The Healers

Chapter two: Niamh

Draco Malfoy prided himself on being witty, attractive, and composed. His heritage was impeccable, being descended from a line of pure-blooded wizards untainted through the ages. He had the delicate, aristocratic features that the Malfoy family were renowned for, and he had inherited the poise and catlike elegance of his Mother's family. His speech was refined and definitively 'upper class', and years of exposure to the Dark Arts had left him with a drawling cynicism which made it nigh on impossible to surprise him nor fluster him. He was the epitome of wizarding blue-blood, and his composure was unshakable.

It would seem, however, that Draco's impenetrable facade was not quite as impervious as he would like to have believed, and he now found himself gaping like a stunned mullet.

Struggling to regain his footing, Draco raised a fine eyebrow in question. "Niamh?"

The figure standing before his window took a step into the room and gave a graceful nod of her head. For a moment she seemed to be ablaze in a silver nimbus, but when she finally spoke she was cloaked in darkness once more. "Well met, Draco Malfoy." As she took another step forward, Draco took an involuntary step backwards, running himself up against the mirror with a loud clang.

"Ooompff! Watch it, Malfoy!" The mirror protested, causing Draco to jump in fright. His shoulders slumping in defeat, he admitted to himself that he was unlikely to regain his dignified composure anytime soon.

Niamh smiled in amusement. "You seem somewhat alarmed, Draco Malfoy. Were you not expecting me?" Her voice was lilting and melodic, traced with an unfamiliar accent and possessing an echo of its own.

"I . . . no . . . that is to say--" A bemused frown settled upon his face. "I wasn't sure you were real."

Niamh closed the gap between them with a few elegant steps, though Draco could have sworn she floated on air. "I am very real, Draco Malfoy -"

"It's just Draco," he commented dryly.

Niamh inclined her head slightly. "Very well. Just Draco, then. Why would you believe I am anything but real? I rather doubt your father would allow a union between yourself and a figment of your imagination. Do you not remember my visits to you as a child? Those wounds did not heal themselves, you know."

Draco gave a short bark of laughter and fought the urge to sneer. "I remember. But then as I grew older you stopped coming." He paused, swallowing as a lump formed in his throat. "I thought perhaps you weren't real . . . just a childhood fantasy."

For a moment they stared at each other, two figures cloaked in shadow. "Why did you stop coming?" he whispered, his voice raw with repressed emotion.

Niamh ignored the question and looked around the room. "Your room is chill, Draco. In the Patria, we have nothing quite like this." She ran her finger delicately across the cold stone wall and turned to smile at him.

"Patria? You didn't answer my question," Draco replied, his voice hinting at his impatience.

Niamh nodded. "The Patria - my homeland. The Core Realm." Once more she turned from him, this time walking over to his bed and gently testing the mattress with her hands. Finding it soft and springy, she gave a soft laugh and threw herself backwards upon the bed, grinning as she bounced upon it.

Draco crossed to the bed and perched upon it, staring down at her face, feeling his frustration increasing. "Will you answer my question, Niamh? Why did you stop visiting me?"

Her face took on a sombre look and she sat up on the bed, crossing her legs in front of her and tucking her hair behind one delicate, pointed ear before replying. "I think you know the answer to that, Draco. But you are trying to deny what you know, hoping I'll provide some vague response. Do not expect me to make excuses for you. I will not." Her voice held no hint of apology, just a steel resolve not to be swayed.

Draco felt anger flood his body. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and he fought the urge to snap a sarcastic response at her. She was right, of course. Deep down, he knew the answer, but he was desperately hoping she'd create some story, make excuses for her lack of appearances over the last few years. He found himself looking everywhere but at her, his gaze eventually settling on his own hands. I have beautiful hands, he thought to himself. Long, straight fingers covered by clear, white skin, topped by perfectly manicured nails.

"You think I'm cruel, don't you?" he asked softly. "That's why you stopped coming to me. I told you how I behaved at Hogwarts, and you couldn't bear it. You couldn't bear me." He looked up, and she was considering him, her head tilted to the side once more. Draco pulled himself up onto the bed, sitting across from her, unconsciously imitating her body language.

"Are you cruel, Draco?" she asked slowly. "I mean, inside . . . are you so hateful and arrogant? Or is it an act?"

Draco frowned. He'd been asking himself the same questions ever since Voldemort had returned. He didn't honestly know anymore. Outwardly, he was often still the same Draco Malfoy he'd been all his life; spiteful, mean, vindictive. A show off who went out of his way to torment his "nemesis", Harry Potter. He knew perfectly well what people thought of him: Draco Malfoy, the evil son of a Death-eater. And he let them think just that. Inwardly, he no longer knew why he did it. It all seemed so insignificant and pithy in the face of Voldemort's return. Pointless; a stupid, childish game. He knew that. He'd known when he returned to his fifth year of Hogwarts, that it was all an act. Maybe once upon a time it had meant something to him, but now it was just an act that he kept up, because that's who he was. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin House personified, enemy of Harry Potter, tormentor of Muggles and Mudbloods. His Father's son.

Suddenly, he found himself wanting to drop the act, to admit that this wasn't him, that he was merely living up to the expectations of his Father and the Death-Eaters. But staring across at Niamh, looking expectantly at him, he found he couldn't say it.

The truth was, he didn't know who he was anymore.

Draco did not remember falling asleep, and when he next woke up, late in the morning, Niamh was gone. It crossed his mind that the entire incident had been a dream. His next thought was that perhaps he was unstable. I'd have to be unstable, if I'm suddenly conjuring midnight conversations with an imaginary friend from my childhood. A frown marred his brow as he dressed himself in casual black robes and drifted downstairs for breakfast.

As he passed his Father's study, he overheard Lucius talking with someone. He slowed down, unabashedly eavesdropping. Whilst he possessed only distaste for his Father's acquaintances, he had to admit that they certainly had interesting conversations more often than not. He paused outside the door in time to hear a strange, lilting voice replying to his Father.

I know that voice, was his immediate thought. Then he shook his head. That's not right. His frown deepened whilst he stewed his feelings over. It wasn't so much that he knew the voice. Rather that the sound of the voice was familiar to him. The way it was soft and clear ... pure in timbre. Only one person he knew spoke like that. Niamh. Without a second thought, Draco lightly rapped his knuckles against the door. "Father?"

He heard a pause and a polite cough, then his Father's rich, sardonic drawl. "Enter, Draco."

Draco pushed the door open and entered, giving a short bow to his Father before turning his attention to his Father's guest. Guests, he corrected himself, realising there were two. The first was a man mostly covered by a thick, dark emerald green cloak. Draco's eyes shifted to the guest sitting furthest from him, slightly obscured by the first. His belly did an electric dance as he realised it was Niamh. A lump formed in his throat and he found himself wordless. Fortunately, his Father spoke before the silence in the room became too obvious.

"My son, Draco." Lucius gestured for Draco to take a seat beside him before continuing. "Draco, these are our esteemed guests, Nuada, son of Belenus, and his daughter, Niamh. You will not recall, but Nuada once saved your life."

Nuada inclined his head politely but modestly, Draco gave him a small smile and nodded. Does Father not know I've met Niamh before?, he wondered. His Father started talking once more, not bothering to fill Draco in, but Draco didn't particularly care, instead using the time to study both Niamh and Nuada in day light. His eyes rested on Nuada first. Nuada glowed faintly, a silver light that radiated from his skin. His hair was a similar shade of silver, falling long and thick down Nuada's back. His skin, beneath the silvery glow, was pale, and with a jolt Draco realised that if not for Nuada's unusual pointed, clipped looking ears and his silver glow, he would look quite similar to a Malfoy.

As if feeling Draco's curious eyes on him, Nuada suddenly turned and gifted Draco with a friendly smile. And for the first time, he had an unobscured look at Nuada's eyes. He bit back a gasp of surprise and returned a weak smile. He has the eyes of a cat, Draco thought to himself. Large and almond shaped, the pupils were narrow and slit vertically, floating in a pool of pale violet. No white broke the coloured iris, giving Nuada's eyes a depth and intensity that made Draco feel like he had been pinned in his chair by Nuada's unfaltering gaze. It was then that Draco corrected himself. Not cat eyes . . . snake eyes. He felt faintly disturbed by what he was seeing.

With difficulty, Draco turned his eyes upon Niamh. Her chair was pushed back slightly behind her Father's, as if she were trying to hide in his shadow. Like her Father, she had her thick hair loose down her back, as silver as Draco remembered from his childhood. However, he couldn't seem to recall her having had pointy ears nor snakelike eyes. He found himself wondering how he could have forgotten such a bizarre face. Her features were largely the same as her Father's; her ears were pointed, though hers had a slight curl to the tips that made her seem even more exotic than her Father. Her eyes were large and violet, slit vertically with a pitch black pupil. Like her Father and Draco himself, she had pale, unblemished skin. Draco found himself willing her to look at him, to meet his eyes so he could see if her eyes were as piercing as her Father's. Sure enough, she slowly turned her gaze away from Lucius Malfoy and looked at Draco, though gave him no sign that she even recognised him.

Draco shivered slightly, taking in her alien features. He felt slightly squeamish, knowing that he was apparently promised to this girl and her snake-eyed people. They're almost creepy, he thought to himself, and wondered what it was going to be like, returning to Hogwarts with Niamh. He could already see it, Pansy Parkinson going into hysterics over Niamh's naturally silver hair, then attacking Niamh for her freakish snake-eyes and clipped, furled ears. Whispers are going to follow me everywhere I go, he realised. Suddenly, he was dreading the prospect of returning to Hogwarts with Niamh.

"Is that not so, Draco?" Lucius's drawl cut through Draco's thoughts, and with a start he turned to his Father.

"Indeed, Father. Quite so." He replied, though he had no idea what he had agreed to. His Father gave a small, tight smile.

"Very well," Lucius said. "Draco, if you'd be so kind as to escort Niamh around the Estate. One of the house elves has prepared a room for her when she's ready to retire."

Taking his Father's cue, Draco rose to his feet, politely gesturing for Niamh to precede him out the door of the study. She rose with elegant ease, nodded first to Lucius then her Father, and left the room, closely followed by Draco.

"Your Father glows!" Draco blurted out as he and Niamh strolled down the long galleries of Malfoy mansion. Though embarrassed, his face did not turn red; instead a light shade of pink blossomed on his pale cheeks.

Niamh smiled. "Many of my people do. That's what we are named for."

"But you don't . . . ?"

Niamh looked faintly surprised. "No ... nor am I ever likely to. The Shimmer comes with experience. The greater our mastery of our powers, the greater our glow. Many don't gain the Shimmer until they reach old age. My Father is a master of healing, thus his glow. If I had followed in his steps, I could expect to achieve the Shimmer a handful of years from now."

Draco pondered her response before saying, "Your education in healing was cut short so that you could attend Hogwarts with me, wasn't it? You'll learn wizarding magic, in exchange for your education in healing?"

Niamh shook her head slightly. "My own education will be cut short, yes. But I cannot learn wizarding magic. The magic between our people is different ... my people are possessed only of the magic to change the humors of the body. You could provide me with the most powerful of your wizarding wands, and it would help me not at all. I'll be the first of my people to attend this Hogwarts of yours, but simply as an observer. I'm to be an ambassador of sorts."

"You won't truly resent sacrificing your potential?" Draco asked doubtfully.

"No." She smiled cheekily at Draco. "To tell the truth, I was never all that skilled anyway. If I had not been given this opportunity, more likely than not I would have shamed my family. I come from a proud line of Healers. Our skills rivalled the Erus Medicus - the family of Head Healers. I doubt I could ever have lived up to these standards."

"Why were you chosen, out of all your people?"

Niamh's smile broadened. "You ask a lot of questions, Draco Malfoy. And I still know so little of you."

Draco grinned slyly. "Answer my question, and I may just consider answering some of yours."

Niamh nodded. "This is fair. You ask why I, of all my people, was chosen? The answer is simple. My family rivalled another for skill in the art of Healing. Amongst my people, we take whatever steps are necessary to avoid conflict ... we are a peaceful people. In order that open rivalry did not break out between my family and the other, my family were given the role of Ambassador between the Gens Micans and Wizarding folk. This was long ago, before we returned to the Patria. Thus, it only made sense that upon our return to the mortal world, one of my family would assume the ambassador role once more. My Father is far too important within the Patria to expect him to give up his work there, and so I, as his eldest daughter, was chosen . . . "

Winter, the Early Ninth Century

The thin layer of fresh snow covering the little town, and the accompanying chill in the air, hadn't been enough to perturb the townspeople from the promise of an entertaining morning, and they had gathered early, jostling each other for a prime position before the crudely made platform. Young boys had been the first to arrive, sidling from their hovels and quietly making their way through the pristine white snow, squatting on the dry pavement of the market square before the sky had even turned from pitch to grey. Next had come the young labourers and apprentices, swaggering and boastful, quick to cuff the young boys from their front row positions. Soon, all of the townspeople had been gathered in the marketplace. Last to come had been a small procession, led by an oxcart carrying the bound prisoner. The mood of the crowd was jovial; there were few who didn't enjoy a burning.

Flames flickered and danced higher, writhing and twisting in an exotic, mesmerising display of power. Searing fingers of fire snaked upwards and lashed at flesh with hot, blistering kisses. Thick, black smoke curled skywards, flowering in the air above the heads of the dirty, excited audience. The pops and crackles of burning wood, seduced by the heat of the flames, mingled with the agonised screams of the male tied helplessly to a black, wooden stake. The inferno's appetite was insatiable, and the mob happily obliged it, tossing bundles of sticks and branches upon it, feeding it, offering it succour in a tender display of affection that was not spared on the victim of their mob mentality.

Wulfric Aelfeorn writhed in anguish, his cries of torment grown harsh by the smog filling his lungs, much to the delight of his persecutors. Happy cries of "burn!" echoed from the horde. When the putrid stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils, he choked back a tortured sob and started muttering under his breath. Tears streaked down his cheeks, revealing soft white skin beneath his soot blackened features. His unintelligible mutters, at first faint, grew louder as his desperation increased, and the vulgar crowd slowly quieted.

"Oh blessed Mother of this Earth, do not forsake one of your true and faithful servants ... do not forsake a humble servant . . . d-d-donotforsake-" His voice trailed off momentarily as flames suddenly roared in his face, in his ears. His hair was aflame, and suddenly the fire was there, scorching his cheeks, his lips, his scalp. His mind rebelled, denying the information his sense were giving him. I am not on fire I am not on fire . . . . But the evidence was too great to deny. His hoarse screams rose over the clamour of the fire.

"Danu! Why do you forsake your servants? How have we angered you that you ignore us in our time of torment? Save us!"

The crowd edged nervously backwards, suddenly frightened as the flames roared higher still. The figure within gave a piercing scream, then fell silent. The contented crackle of the fire was broken by the harsh call of a raven, and in panic, the mob fled.

The Core Realm

The dancers were naked save for the flimsy strips of linen bound around their waists, their hair worn in long braids secured with silver bells and trinkets that rang prettily with the movement of their lithe bodies. They moved gracefully, twisting and spinning in powerful arcs only made possible by the nature of the world they performed in. A bull moved in the midst of the troupe, the curious looking creature procured from the mortal world to the amusement those of the Core Realm. Two dancers vaulted across its back, sending their sleek, powerful bodies tumbling at cross-directions, and the stupid beast spun its head and bellowed in confusion. Another pair of dancers flung themselves at the bemused animal, leaping high over its back and landing gracefully on the other side of the bull. Frightened, the animal raked its hoof over the ground and suddenly charged at one of the nimble dancers. The dancer stood his ground, waiting until the last moment to raise his feet and propel! himself forward over the animal's forehead, performing a series of breath taking somersaults that careered him far beyond the reach of the animal.

The audience of wraiths and ethereal creatures roared their approval, the Goddess within their midst inclined her head gracefully in appreciation. The dancers linked their arms, twisting and spinning in rapture.

Without warning, the elaborately carved doors of the large hall slammed open, flying inwards and colliding forcefully with the stone walls. The insubstantial court of ethereal beings within the chamber gasped and tittered, their vague bodies flickering and reforming, melding and separating out again, as they drifted together in shocked silence. Only the Goddess in the centre of the room remained whole and steady, as a man surrounded by a bold silver nimbus stalked through the entrance. The man bowed curtly, and gestured for a moment of the Goddess' time.

The dance troupe disappeared immediately, dissipating into the air, taking the bull with them. A pair of harpers continued to sing a sweet song, soft and melodic. Beautiful though the music was, the Goddess leapt to her feet with a savage oath. "Leave me, all of you. Now!" With mindless shrieks of fear, the Goddess' court fled the room, many simply disappearing where they stood. The Goddess turned a sharp eye upon the intruder. "How dare you interrupt the court of the Goddess?"

"My Lady, this can not continue. Another wizard even now burns in the mortal world. Your people are suffering, yet you ignore their cries, amusing yourself with bull dancers as though you care nought for the woes of your children-"

"You forget yourself, Aesculapius! Dare you compare me, an immortal, to mere mortals? Those are not my people, not my children!" An ugly sneer marred the beauty of the woman's face, and she flicked her wrist savagely in the direction of her servant. "They knew better. They grew uppity, and the . . . the . . . the vulgas punish them for it. The wizards and witches have always been filled with greed and envy of my kind, and now they shall pay the price for that greed. Let the muggles burn them. It is none of my affair."

Aesculapius stared, wide eyed with horror. The silver nimbus that blazed around his body - proof of his grand skill as a healer - rippled and wavered, echoing the horror he felt. "But my Lady . . . you punish them for a sin committed before the dawn of the sapient world! They are beings of magic, and therefore your children. You can not forsake them-"

She pinned him with an icy stare, and her voice dripped venom. "Have a care, Aesculapius, and mind who you are giving orders to. Your Father, Dhanvantari, was appointed healer of the Gods based on his unique healing skills when we fished him out of the cold blue waters. As his son, you were his only successor. But there are many more of your kind now. Do not presume that you are irreplaceable. Why, I have been told that your two daughters rival you for skill."

Aesculapius gave the Goddess a curt nod. "I shall trespass no more, My Lady." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the Goddess' chambers.

"Aesculapius," her soft voice called. He stopped, but did not give her the courtesy of turning to face her. "I meant what I said, Aesculapius. More than a small handful of your people are now possessed of the Shimmer, and are therefore capable of playing healer to my kind." She sighed in resignation, and to the knowing ear, there was the faintest trace of pity. "If it is your desire to do so, you may pass into the mortal realm and attend to your dying brethren yourself, though it is beyond my comprehension why you would do such a thing."

Aesculapius turned. Her eyes were fixed on his face, coldly assessing. "The terms, my Lady?"

The Goddess' cold laugh echoed hollowly within her chamber. "I am positively stung, Aesculapius. Can I not make a generous gesture to a faithful servant?"

His gaze matched hers, neither blinking, until finally she looked away. "There are no terms, Aesculapius. I know the nature of the people you wish to save. I fear that in the end, they will betray you as they have betrayed me. Consider this a lesson you will learn for yourself, in time."

"Then I thank you for this opportunity to learn for myself, My Lady."

The Goddess nodded silently, and look of anxiety crossed her strong, beautiful features. Finally she waved a lofty hand at him. "Be gone from my sight. You do not know what it is you have asked of me."

For a moment he considered arguing, but decided against it. With a gracious bow, he left the chamber of the Goddess.

The Present

Niamh reached out and lightly patted Draco's cheek, and he felt his body flood with warmth. Draco gave a weak smile. "You had a question to ask of me?" He held his breath, wondering which of his secrets she'd probe.

Niamh stopped walking, and turned to consider him, her head tilted slightly in thought. "Now that you offer, I find I have no question to ask of you. Perhaps if I could ask later . . . ?"

Draco exhaled with relief, and nodded. "Later, then."

The Dark Lord's disfigured face hovered in the fireplace of Lucius Malfoy's study. "The girl is here? What of her Father?" he demanded impatiently.

"Likewise, Nuada remains here, though he intends to return to the Core Realm shortly."

"What of the contract? How does it stand?"

Lucius allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "The girl will attend Hogwarts with Draco. I've arranged for her to be placed in the care of Slytherin house, where Draco may keep a close eye on her, and -"

The Darklord interrupted at the mention of Draco. "Your son knows nothing of our plans?"

"No, my Lord. I thought we agreed that it is best Draco knows nothing -"

"Yes, that is the way of it. Continue."

"Very well, my Lord." Lucius paused, grasping at his train of thought. "Yes, she will study with Draco . . . his classes are now her classes. When she is not at Hogwarts, she will reside here, at the Malfoy Estate. We're to be her family whilst she remains in the mortal world. When it is felt that the time is right, Draco and Niamh will marry, according to the customs of our people."

Voldemort nodded, well pleased. "You must do nothing to compromise this union, Malfoy. And be sure that boy of yours does nothing. I have great plans for the Gens Micans, and the union between your son and the girl is vital to them." He was quiet a moment, then spoke. "And what of Nuada?"

"He cannot remain, as I have mentioned, my Lord. However, a semi-permanent gateway now exists between the Otherworld and our own. We have but to summon Nuada, and he will come."

The Dark Lord paused, considering his options. "I will meet with him. And I think it would do well if he were introduced to our ... associates. We will introduce him to the wizarding world as it stands today. The real wizarding world, and what it stands for. I think it would be in our best interests that we throw Nuada a small welcoming party."

Lucius raised a fine eyebrow. "My Lord? A welcoming party?"

"My plans for the Gens Micans have long been laid aside. Now, it is time to resurrect them. The inner circle of Death Eaters will be informed of my plans, and it is essential that Nuada be introduced to them."

Lucius looked somewhat alarmed. "Introduced to your plans, my Lord? But surely-"

"Not introduced to the plans, you fool!" The Dark Lord thundered. "To the Death-Eaters! Together they form the majority of pure-blooded wizards of Britain. It is essential that we convince Nuada and the Gens Micans of the importance of preserving pure-blooded wizards. And a welcoming party is just the way to do so."

On the other side of Lucius Malfoy's study door, his son was pondering what it was he had overheard the Dark Lord and his Father discussing. The voices were muffled, indistinct ... with a shrug, he continued down the hallway.

Niamh wandered the halls of Malfoy Manor alone, having dismissed the strange little house-elf that had been assigned to guide her until she had learnt her way around. She found it strange, that a sapient creature would willingly serve another sapient creature. The mortal world was so different from her own, nothing at all like she'd anticipated. She wasn't yet sure how she felt about the differences between the two worlds. This world seemed almost archaic and oddly primitive, at least from what she'd seen of the Malfoy estates. She tilted her head back and looked around her at the harsh angles of the walls, the jagged lines of the windows and door ways, and suppressed a shudder. Where were the cool, soothing walls carved of stone that resonated with a magic of their own?

The magic of this world was another factor that puzzled her. It was unlike any magic that she had ever encountered in the Core Realm. In the Core Realm, she could feel the magic; it was all around, a palpable force that throbbed and pulsated with a life of its own. The magic in the mortal world was different. She knew it was there, but it didn't flow and drift wildly as it did in her own world. She'd felt it around the Malfoy family, contained within their bodies and wands. She'd likewise felt it around doorways - wards, Draco had explained. Contrived magic that the wizards had fashioned around them. Her own people couldn't do such things, could not charm objects nor control them. Only the Goddess and her kin had been able to perform such enchantments, and to Niamh it had seemed almost blasphemous to witness mortals creating similar enchantments.

She had to admit to herself that she had enjoyed much of what she'd seen. The sight of Draco mounting a broom had at first been a source of much amusement to her, until he'd suddenly taken flight in the air, much to her astonishment and delight. Even the Goddess had never performed such a feat, and Niamh had watched with envy as Draco soared through the sky, calling out teasingly to her from above. Thinking of Draco, she slowed. It was blindingly obvious to her that he was suffering some internal struggle; his fear when it had been her turn to ask him a question about himself had been like a slap in the face to her. What could possibly inspire such volatile emotions?

Temporarily relegating Draco to the back of her thoughts, she pondered this school she would be attending, this Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had, of course, heard of it in the Core Realm, though not much was truly known of it, as it had only been established shortly before her people had returned to the Core Realm. Niamh felt her belly clench in anxiety at the thought of going to the school. These people were different from her; not just in skill, but in appearance. Would they mock her for her eyes, her ears, her colouring? She doubted they'd notice her colouring, it wasn't so different from Draco's own ... but human eyes were so different from her own, with their strange almond shapes and three rings of colour. And their ears! She allowed herself a small smile as her thoughts drifted to the shape of Draco's ears. They were strangely small, round, like those of Gens Micans babies whose ears had yet to grow and furl. They raised a protective feeling in her, lending him the allusion of childlike innocence.

The knowledge that Draco would be with her when she attended the school soothed her somewhat, and without consciously realising it, she found herself walking towards the library, where she knew she'd found Draco studying.

Life at Number Four Privet Drive was quiet. Uncle Vernon was as bullheaded and neckless as ever; Aunt Petunia was long necked and horse-toothed as usual; and despite Dudley's apparent dieting, he was, if anything, getting larger, and now resembled an adolescent mammoth, rather than the baby killer-whale his figure had alluded to two years ago. His petulant tantrums were still thrown on a regular basis, Aunt Petunia was still nosing around the neighbours, and Vernon's temper was ferocious, as usual.

Nothing had changed at Number Four Privet Drive, Harry Potter sighed to himself in resignation. Despite his and Ron's rather vehement arguments that Harry would surely be safer surrounded by a family of wizards, Headmaster Dumbledore had insisted that Harry, as usual, return to the home of his uncle and aunty over the summer break.

Harry lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Hedwig glared at him from her cage, and hooted in indignation. Uncle Vernon had, for the sixth year in a row, demanded that Hedwig remain locked inside her cage so that the neighbours wouldn't know of the abomination housed within their home. In previous years Harry had allowed her some measure of illicit freedom at night. This year, however, he had agreed with Uncle Vernon that Hedwig must remain locked within her cage, but for an altogether different reason. It had simply become far too risky to allow her out at night. Once upon a time, her unique snowy colouring had been a source of joy and pride to Harry. Now, it was a curse. Not that he blamed her, nor Hagrid, for that matter. It was simply that it had become a liability. Too many people knew that Harry Potter owned a distinct white owl. If she were to be seen flying anywhere, there was a good chance she would inadvertently lead trouble quite literally to Harry's doorstep. Using Hedwig for delivering mail was definitely not an option anymore.

From across the landing came the sound of Uncle Vernon's loud grunting snores, and Aunt Petunia's delicate wheezing. From Dudley's room, Harry could hear the ruffle of contraband confectionary wrappers that Dudley had somehow smuggled into his bedroom. Harry grinned despite himself. Stupid Dudley may be, but he was as sly as a fox when it came to procuring illicit food. Not that Harry ever saw any of it. He was still existing on their diet of eggs, tomato and grapefruit. For a moment he allowed his mind to drift to Hogwarts and the regular feasts he enjoyed there. He was suddenly startled from his reverie by the sound of something soft and squishy bouncing off his window.

"Pig!" Harry cried out, then bit his lip with a cringe. He fell silent, his ears peaked for the sound of alarm from the rest of the house. Silence. Dudley's probably got his mouth so full of sweets he can't hear anything over the sound of his own munching, Harry mused to himself, crossing to the window and opening it. Pig bounded into the room, bouncing off the walls like a feathered missile. "Pig! Stop!" Harry hissed, chasing after Pig and trying to muffle his excited hoots. Hedwig clucked in disgust.

Finally grabbing a hold of Pigwidgeon, Harry untied a scroll from her leg and stuffed the tiny owl inside Hedwig's cage, where Hedwig ruffled her feathers at the perceived insult and turned her head to face the wall. Harry quickly unrolled the scroll to read it.

Hi Harry!

Dumbledore has finally given the all clear for you to come and stay with us for the rest of the summer. He reckons if You-Know-Who hasn't tried anything yet, he more than likely won't try anything at all, at least for the time being. We'll pick you up midday, on your birthday. Hermione'll be there too. Send Pig back if there's any problems.

See you soon!

Your friend, Ron.

Harry grinned, wondering how the Weasley family would be arriving this time. They'd gained a bit of a reputation for themselves at Number Four Privet Drive, and Harry relished the thought of telling Uncle Vernon they would be arriving once more to spirit him away for the rest of the summer. He no longer cared so much about the Dursleys' reactions to his wizard life. Soon enough he'd be independent, and he would finally be able to leave them for good.