite aspect of having a wizard under their roof, "so long as they act like... normal people when they call," Uncle Vernon had growled, grasping Harry by the collar to emphasize his point.

"Well, I'm still stuck in Privet Drive, but besides that, I'm fine, Hermione. What's up?" Ron had not rung him yet that summer, because he was still quite uncertain as to how to use a telephone, and his last encounter with one made him reluctant to try again. But Hermione had only rung him once.

"Well, first of all, happy birthday, Harry," she said, "and also, if your Aunt and Uncle will let you, my parents are coming to Surrey this weekend for some dentist's convention, and I'm being dragged along. Would you like to spend the weekend with me?" She said in one quick breath. "We can take you to London with us on Sunday." Harry broke into a smile. He would do anything to break the monotony of Privet Drive. A quick glance at the calendar told him it was Thursday. He thought his jaw might split from smiling so hard.

"Sure Hermione, I'd love to! I'm not even going to ask, they'll say yes." Hermione gave a little laugh.

"Splendid. Mum and Dad said they can come pick you up around noon on Saturday, and then Sunday morning we'll take the train to London and we can walk to..." she stopped mid-sentence, not sure how she should finish the sentence. "Um, well I can't really say, because I don't really know, but we're going to meet up with Ron at the platform, and he'll take us." she finished.

"Excellent!" Harry said. Ron had owled him with a rather mysterious letter earlier in the summer, telling him that instead of coming to the Burrow, Harry would be coming to the place the Weasleys were currently staying at. Harry wondered what all of the secrecy was for. He said as much.

"Well he must be staying with the Order of the Phoenix, mustn't he? It'll be exciting to see what's going on behind enemy lines, won't it?" The phrase "Order of the Phoenix" rang a little bell, and Harry pondered briefly where he had heard of it before, thought it better to wait for a proper explanation, and didn't ask.

"Of course," Harry lied. "Well then, I suppose I'll see you on Saturday, Hermione."

"Bye Harry." When Harry hung up the phone, Aunt Petunia's sharp voice sounded behind him.

"Well, boy," she said, with an extra amount of disdain in her voice, "is your freaky little friend offering to take you away? Will she be retrieving you? Vernon and I won't drive you so much as down the street." Harry fought the urge to tell her that Hermione would be arriving in a flourish of magic, waving her wand about carelessly, but knew that such a statement could land him under strict house arrest.

"Yes, Hermione wants to know if I can spend the weekend with her and her parents. Can I?" Aunt Petunia sniffed and turned out of the room, which Harry deduced to mean yes.

"I'll need my broom and my wand then," he called after her. She stopped, turned slowly to face him, and told him in the least amount of words possibly to go and wait upstairs and she would bring them to him. She turned to go again, not waiting for a response.

Harry grinned at her retreating back, and went upstairs to pack.

* * *

In his room, he tore down the calendar that marked the days until his return to Hogwarts. If he were going to be with Ron and Hermione, he wouldn't need it. He carefully extricated his schoolbooks, inkbottle, quills, and rolls of parchment from underneath his bed. The Dursleys had agreed to let him have his schoolbooks and parchment over the summer owing solely to the fact that he couldn't do any magic by just reading about it, but they still forced him to lock his wand and broomstick into the tiny cupboard under the stairs that had once served as his bedroom. He regarded the five-foot essay he had completed for Professor Snape on the importance of proper flame temperature in potion making before placing everything carefully into his wooden trunk stamped with HP on the side. Corrections would have to wait until he was with Hermione, who had undoubtedly leafed through myriad tomes trying to find every fact about flame temperature ever published.

He thoughtfully wrapped the glass ink well in one of his older robes, simultaneously making a mental note that he needed another set for this year, as the pair he was currently using as a wrap was several inches too short in the legs. He debated leaving his bottle-green dress robes at home, and then decided that at Hogwarts he could never be sure that something as horrid as a Ball might be sprung on him. Harry glanced up at his snowy owl Hedwig's empty cage and remembered that he hadn't gotten his school letter yet. While he could foresee no reason for another Ball after last year's disaster, he crammed them between a book and his daily robes anyway.

He looked around the room to see what else he had left behind. His school uniform had remained safely tucked away in his trunk all summer, excepting for his red and gold Gryffindor scarf, the colors reminding him of the place he called home and the people he called family. His faithful Firebolt was now propped against a corner, Aunt Petunia having slid it, along with his magic wand, through the cat flap on his door. The Dursleys didn't own a cat; rather the flap had been installed three years ago when the Dursleys decided they ought to fit locks on Harry's door to keep him in his room. Harry was positively itching to have a fly, as he hadn't flown in quite a long time owing to last year's Triwizard tournament. Harry thought for a moment on what had happened last year and shuddered. He spent enough time thinking about it while lying in the darkness of his room at night; he did not want to think about it now. Even so, he couldn't help it. Each night he revisited the graveyard in his dreams. The graveyard where he had seen Lord Voldemort return to full power. The graveyard where Cedric Diggory was murdered thoughtlessly, carelessly, in front of Harry's eyes.

A tap at the window gave Harry a welcome reprieve from the dank trap of his unwelcome thoughts. Looking up, he saw Hedwig sitting on the sill, a scrap of parchment tied to her leg and irritation in her huge amber eyes. Her beak was clamped tight around a fat mouse, and she looked like she had been kept waiting.

"Hedwig, you're back!" Harry said happily, shoving the window open and standing back to allow Hedwig in. "I missed you," he cooed quietly to the bird, who had taken refuge on his arm. "You're the only friend I've got around here."

Hedwig hooted softly around the mouse. Harry put her down on his desk and untied the letter. Harry recognized the handwriting immediately. It was from his godfather.

Harry-

I can't wait to see you. Ron told me that you and Hermione arrive on Sunday night. Molly's making a welcoming feast just for the two of you. Your owl is the smartest bird I've had the pleasure of meeting. She knew exactly where to find me, although I'm not sure how - we are well hidden. Well, can't say anything more right now. I'll fill you in on Sunday night.

Snuffles

Harry set down the letter and began scratching Hedwig absently.

"Load of good that did me. No one is telling me anything! And who is we?" Hermione's voice rang in his ears. 'He must be staying with the Order of the Phoenix, mustn't he?' So Sirius was with the Order of the Phoenix as well. He was now even more anxious to join up with Ron. He re-read the letter seven times, but still nothing more was clear. It was really rude, being kept in the dark like this, he decided. Harry sighed and noticed that Hedwig was gone, having dropped the dead mouse on the floor and likely having gone out looking for more. Grimacing, Harry picked up the slightly bloody mouse by its tail and dropped it onto the desk.

Hedwig's cage was in need of a good clean anyway. There were a few too many droppings stuck to the cage bars, and her water bowl was getting a bit slimy. Harry carried the entire cage into the backyard, where he would dissemble and clean it piece by piece while Aunt Petunia looked on in disgust.

* * *

Harry threw down the dirty sponge and wiped his brow on his sleeve. The sun was rapidly sinking in the sky, mosquitoes and gnats were swarming around him, and his fingers were more wrinkled than an old man's, but he was finished. Hedwig's cage was spotless and sparkling. Harry rested his hands on his knees and was about to hoist himself up from his kneeling position when his fat Uncle Vernon appeared in front of him.

"So," Vernon said simply, towering over Harry.

"So what," Harry replied. From living with the Dursleys for so long, Harry had learned and perfected the art of putting just enough venom and sarcasm in his tone to arouse notice, but not enough that Uncle Vernon could possibly call him out on it.

"Your girlfriend is coming on Saturday to take you back to your freaky... place." He said, not bothering to disguise his disgust. Harry was too tired and too jaded as to what the Dursleys thought to correct Uncle Vernon about Hermione, and just nodded instead.

"Good. Now there will be no fooling around, no inviting her to stay and meet us," he hissed, thrusting a short, sausage-like finger in Harry's face. "She'll take you and go. She won't be arriving like..." here, Uncle Vernon cast around suspiciously and lowering his face to within a foot of Harry's, "like those others did, will she?" He whispered, "At least this one has the decency to arrive like a normal person?" It sounded like a question, but Harry knew it wasn't. He knew that if the answer was yes, that Hermione would be arriving in the Dursley's fireplace; blasting away the living room wall like Ron's dad and brothers had just the year previous, that Harry would be in for a severe flogging.

"No. Hermione's parents are Mug... are like you," he said. He had been about to commit the mortal sin of mentioning the word "Muggle", a wizarding term for people like the Dursleys; people without an ounce of magic in them. Had Harry said the word "Muggle", he could be fairly sure that he wouldn't be receiving any food until Hermione came to pick him up.

"She's arriving at noon on Saturday, in a car," he added hastily, seeing the snarl on Uncle Vernon's face. But Uncle Vernon seemed placated by this information, and straightened up.

"Put the hosepipe and bucket away, and don't come in the house until you're dried off."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, giving his Uncle a sarcastic salute, which Uncle Vernon fortunately did not see.

* * *

Harry woke on Saturday morning with his stomach in a twist. As he untangled himself from his damp bed sheets, he looked over at the clock. The luminous numbers told him it was only 7:15 in the morning. Harry could hear the Dursleys sleeping in their bedrooms and sighed. He had been back in the graveyard last night, watching Cedric die. Only this time, it had been his high, cruel voice that had demanded Cedric's death, and he had watched himself be thrown against the tombstone and tied to it. Harry rubbed his forehead, running his fingers over his scar. It had been hurting more often now that Voldemort was back in a human-like body, and that was to be expected, as he had been told by scores of people.

Looking at the clock once again, he determined that he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, and nor would he want to at this point, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering when his bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor. He shuffled blearily to Hedwig's cage and slipped some Owl Treats between the bars, rubbing his eyes. He noticed how clean her cage was, and remembered what today was. Hermione was coming to get him today! The weight in his eyelids left him suddenly and he straightened up, smiling. It was with this same smile that he ran himself a hot shower, brushed his teeth, and got dressed.

The jeans he pulled on were old, and faded from years of wear. The knees were worn thin, with dirt ground in so far that a thousand washes had not removed them. They had once been Dudley's jeans, as evidenced from the way they hung loosely on Harry's hips, threatening to fall off if not for the belt he wore. The gray t-shirt he tugged on was tight, too small for him. It had once been Dudley's too, but that was so long ago that even Harry had outgrown it. The only advantage that Harry could see to having a shirt this old was that the material was buttery soft, and it was thin enough to keep him cool in his hot bedroom.

Harry surveyed himself in his mirror when he was done. He reflected that on a toned body, the tight t-shirt with the baggy jeans might actually look good. On him, he just felt like a fool in clothes that didn't fit. He flexed his arm muscles briefly and then laughed at himself. What am I doing? He thought, since when do I care about how I look? Part of him knew exactly why, and he ignored it determinedly.

"Flexing your imaginary muscles, Potter?" Harry turned around. In the doorway was his cousin, Dudley. Dudley wasn't ugly, really, but something about him was piggish, be it the waddle in his walk or the way his multiple chins jiggled whenever he used his mouth, or just the pink flush that was always on his cheek. Whatever it was, it made Harry despise pigs. Harry wished the Dursleys would stop just showing up in front of him, and start knocking or something.

"Fuck off Dudley," Harry said casually, pushing past Dudley, slamming his shoulder into Dudley as the latter had done so many times to Harry before. This time, Dudley actually reeled back a bit, unprepared as he was for the attack. Dudley's hand went to his shoulder. Though Harry had not visibly bulked out any, it seemed that three years of Quidditch and one year playing in the Triwizard Tournament had changed him. Gone was any baby fat he previously had, and though as skinny as ever, more so even now that he had grown so tall, Harry was almost as strong as his cousin now. Almost being an operative word, as Dudley still fell back on Harry as his favorite target.

* * *

Hermione's arrival went surprisingly smooth. She was smart enough not to say much to Uncle Vernon, who answered the door snarling. After a quick hello, she helped Harry carry his trunk to her parent's car, and then a wave goodbye, which to Harry's surprise was returned, however dismissible. But Harry didn't care; he was on his way to being back where he belonged.